Thursday, August 23, 2012
Back to the Suburban Grind: Silly Mommy, Playdates are for kids!
Back to the Suburban Grind: Silly Mommy, Playdates are for kids!: I spend so much time with my girls on our own, especially during the summer, that we often joke about being a little team. We eat, sleep, h...
Wednesday, August 22, 2012
Silly Mommy, Playdates are for kids!
I spend so much time with my girls on our own, especially during the summer, that we often joke about being a little team. We eat, sleep, hang out, swim, drive, play together and in between meet up with other mommies and their troupes, go shopping, and talk about life. I ask them lots of questions and give them answers that I hope are empowering and uplifting, answers that I hope will strengthen them and give them courage. So when Lily had a playdate this afternoon and a family pal came over to play with Virginie, I found myself the odd man out.
I spent the first hour sitting outside with Lily and her friend, Virginie hanging on the edge of their play,me listening about three yards away, chiming in when I thought the conversation or action needed to move along and basically, occupying myself by being completely involved in their game. It would have been pathetic if I didn't become so acutely aware of it and pull back. It started to drizzle, so I had the girls come in and continue their fun at the dining table. We had popcorn and juice and worked on drawings of Lalaloopsy and Rapunzel, with my flourishes getting lots of attention and providing many hand cramps. When they moved on to the next activity, dress up in the playroom, Virginie's friend had arrived and I realized that the time for me to roll back had come.
Playdates don't have to be Camp Mommy for all the kids who come over. In fact, they'd prefer if I would just leave them be and hang back, available if real help is needed, but not really part of the action. If they want to make a mess, draw, glue, glitter, dress up, dance, sing, pretend to be rebellious teenagers, what they don't want is my middle-aged behind somehow intervening or, worse, getting in on the action. I am now sitting in the dining room on the computer, writing, reading articles, watching the clock, and listening. The girls are having a ball. Lily just shouted out something about making their own rules and they all cheered. The little ones are dressed as a bee and Ariel the Mermaid respectively and the two older ones (all of six years old) are dressed as beautiful princess-explorers. The playroom is a mess. I have said only once, okay three times, that whatever mess is made has to be cleaned by small people, but other than that, I have stayed out...well, except to pick up the popcorn bowls. I don't want ants.
This is a good lesson for protective, attentive me. They want some down time, some alone time, some being on their own time. And so do I. I love the people they are becoming. I love that they have their own friends and their own rules. And even though this crazy shindig is going on at my house and I will deal with the aftermath of cleaning, vacuuming, straightening, I am grateful to be this fly on the wall into their characters, friendships, and development. When the day is done, and the girls are falling asleep telling me the things they loved about this day, I know that they will be thankful for this time. And completely worn out.
(c) Copyright 2012. Repatriated Mama: Back to the Suburban Grind.
I spent the first hour sitting outside with Lily and her friend, Virginie hanging on the edge of their play,me listening about three yards away, chiming in when I thought the conversation or action needed to move along and basically, occupying myself by being completely involved in their game. It would have been pathetic if I didn't become so acutely aware of it and pull back. It started to drizzle, so I had the girls come in and continue their fun at the dining table. We had popcorn and juice and worked on drawings of Lalaloopsy and Rapunzel, with my flourishes getting lots of attention and providing many hand cramps. When they moved on to the next activity, dress up in the playroom, Virginie's friend had arrived and I realized that the time for me to roll back had come.
Playdates don't have to be Camp Mommy for all the kids who come over. In fact, they'd prefer if I would just leave them be and hang back, available if real help is needed, but not really part of the action. If they want to make a mess, draw, glue, glitter, dress up, dance, sing, pretend to be rebellious teenagers, what they don't want is my middle-aged behind somehow intervening or, worse, getting in on the action. I am now sitting in the dining room on the computer, writing, reading articles, watching the clock, and listening. The girls are having a ball. Lily just shouted out something about making their own rules and they all cheered. The little ones are dressed as a bee and Ariel the Mermaid respectively and the two older ones (all of six years old) are dressed as beautiful princess-explorers. The playroom is a mess. I have said only once, okay three times, that whatever mess is made has to be cleaned by small people, but other than that, I have stayed out...well, except to pick up the popcorn bowls. I don't want ants.
This is a good lesson for protective, attentive me. They want some down time, some alone time, some being on their own time. And so do I. I love the people they are becoming. I love that they have their own friends and their own rules. And even though this crazy shindig is going on at my house and I will deal with the aftermath of cleaning, vacuuming, straightening, I am grateful to be this fly on the wall into their characters, friendships, and development. When the day is done, and the girls are falling asleep telling me the things they loved about this day, I know that they will be thankful for this time. And completely worn out.
(c) Copyright 2012. Repatriated Mama: Back to the Suburban Grind.
Sunday, August 19, 2012
Back to the Suburban Grind: Summer Hiatus
Back to the Suburban Grind: Summer Hiatus: Now I get it. When I was a kid I just could not understand why all my favorite television shows had season finales right before school ende...
Summer Hiatus
Now I get it. When I was a kid I just could not understand why all my favorite television shows had season finales right before school ended and did not start up new episodes until after the first week of school. Except for camp and running amok in the neighborhood, I knew I could be there, why couldn't they?
I have been trying to write these past few weeks and have been failing miserably. I am not suffering from writer's block. In fact, I have had enough ideas to fill a small notebook that I keep by the bed. My problem is that, as summer winds down, I find myself lounging at the shore, watching the girls do tricks at the pool, going to the park to help Lily master her bike riding, visiting the library to excite the girls to read as a summer pastime (really an all the time pastime but summer reading can be especially juicy). This is the time to slow down, to be with my thoughts, to prep for a return to work, when being focused on my projects and timelines, deadlines, and bottom lines is discouraged by everyone.
I realized this week that by next, nearly all of our friends and acquaintances will be gone, abandoning town for one last hurrah at the shore, in the Caribbean, on the Cape, in the Hamptons and I hope that we, too will be doing the same. It looks as though the hubby just might have an extra day or two to spend with the people and me, and I hope we are able to do it away from home.
It is pointless to try to do anything else but relax, something I am quite inadequately trained to do. Today, though I have the girls myself and have since Wednesday, I decided to use my free time between playdates, pool visits, and neighborhood family wind downs (basically kids running ragged in the backyards and on sidewalks, throwing and kicking balls, riding scooters and bikes, sidewalk chalk drawing, and holding on to the last moments before sleep, while the parents chat and catch up), to rearrange all the cupboards in the kitchen. This after packing and labeling all clothing to be donated or consigned for men, women, and children, as well as toys and shoes, and some electrical equipment during yesterday's break. That started after a visit to Target where the school shopping commenced and I began preparing for Lily's needs for the school year. Rather than just start buying, I wanted to see what we were working with which meant...working. (She needs quite a few things actually.)
Tonight, after the girls were long asleep and the dishwasher hummed its way through the heated dry cycle, I worked on long-overdue thank you notes, folded laundry, and started this post. I'm not really ready for something new, it appears. This is the catch up on old episodes, finding out if there is anything I have missed, preparing for the school year, creating new worlds to obsess over on Pinterest time. Sooner than I think we will settle back into the school year and its energy, soccer practice and games, ballet, and new activities. We will have new friends, new teachers, new class parents, and new shows. For now we are sticky with chlorine, salty from the ocean, relaxed in our attitudes and time tables, overdosed on ice cream, popsicles, and lightening bugs (fireflies). We wait for falling stars, linger as the night falls, go to sleep with ceiling fans and the light chirping of the crickets, make paper airplanes, draw Rapunzels with sidewalk chalk, and do hopscotch until Mommy gets out or tired.
We are having our break together and though I want to write something, share it, connect, we are just four points right now and those lines might be the only ones I can completely commit to connecting. The time will come, and I know it is soon, that I can get back to the other creative work in my life but at present it's projects, splitting blades of grass, drawing Rapunzels in the driveway, swimming, giggling, staying up late. I am on hiatus with my people and working hard at chillin' the f*** out.
(c) Copyright 2012. Repatriated Mama: Back to the Suburban Grind.
I have been trying to write these past few weeks and have been failing miserably. I am not suffering from writer's block. In fact, I have had enough ideas to fill a small notebook that I keep by the bed. My problem is that, as summer winds down, I find myself lounging at the shore, watching the girls do tricks at the pool, going to the park to help Lily master her bike riding, visiting the library to excite the girls to read as a summer pastime (really an all the time pastime but summer reading can be especially juicy). This is the time to slow down, to be with my thoughts, to prep for a return to work, when being focused on my projects and timelines, deadlines, and bottom lines is discouraged by everyone.
I realized this week that by next, nearly all of our friends and acquaintances will be gone, abandoning town for one last hurrah at the shore, in the Caribbean, on the Cape, in the Hamptons and I hope that we, too will be doing the same. It looks as though the hubby just might have an extra day or two to spend with the people and me, and I hope we are able to do it away from home.
It is pointless to try to do anything else but relax, something I am quite inadequately trained to do. Today, though I have the girls myself and have since Wednesday, I decided to use my free time between playdates, pool visits, and neighborhood family wind downs (basically kids running ragged in the backyards and on sidewalks, throwing and kicking balls, riding scooters and bikes, sidewalk chalk drawing, and holding on to the last moments before sleep, while the parents chat and catch up), to rearrange all the cupboards in the kitchen. This after packing and labeling all clothing to be donated or consigned for men, women, and children, as well as toys and shoes, and some electrical equipment during yesterday's break. That started after a visit to Target where the school shopping commenced and I began preparing for Lily's needs for the school year. Rather than just start buying, I wanted to see what we were working with which meant...working. (She needs quite a few things actually.)
Tonight, after the girls were long asleep and the dishwasher hummed its way through the heated dry cycle, I worked on long-overdue thank you notes, folded laundry, and started this post. I'm not really ready for something new, it appears. This is the catch up on old episodes, finding out if there is anything I have missed, preparing for the school year, creating new worlds to obsess over on Pinterest time. Sooner than I think we will settle back into the school year and its energy, soccer practice and games, ballet, and new activities. We will have new friends, new teachers, new class parents, and new shows. For now we are sticky with chlorine, salty from the ocean, relaxed in our attitudes and time tables, overdosed on ice cream, popsicles, and lightening bugs (fireflies). We wait for falling stars, linger as the night falls, go to sleep with ceiling fans and the light chirping of the crickets, make paper airplanes, draw Rapunzels with sidewalk chalk, and do hopscotch until Mommy gets out or tired.
We are having our break together and though I want to write something, share it, connect, we are just four points right now and those lines might be the only ones I can completely commit to connecting. The time will come, and I know it is soon, that I can get back to the other creative work in my life but at present it's projects, splitting blades of grass, drawing Rapunzels in the driveway, swimming, giggling, staying up late. I am on hiatus with my people and working hard at chillin' the f*** out.
(c) Copyright 2012. Repatriated Mama: Back to the Suburban Grind.
Friday, August 3, 2012
The Cover Up
While we were in Barbados, sweating our respective boobs and balls off (inside joke between the Mr. and myself but surely it is well understood by all), the least amount of clothing on land and sea was acceptable if not appropriate. It was damned hot. I wore a bikini on arrival and I had a newborn with me in tow and could not muster enough to really give a damn. I couldn't even imagine swathing myself in so much cloth as to cover my entire midsection. I spent two years never wearing socks, a bra, blowdrying my hair, or doing anything that might make me too hot. Perhaps at times it was indecent. I can only even consider that now as I find myself crowded in Suburbanation at the community pool.
There are all types of bodies at the pool ranging from letting it all go to incredibly hot. What seems to be stressed in the mommy set, certainly not in the teen/pre-teen set where kinda anything goes, is modesty. Even on the days where the temps reached over 100 degrees Fahrenheit there were cover-ups, shorts, tankinis, ruffled tops, etc covering all parts. I gave it a go in a few Barbados staples for the first couple of visits and then gave in and bought a tankini top. It's cute. I'm totally not hot. At least I don't want anyone to think I am or that I am trying to be.
Funny enough, in Barbados I could be wearing a tiny little bikini, sitting at a bar or on the beach and did not feel self-conscious in the least. Yet out here I am stressed that all the wiggly bits are just too wiggly, that my suit is revealing the hours spent outside of the gym, and I find safety and security in my striped swimmy tank top that has signed me up quickly for the MahJong with the ladies in a week or two. For some reason, here I care what someone, anyone might think about me, and have found safety in the fabric. The tankini is like sunglasses for the body. I can have my private time while still looking around.
I always imagined myself Jerry Hall style, rocking a hot bod, baby on the hip, bikini under some incredible caftan, gorgeous, talented man giving me the goo-goo eyes in the blazing hot sun, not giving a damn. Barbados took the hubby away with that crap job where he worked pretty much non-stop, and the suburbs has taken all the rest of it. Well, the babies grew up. Now they are just in tow with all their toys and snacks and towels and chatter. We eat chicken fingers at the snack bar, take ice cream with us on the way out. I wade in the middle pool with the people, where they can touch the bottom and swim about freely, and I can hope for a friend with kiddles to chat with or else stare into the landscape while popping in and out of kiddie convo. "Watch me! Watch me! Watch me! Mom, look!" I take a moment to astrally travel before coming back down.
Perhaps it is still all me. I've struggled with the suburbs all my life. I feel self-conscious (a kiss of death), too much, overwhelming, and ridiculous out here. I think too much about it, consider it, consider it all, and just want to cover up. Middle age has crept up on me and taken me back to the insecurities of my teenage years. I imagine that this is how people get so tied up in their kids, or use them as an excuse, a way to deflect the focus or the spotlight from themselves. No matter how I feel about myself out here, I feel like my girls are awesome, that I can give them more than I have, that they can be better than I ever felt. In their names I will march all over that community pool looking for toys to play with in the baby pool, encourage them to swim and search for dive sticks in the middle pool, change my clothes in the parking lot with the doors opened covering up any jiggly bits.
I will go every day so that they can swim and play, There's really is no place for me to hide anyway. I believe that I am back here in the suburbs, back here in New Jersey, where I'd said I'd never return to heal old wounds, to make amends, to get to a place of peace. I know I can't move forward without it and I can't fully love me up if I still feel like I have to rock the tankini when I have a bikini heart. Even if/when the bikini body fades. Especially then. We can't cover it all up. Why cover up any of it?
(c) Copyright 2012. Repatriated Mama: Back to the Suburban Grind.
There are all types of bodies at the pool ranging from letting it all go to incredibly hot. What seems to be stressed in the mommy set, certainly not in the teen/pre-teen set where kinda anything goes, is modesty. Even on the days where the temps reached over 100 degrees Fahrenheit there were cover-ups, shorts, tankinis, ruffled tops, etc covering all parts. I gave it a go in a few Barbados staples for the first couple of visits and then gave in and bought a tankini top. It's cute. I'm totally not hot. At least I don't want anyone to think I am or that I am trying to be.
Funny enough, in Barbados I could be wearing a tiny little bikini, sitting at a bar or on the beach and did not feel self-conscious in the least. Yet out here I am stressed that all the wiggly bits are just too wiggly, that my suit is revealing the hours spent outside of the gym, and I find safety and security in my striped swimmy tank top that has signed me up quickly for the MahJong with the ladies in a week or two. For some reason, here I care what someone, anyone might think about me, and have found safety in the fabric. The tankini is like sunglasses for the body. I can have my private time while still looking around.
I always imagined myself Jerry Hall style, rocking a hot bod, baby on the hip, bikini under some incredible caftan, gorgeous, talented man giving me the goo-goo eyes in the blazing hot sun, not giving a damn. Barbados took the hubby away with that crap job where he worked pretty much non-stop, and the suburbs has taken all the rest of it. Well, the babies grew up. Now they are just in tow with all their toys and snacks and towels and chatter. We eat chicken fingers at the snack bar, take ice cream with us on the way out. I wade in the middle pool with the people, where they can touch the bottom and swim about freely, and I can hope for a friend with kiddles to chat with or else stare into the landscape while popping in and out of kiddie convo. "Watch me! Watch me! Watch me! Mom, look!" I take a moment to astrally travel before coming back down.
Perhaps it is still all me. I've struggled with the suburbs all my life. I feel self-conscious (a kiss of death), too much, overwhelming, and ridiculous out here. I think too much about it, consider it, consider it all, and just want to cover up. Middle age has crept up on me and taken me back to the insecurities of my teenage years. I imagine that this is how people get so tied up in their kids, or use them as an excuse, a way to deflect the focus or the spotlight from themselves. No matter how I feel about myself out here, I feel like my girls are awesome, that I can give them more than I have, that they can be better than I ever felt. In their names I will march all over that community pool looking for toys to play with in the baby pool, encourage them to swim and search for dive sticks in the middle pool, change my clothes in the parking lot with the doors opened covering up any jiggly bits.
I will go every day so that they can swim and play, There's really is no place for me to hide anyway. I believe that I am back here in the suburbs, back here in New Jersey, where I'd said I'd never return to heal old wounds, to make amends, to get to a place of peace. I know I can't move forward without it and I can't fully love me up if I still feel like I have to rock the tankini when I have a bikini heart. Even if/when the bikini body fades. Especially then. We can't cover it all up. Why cover up any of it?
(c) Copyright 2012. Repatriated Mama: Back to the Suburban Grind.
Wednesday, August 1, 2012
Everyone is special
There is a big difference between teaching one's children that they are special as in relevant, important, valuable, and just all-around awesome, and letting them believe that their being called special makes them the most relevant, most important, most valuable, only awesome human being on the face of the earth. I have witnessed, of late, too much of the latter. My girls know just how special they are to me and their father, their extended family, and their friends. They make no assumptions about how important they are to others, accepting that their behavior and how much fun they are to be with will determine if they are successful in their playground, swimming pool, and playdate excursions. We have been loving but strict in our raising of the people because we have accepted that the responsibility of raising our children, helping them develop into kind, considerate, open, loving, welcoming, empathetic adults begins with us. There is no getting around it. The buck stops with us. While we have been blessed with wonderful teachers, caregivers, and neighbors who lend a hand in keeping the girls on the straight path, at the end of the day I have no one to answer to but myself. That's the hard part. That's being a good, attentive, conscientious parent.
The conversation often starts like this. "Your girls are so nice, so well behaved. It's different with boys. Boys are wild. You can't hold them to anything. Just have to get them outside and let them burn off all of that testosterone." I don't have any boys but I don't accept that what their parents say is true. Or like this. "She just doesn't think we are that cool. She's always rolling her eyes when we come up with things to do together." The truth is, we are asking different questions of ourselves as parents and are certainly demanding different things of our children, if we are even asking questions at all. I keep hearing my contemporaries say things like, "My kids don't listen to me. He is always telling me what to do. So and so will go ape shit if I don't buy such and such for him/do something or other for him/be whatever to him." Yeah, no. The center of our personal universe cannot be the little sun gods and goddesses unless we want to continue to populate our planet with self-absorbed, inconsiderate children who don't grow up, cannot empathize with others, and have little respect for themselves or anyone else.
Don't get me wrong. My people are my sun, moon, and stars and they too work daily at beating me down into submission. It's almost a profession to them. I still want them to have whatever it is I can give them, to see whatever it is I can show them, to do whatever it is I can offer them. But a little perspective. They are aware that I am doing for them and they respect my efforts, at least they are learning to. They do not believe under any circumstances that everything they get is a right or worse that they are so special that they deserve it while some other child is not and does not. They are learning from me with kindness and love that there are indeed other people on earth besides themselves with needs, desires, dreams, loves, etc. I say with kindness and love because I, in no way, wish to humiliate them into recognizing others, nor do I wish to impose on them rules that they cannot fully comprehend. I won't yell at them or force them to give something up. I want them to know it within themselves that we are connected to everyone else and that we give as a desire to fulfill our souls as well as to bring joy to others, that we care in order than no one feels unimportant or alienated, and that doing so brings joy back to us.
I recall months back a commencement speaker who told a class of graduating seniors in Wellesley, Massachusetts that they were not special. Mr. David McCullough, Jr. was not just telling these kids that they were not special, that they were not important, that they did not count. In fact, he was telling them that they had a responsibility to live up to all they'd been given as a privileged lot "pampered, cosseted, doted upon, helmeted, bubble-wrapped." He also encouraged living life for one's self, not for the approval or accolades from others, to find inner strength and guidance. It was, to many minds, long overdue and a good dose of reality for the best and brightest of just one community. As Mr. McCullough stated, even if you are one in a million, there are still nearly 7000 just like you. Do something. Get out there and prove it. Get out of your own head, out of your fantasy, and get out there.
Though I could have used a bit of a pump up at times as a kid and maybe a "Whoot, whoot!" when I achieved something beyond my sense of myself, I respect and appreciate this message. The commendations and celebratory gestures cannot come with such frequency as to render them moot. We pay a lot of lip service but often shy away from the complete commitment to teaching, leading, and guiding our people. Every act isn't stellar, every attempt is not a win. Encouragement is meant to point our children in the direction of achieving in whatever arena. Identifying others' feelings and perspectives is tantamount to eventually giving a shit about anyone but one's self. Watching Lily patiently wait for a friend to learn a new skill, egging her on, offering her words of support makes me so proud. She wants success not only for herself, but for a friend.
We need to start thinking about the messages we send kids and how we send them. Words of encouragement like, "You can do it," "you can do anything you put your mind to," or "Keep it up, keep it up. Practice makes perfect," let kids see that there is work to put into things they want to achieve in life. Then we have to let them strive for the goal on their own. We are there for support, but the goal should be theirs to reach. When Lily was shy to read aloud, I caught myself willing her to do it so desperately that my energy around her and this issue felt overwhelming and pushy. I stopped and asked myself, "What if she is not the best reader in the kindergarten? Do I really think this is going to affect the entire outcome of her life?" I remember being pushed in school to achieve and excel, even in areas in which I had little interest. I want Lily and Virginie to get a sense of themselves and what they like, to do it with safe parameters, and with my guidance. But I do want them to feel that sense of achievement when all the right tools, guidance, and their intelligence and efforts come together. That is special.
We need to encourage our children to consider the other people around them, especially when they are getting snot-nosed, indignant, aggressive, and bratty. I hear lots of conversation about "how do you think that makes so and so feel?" but I don't see the commitment to helping the child understand. They get lip-service and they absolutely understand when you are committed to what you are saying, what you mean. We cannot be surprised if our kids are disrespectful, bored, entitled, and spoiled without taking a look at how we are engaging with them, how we talk to them, and what we expect of them. If we expect nothing, other than that they be special, then we will have to live with the outcome. If they are telling us to shut up, that they are mad at us for any "indiscretion", or if we let them dictate how they would like us to behave in their presence without explaining the differences between adults and children, the expectations of adults and children, what is required to have peace in one's home replete with respect for self and others, we can only imagine how they are treating others. And we should feel responsible.
An impressively intelligent, precocious child, a prodigy, an athletically gifted youngster should still know that his or her gifts are a wonderful blessing but do not excuse him from the rules of kindness and decency. Everyone is indeed special. And a compassionate, loving, and gifted person can change the world.
(C) Copyright 2012. Repatriated Mama: Back to the Suburban Grind.
The conversation often starts like this. "Your girls are so nice, so well behaved. It's different with boys. Boys are wild. You can't hold them to anything. Just have to get them outside and let them burn off all of that testosterone." I don't have any boys but I don't accept that what their parents say is true. Or like this. "She just doesn't think we are that cool. She's always rolling her eyes when we come up with things to do together." The truth is, we are asking different questions of ourselves as parents and are certainly demanding different things of our children, if we are even asking questions at all. I keep hearing my contemporaries say things like, "My kids don't listen to me. He is always telling me what to do. So and so will go ape shit if I don't buy such and such for him/do something or other for him/be whatever to him." Yeah, no. The center of our personal universe cannot be the little sun gods and goddesses unless we want to continue to populate our planet with self-absorbed, inconsiderate children who don't grow up, cannot empathize with others, and have little respect for themselves or anyone else.
Don't get me wrong. My people are my sun, moon, and stars and they too work daily at beating me down into submission. It's almost a profession to them. I still want them to have whatever it is I can give them, to see whatever it is I can show them, to do whatever it is I can offer them. But a little perspective. They are aware that I am doing for them and they respect my efforts, at least they are learning to. They do not believe under any circumstances that everything they get is a right or worse that they are so special that they deserve it while some other child is not and does not. They are learning from me with kindness and love that there are indeed other people on earth besides themselves with needs, desires, dreams, loves, etc. I say with kindness and love because I, in no way, wish to humiliate them into recognizing others, nor do I wish to impose on them rules that they cannot fully comprehend. I won't yell at them or force them to give something up. I want them to know it within themselves that we are connected to everyone else and that we give as a desire to fulfill our souls as well as to bring joy to others, that we care in order than no one feels unimportant or alienated, and that doing so brings joy back to us.
I recall months back a commencement speaker who told a class of graduating seniors in Wellesley, Massachusetts that they were not special. Mr. David McCullough, Jr. was not just telling these kids that they were not special, that they were not important, that they did not count. In fact, he was telling them that they had a responsibility to live up to all they'd been given as a privileged lot "pampered, cosseted, doted upon, helmeted, bubble-wrapped." He also encouraged living life for one's self, not for the approval or accolades from others, to find inner strength and guidance. It was, to many minds, long overdue and a good dose of reality for the best and brightest of just one community. As Mr. McCullough stated, even if you are one in a million, there are still nearly 7000 just like you. Do something. Get out there and prove it. Get out of your own head, out of your fantasy, and get out there.
Though I could have used a bit of a pump up at times as a kid and maybe a "Whoot, whoot!" when I achieved something beyond my sense of myself, I respect and appreciate this message. The commendations and celebratory gestures cannot come with such frequency as to render them moot. We pay a lot of lip service but often shy away from the complete commitment to teaching, leading, and guiding our people. Every act isn't stellar, every attempt is not a win. Encouragement is meant to point our children in the direction of achieving in whatever arena. Identifying others' feelings and perspectives is tantamount to eventually giving a shit about anyone but one's self. Watching Lily patiently wait for a friend to learn a new skill, egging her on, offering her words of support makes me so proud. She wants success not only for herself, but for a friend.
We need to start thinking about the messages we send kids and how we send them. Words of encouragement like, "You can do it," "you can do anything you put your mind to," or "Keep it up, keep it up. Practice makes perfect," let kids see that there is work to put into things they want to achieve in life. Then we have to let them strive for the goal on their own. We are there for support, but the goal should be theirs to reach. When Lily was shy to read aloud, I caught myself willing her to do it so desperately that my energy around her and this issue felt overwhelming and pushy. I stopped and asked myself, "What if she is not the best reader in the kindergarten? Do I really think this is going to affect the entire outcome of her life?" I remember being pushed in school to achieve and excel, even in areas in which I had little interest. I want Lily and Virginie to get a sense of themselves and what they like, to do it with safe parameters, and with my guidance. But I do want them to feel that sense of achievement when all the right tools, guidance, and their intelligence and efforts come together. That is special.
We need to encourage our children to consider the other people around them, especially when they are getting snot-nosed, indignant, aggressive, and bratty. I hear lots of conversation about "how do you think that makes so and so feel?" but I don't see the commitment to helping the child understand. They get lip-service and they absolutely understand when you are committed to what you are saying, what you mean. We cannot be surprised if our kids are disrespectful, bored, entitled, and spoiled without taking a look at how we are engaging with them, how we talk to them, and what we expect of them. If we expect nothing, other than that they be special, then we will have to live with the outcome. If they are telling us to shut up, that they are mad at us for any "indiscretion", or if we let them dictate how they would like us to behave in their presence without explaining the differences between adults and children, the expectations of adults and children, what is required to have peace in one's home replete with respect for self and others, we can only imagine how they are treating others. And we should feel responsible.
An impressively intelligent, precocious child, a prodigy, an athletically gifted youngster should still know that his or her gifts are a wonderful blessing but do not excuse him from the rules of kindness and decency. Everyone is indeed special. And a compassionate, loving, and gifted person can change the world.
(C) Copyright 2012. Repatriated Mama: Back to the Suburban Grind.
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