Saturday, March 29, 2014
Back to the Suburban Grind: Conscious Uncoupling: The Season of Divorce
Back to the Suburban Grind: Conscious Uncoupling: The Season of Divorce: Gwyneth Paltrow and Chris Martin have just announced that after nearly eleven years of wedded bliss, they were "consciously uncoupling....
Conscious Uncoupling: The Season of Divorce
Gwyneth Paltrow and Chris Martin have just announced that after nearly eleven years of wedded bliss, they were "consciously uncoupling." For many people, the terminology was confounding and for many others, ridiculous. For me too, and I love all that esoteric, spiritual, evolutionary stuff. But separating, divorcing, especially with children in the mix is such a painful undertaking, this from someone who has only had breakups with boyfriends, that a perfectly civilized, seemingly emotionally neutral experience where two beautiful people express thanks for the wonderful life shared and kiss and go on their way acknowledging with gratitude and loving praise sounds awesome.
I think these two were damned if they did and damned if they didn't. Had the split been acrimonious and venomous involving cheating or abuse, there would have been chatter too. Because she often puts her properly pedicured foot in her oil-pulled, mint-chewing, Goopy mouth by talking about how the little people live (having, of course, no idea how we live), trying to stay spiritually bonded and physically untangle from her hubby, she is a yellow circle on the middle of the target in a crowd full of Katniss sharp shooters. I get it. She says stupid shit, really disconnected crap that makes her look like a real spoiled ass and seems like she thinks she is above us all and yet I am still sympathetic. I don't say so to try to convince others to feel as I do. That's not my point. Often, when I have hurt, been blinded by the direction of my life and my responsibility to it, I have lied to myself, convinced myself that my own perspective is right, that no one else has lived my experience, that no one else understands. I have tried to present painful experiences as better than they really are, have run from the quiet moments when I am left alone with myself and my reality. I have explained to anyone who will listen that no one has ever had it as bad as I, no one has every endured the way that I have, that the suffering is too much, if only people would understand. And then I come back to reality.
Gwyneth Paltrow is such an easy target because she appears to have everything, because she preaches an understanding of our interconnectedness, of an exalted human transcendence, and then completely misses the mark about how others live, because the reality she comes back to does not give her authority to speak to "everyone else." She's a human being. An incredibly spoiled, pampered woman, but a human being all the same. I forgive her her stupid remarks and complete disconnect from what the rest of us call reality because she believes strongly in her reality, is so committed to it that she cannot see the forest for the trees. She is going through a divorce, no matter what she calls it and that shit hurts. A part of me believes that she feels some sense of shame and failure around it, hurt and embarrassment, what many feel when they cannot save their relationships, and is trying to reframe it for herself. We are all just going along for the ride because she is a public figure. It really is a moment for privacy.
This past year I have seen a number of couples split or come close. I witnessed the hideous and contentious divorce of my husband that dragged on even as our relationship was forming. When you dig in with someone, plant seeds and set down roots, pulling up the flowers rather than seeing them bloom, can be disappointing and disorienting and traumatic. When forced to change the life your children have come to know and to expect, in which they have found comfort, joy, and consistency, one must find strength and courage and see hope at the end of that journey. Selling the house, new, separate homes, new rooms for the kids, starting over. Starting OVER. Conscious uncoupling sounds like a more suitable way to untangle than split, separate, or divorce, and the concept, though new to me until this week, does have its appeal.
Coupling, taking chances and risks, raising children, dealing with the day to day of that can wear down partnerships and change their shape. What was once romantic and energetic can seem mundane, tired, even painful. Most of us assume that this is the natural pattern of relationships. Perhaps it is, but perhaps there is some truth in a relationship running the full course, that it becomes platonic, comfortable, or stagnant. Perhaps it makes sense for a partnership to change shape or form. And maybe you are supposed to stay in it for the long haul and ride the ebb and flow, peaks and valleys that all long-term relationships present. I don't have the answers, none at all. But I imagine the experience of divorce, separating, consciously uncoupling, just like slogging through the wicked bad times to get to the other side is a personal choice. One we can only hope to live privately with some level of dignity, respect, and compassion.
Long ago when I was still searching for love and was completely unable to believe that it would ever happen for me, I would go on dates, meet men through friends or even just walking on the street and after many dates, I would talk to a friend who'd remind me when another "date" failed to make an impression, another connection failed, that "this person was someone else's, had another journey to make." I took comfort in that. Found solace in other destinies, possibilities. Maybe in conscious uncoupling, letting go with gratitude and kindness, walking a new path will be less littered with hurt, pain, and fear. Maybe. I hope so.
(c) Copyright 2014. Repatriated Mama: Back to the Suburban Grind.
Wednesday, March 26, 2014
Back to the Suburban Grind: I don't want to go to ______________ practice/game...
Back to the Suburban Grind: I don't want to go to ______________ practice/game...: Jumping off the bus into my arms, a head of bouncy curls tucked under her black, hooded, quilted jacket, my seven and a 1/2 year old was a s...
I don't want to go to ______________ practice/game/class.
Jumping off the bus into my arms, a head of bouncy curls tucked under her black, hooded, quilted jacket, my seven and a 1/2 year old was a sight for sore eyes. Her tiny, pink-lipped smile and shy glance took me right back to her sweet, baby-cake toddler years. She is a little beauty and as sweet and kind as Little Mary Sunshine or some other such character. Imagine my surprise then, when I reminded her that her Dance Fusion class, a combination of modern, ballet, lyrical dance for the young set, was in about 30 minutes and that we'd need to have a quick snack before heading over. (We generally walk over as it's very close to home.)
*Falling to the floor, crinkling up her nose, grabbing her head in a "Woe/Whoa is me" grip*
"But Mommy, I don't want to go to Dance Fusion! You are not being fair! [insert neighbor child's name] gets to have play dates all the time! I NEVER get to have play dates. (Though she'd had two that weekend) All I ever have to do is go to Dance Fusion. I just don't want to go. Is this the last week?"
"It's not. Next week is the last week. When that class is over, you do not have to commit to dance again, but we started this and we are going to finish it. You are a wonderful dancer. Why don't you want to go?"
"You forced me! You know I don't like dancing in front of other people--"
"What other people? The kids in the class? You have been going all term. This is crazy. You have to go."
"I don't want to! It's not fair. You force me to do things. I don't want you to ever force me ever again to do anything."
"I did not force you, small girl, and I will not make you go in the future, but we are going to honor our commitments and be respectful of our teacher and our responsibilities. Please get your dance clothes on so we can go. It's getting late."
"I won't."
"I'll say this much. If you do not go to class, you are not having a play date. You will be reading for your reading log for the full hour."
"One hour of reading?"
"Yes. And you will take French next term if you do not want to dance."
"OK."
This went on longer than I care to admit and so I won't. Let's just say that there is a lot more "dialogue" to include here. I texted my friend part of the way through the argument and asked/demanded what I should do. I have a tough time with this stuff. The girls are so young and I know how kids are fickle and cannot always commit to things they set out to do, but we did sign up for a certain number of weeks. And frankly, she is so talented and such a beautiful dancer I feel like I must guide and direct her towards her "calling." And then I stop myself. Am I forcing her?
I regret having been allowed to quit piano when I was nine years old, though I do recall just how miserable I made my mother as I begged and pleaded and then just gave up practicing altogether. Sitting in front of the keys with Rick, a kind, bearded music teacher from the local music school, I'd plink away having just looked at the music moments before his arrival. I could not see how these scales and little exercises were going to take me to a place where I could actually play and possibly create beautiful music. The same went for the flute (which I at least played into high school but then gave up when other interests called), the guitar, Girl Scouts, Spanish lessons, gymnastics (Though that I'd quit because my dance teacher told me it was giving me too muscular a butt. Little did she realize that I was a black girl. It was gonna be that way ANYWAY.) Now as an adult, I wish I could play the piano or the guitar, that I could tie more than the square knot and didn't get less than a thrill from camping.
Kids start and quit activities all the time. We have them signed up for so many things so early to give them exposure and get them out of our hair for an hour or so. When Lily wanted to quit soccer, a sport where she showed promise, I made her finish the season but allowed her to stop. In our town, the teams were co-ed until the kids turned eight and though Lily loved the drills and the practices, the games were often wild free-for-all's, and they did not appeal to her at all. I also didn't care for the Saturday morning early wake up, but if she'd loved it, I would have continued. With dance, an art that carried me through my young life, that gave me joy and discipline and passion and commitment and love, I am struggling to let her let go. I have been reminded by so many that stopping does not mean quitting. Perhaps she will come back to it. And maybe she won't. Maybe, for all her talent it just does not inspire her in the way it did me. Maybe (with a wink) I do not get to determine her "calling" after all.
But what's a mother to do when confronted with the shift, the change in the middle of a session? When disinterest creeps in after the fees are paid and the place in class has been saved? I made her go. I let her cry it out, kick things, beg. I let her wear her jeans to class instead of dance clothes and I gave her a snack to take with her. She danced. She enjoyed it and she will, sadly, not sign up for the next term. It is here where I must let go. Let her be her own girl and develop interests and dreams and desires that I cannot control. That evening, we ordered dinner from the local pizza place that she loves and we sat, the three of us (little sister too) and talked about discipline and passion and commitment. I explained why it is important for me that they find something to offer them guidance and discipline and teaches respect and responsibility. That the arts and other activities bring joy and meaning to life. I told them I would allow them to participate in choosing whatever it is, but that I would not allow them to give up on everything.
There are so many more choices and options now than I when I was a little girl. I danced from four until my teen years and continued to come back to it in my twenties, thirties, and now forties. I speak the language, know the vocabulary, and feel a comfort when I return. All the choices now mean so many starts and often not enough time to let the love for something germinate and grow. It is that I fear most. That they try everything and give in to nothing. I want to help lead them to their passion without forcing them to do as I have done or what I'd like them to.
The little one still loves her ballet class and is desperate to start Dance Fusion when she is old enough. She loves art and wants to learn how to ride her bike. Lily is older and has already tried so many things. We will next look for an instrument and possibly tap and everyone will have to take French. It's with a firm hand and an unwavering voice that I insist when they want to give up without a real attempt at understanding. I introduce them to the arts by taking them to performances and concerts and galleries; sports by taking them to games and pick up games; life's surprises by waking them up for the sunset, showing them cool experiments, planting, baking, cooking, living. It's alright if they flip and freak and act a fool while they sort out their feelings as long as they get back on that horse and finish the race. Finish what they started.
So yes, you have to go to class. I hope you will be better for it.
(c) Copyright 2014. Repatriated Mama: Back to the Suburban Grind.
*Falling to the floor, crinkling up her nose, grabbing her head in a "Woe/Whoa is me" grip*
"But Mommy, I don't want to go to Dance Fusion! You are not being fair! [insert neighbor child's name] gets to have play dates all the time! I NEVER get to have play dates. (Though she'd had two that weekend) All I ever have to do is go to Dance Fusion. I just don't want to go. Is this the last week?"
"It's not. Next week is the last week. When that class is over, you do not have to commit to dance again, but we started this and we are going to finish it. You are a wonderful dancer. Why don't you want to go?"
"You forced me! You know I don't like dancing in front of other people--"
"What other people? The kids in the class? You have been going all term. This is crazy. You have to go."
"I don't want to! It's not fair. You force me to do things. I don't want you to ever force me ever again to do anything."
"I did not force you, small girl, and I will not make you go in the future, but we are going to honor our commitments and be respectful of our teacher and our responsibilities. Please get your dance clothes on so we can go. It's getting late."
"I won't."
"I'll say this much. If you do not go to class, you are not having a play date. You will be reading for your reading log for the full hour."
"One hour of reading?"
"Yes. And you will take French next term if you do not want to dance."
"OK."
This went on longer than I care to admit and so I won't. Let's just say that there is a lot more "dialogue" to include here. I texted my friend part of the way through the argument and asked/demanded what I should do. I have a tough time with this stuff. The girls are so young and I know how kids are fickle and cannot always commit to things they set out to do, but we did sign up for a certain number of weeks. And frankly, she is so talented and such a beautiful dancer I feel like I must guide and direct her towards her "calling." And then I stop myself. Am I forcing her?
I regret having been allowed to quit piano when I was nine years old, though I do recall just how miserable I made my mother as I begged and pleaded and then just gave up practicing altogether. Sitting in front of the keys with Rick, a kind, bearded music teacher from the local music school, I'd plink away having just looked at the music moments before his arrival. I could not see how these scales and little exercises were going to take me to a place where I could actually play and possibly create beautiful music. The same went for the flute (which I at least played into high school but then gave up when other interests called), the guitar, Girl Scouts, Spanish lessons, gymnastics (Though that I'd quit because my dance teacher told me it was giving me too muscular a butt. Little did she realize that I was a black girl. It was gonna be that way ANYWAY.) Now as an adult, I wish I could play the piano or the guitar, that I could tie more than the square knot and didn't get less than a thrill from camping.
Kids start and quit activities all the time. We have them signed up for so many things so early to give them exposure and get them out of our hair for an hour or so. When Lily wanted to quit soccer, a sport where she showed promise, I made her finish the season but allowed her to stop. In our town, the teams were co-ed until the kids turned eight and though Lily loved the drills and the practices, the games were often wild free-for-all's, and they did not appeal to her at all. I also didn't care for the Saturday morning early wake up, but if she'd loved it, I would have continued. With dance, an art that carried me through my young life, that gave me joy and discipline and passion and commitment and love, I am struggling to let her let go. I have been reminded by so many that stopping does not mean quitting. Perhaps she will come back to it. And maybe she won't. Maybe, for all her talent it just does not inspire her in the way it did me. Maybe (with a wink) I do not get to determine her "calling" after all.
But what's a mother to do when confronted with the shift, the change in the middle of a session? When disinterest creeps in after the fees are paid and the place in class has been saved? I made her go. I let her cry it out, kick things, beg. I let her wear her jeans to class instead of dance clothes and I gave her a snack to take with her. She danced. She enjoyed it and she will, sadly, not sign up for the next term. It is here where I must let go. Let her be her own girl and develop interests and dreams and desires that I cannot control. That evening, we ordered dinner from the local pizza place that she loves and we sat, the three of us (little sister too) and talked about discipline and passion and commitment. I explained why it is important for me that they find something to offer them guidance and discipline and teaches respect and responsibility. That the arts and other activities bring joy and meaning to life. I told them I would allow them to participate in choosing whatever it is, but that I would not allow them to give up on everything.
There are so many more choices and options now than I when I was a little girl. I danced from four until my teen years and continued to come back to it in my twenties, thirties, and now forties. I speak the language, know the vocabulary, and feel a comfort when I return. All the choices now mean so many starts and often not enough time to let the love for something germinate and grow. It is that I fear most. That they try everything and give in to nothing. I want to help lead them to their passion without forcing them to do as I have done or what I'd like them to.
The little one still loves her ballet class and is desperate to start Dance Fusion when she is old enough. She loves art and wants to learn how to ride her bike. Lily is older and has already tried so many things. We will next look for an instrument and possibly tap and everyone will have to take French. It's with a firm hand and an unwavering voice that I insist when they want to give up without a real attempt at understanding. I introduce them to the arts by taking them to performances and concerts and galleries; sports by taking them to games and pick up games; life's surprises by waking them up for the sunset, showing them cool experiments, planting, baking, cooking, living. It's alright if they flip and freak and act a fool while they sort out their feelings as long as they get back on that horse and finish the race. Finish what they started.
So yes, you have to go to class. I hope you will be better for it.
(c) Copyright 2014. Repatriated Mama: Back to the Suburban Grind.
Wednesday, March 5, 2014
In All Fairness
My 7 1/2 year old told me last night, after I'd begged her to stop Rainbow Looming and do her 30 minutes of reading and put in two cents on her project about Helen Keller, that I was unfair. Her exact words were shouted, "You are unfair, Mommy! Other moms are more fair than you!" To which I responded, without raising my voice, "Then go and check them out. See if you want to live with one of them. Because I can assure you that when you are over at their place for a play date they are giving you the fun, cool mommy. But I bet their own kids will tell you that they are just as unfair and uncool as Mommy. Now get to reading." She stormed out of the room and kicked around a bit in her own bedroom before coming back to her senses and picked up her book to read. She came to me and asked that I sit with her while she read to which I immediately obliged.
After we'd read and I was braiding her hair for bedtime, I told her that I'd been very hurt by her comments earlier and that while I did not like having to be a nag, it was my job to make sure that everyone in the family, little kids and Papa, were taking care of their responsibilities. I told her to imagine just how exhausting it was when no one listened to me but everyone yelled at me. I didn't have to say much else as she started crying and apologizing. While reassuring her that it was not my intention to have her cry but to consider how it must feel to have someone say cruel things, I also wanted her to understand that we would not communicate with each other in the house with outbursts and hurtful statements. The three of us, Lily and Virginie and myself, reviewed better ways to tell someone how you feel. Ways that did not involve shouting, pouting, and throwing tantrums.
I know this scenario plays out in so many households daily, maybe even hourly. And I have to think that the person who can change this kind of communication at my house is yours truly. When I was growing up, there wouldn't be much conversation about it, and when I say wouldn't be much, I mean ANY. My parents, like most others at that time, told us what to do and we did it. Often, "because I said so," was answer enough. I do go to that one from time to time, but I prefer to explain my actions; it's a personal choice. If I don't offer the answer "just because" when they ask a question about nature or math or art, I don't want to give that answer in regards to social situations and personal behavior.
"It's not fair!" means that I am asking them to do something that they not only don't want to do but are actually put out being asked. Or told to do it. We can argue, and we do, or I can tell them why I have asked, in this case, for Lily to do her homework. I can tell her about responsibility and expectations and her role and mine. She is welcome to tell me that she is tired or frustrated or disinterested or angry or sad, but she cannot just tell me that I am being unfair. My parents used to say, "Life is unfair." That's true. I have thrown that in there too and for good measure have even given examples. Rarely do those examples involve a first-world child with everything in front of her, coming home from a play date, eating her favorite foods, and snuggling in a blanket while she Rainbow looms. I guess this is my "kids in China/Africa/somewhere would love to eat your broccoli" argument.
When mine tell me, "that's not fair," I want to show them as delicately as I can when I am "Cool Mommy" and as snarky as I might when I am "Overworked/Put upon Mommy" that "that's not fair" often comes out of sounding like they believe themselves to be the most important persons in the whole wide world. From believing not that the sun rises and sets in them but that they are, in fact, the sun. I can imagine that letting them believe they are not the most important people in the world might go over badly with some parents. I imagine this because I see adults asking permission of their children for just about any decision they need to make. Mine ARE the most important people to ME and to my husband. But they are not the center of the universe. It would be awfully painful for them to discover this fact outside of the house when they were too old to still believe so. My grandma, Jessie Mae used to tell hers, "I'm always going to love you. It is my job to get others to like you." In other words, she taught her children, my father included, how to be good, kind, decent human beings, and not to think of themselves before everyone else.
Of course I do not want my children to be put upon or feel less than in anyone's eyes, and they have been fortified with feelings of adequacy and sprinklings of how special and important they are, have been celebrated for jobs well done, and tickled under their chins with giggles about how lovely they are. But learning about how to be part of a community, a family, a group is just as important to me as their developing self-love and pride in the things that make them special. What's not fair is allowing them, while they are cute and sweet and under my roof, to believe that the world will start and stop for them, revolve around them, that they have no responsibility to anyone but themselves, and that they will be accountable to nothing but their own desires. When they say, "that's not fair!" responding with the truth and my expectations and a little guidance, I am hoping to ensure that they are not unfair, unkind, and selfish towards others. Feeling like the bad guy? That's not fair. But I'll take it for the team.
(c) Copyright 2014. Repatriated Mama: Back to the Suburban Grind.
After we'd read and I was braiding her hair for bedtime, I told her that I'd been very hurt by her comments earlier and that while I did not like having to be a nag, it was my job to make sure that everyone in the family, little kids and Papa, were taking care of their responsibilities. I told her to imagine just how exhausting it was when no one listened to me but everyone yelled at me. I didn't have to say much else as she started crying and apologizing. While reassuring her that it was not my intention to have her cry but to consider how it must feel to have someone say cruel things, I also wanted her to understand that we would not communicate with each other in the house with outbursts and hurtful statements. The three of us, Lily and Virginie and myself, reviewed better ways to tell someone how you feel. Ways that did not involve shouting, pouting, and throwing tantrums.
I know this scenario plays out in so many households daily, maybe even hourly. And I have to think that the person who can change this kind of communication at my house is yours truly. When I was growing up, there wouldn't be much conversation about it, and when I say wouldn't be much, I mean ANY. My parents, like most others at that time, told us what to do and we did it. Often, "because I said so," was answer enough. I do go to that one from time to time, but I prefer to explain my actions; it's a personal choice. If I don't offer the answer "just because" when they ask a question about nature or math or art, I don't want to give that answer in regards to social situations and personal behavior.
"It's not fair!" means that I am asking them to do something that they not only don't want to do but are actually put out being asked. Or told to do it. We can argue, and we do, or I can tell them why I have asked, in this case, for Lily to do her homework. I can tell her about responsibility and expectations and her role and mine. She is welcome to tell me that she is tired or frustrated or disinterested or angry or sad, but she cannot just tell me that I am being unfair. My parents used to say, "Life is unfair." That's true. I have thrown that in there too and for good measure have even given examples. Rarely do those examples involve a first-world child with everything in front of her, coming home from a play date, eating her favorite foods, and snuggling in a blanket while she Rainbow looms. I guess this is my "kids in China/Africa/somewhere would love to eat your broccoli" argument.
When mine tell me, "that's not fair," I want to show them as delicately as I can when I am "Cool Mommy" and as snarky as I might when I am "Overworked/Put upon Mommy" that "that's not fair" often comes out of sounding like they believe themselves to be the most important persons in the whole wide world. From believing not that the sun rises and sets in them but that they are, in fact, the sun. I can imagine that letting them believe they are not the most important people in the world might go over badly with some parents. I imagine this because I see adults asking permission of their children for just about any decision they need to make. Mine ARE the most important people to ME and to my husband. But they are not the center of the universe. It would be awfully painful for them to discover this fact outside of the house when they were too old to still believe so. My grandma, Jessie Mae used to tell hers, "I'm always going to love you. It is my job to get others to like you." In other words, she taught her children, my father included, how to be good, kind, decent human beings, and not to think of themselves before everyone else.
Of course I do not want my children to be put upon or feel less than in anyone's eyes, and they have been fortified with feelings of adequacy and sprinklings of how special and important they are, have been celebrated for jobs well done, and tickled under their chins with giggles about how lovely they are. But learning about how to be part of a community, a family, a group is just as important to me as their developing self-love and pride in the things that make them special. What's not fair is allowing them, while they are cute and sweet and under my roof, to believe that the world will start and stop for them, revolve around them, that they have no responsibility to anyone but themselves, and that they will be accountable to nothing but their own desires. When they say, "that's not fair!" responding with the truth and my expectations and a little guidance, I am hoping to ensure that they are not unfair, unkind, and selfish towards others. Feeling like the bad guy? That's not fair. But I'll take it for the team.
(c) Copyright 2014. Repatriated Mama: Back to the Suburban Grind.
Tuesday, February 18, 2014
Back to the Suburban Grind: Sugar, Spice, and everything fierce
Back to the Suburban Grind: Sugar, Spice, and everything fierce: Little girls. The hard part is raising them. The crazy part is having to search and scour and work through all the messages that are being...
Sugar, Spice, and everything fierce
Little girls. The hard part is raising them. The crazy part is having to search and scour and work through all the messages that are being sent at their little hearts and minds. The wicked part is trying to work through my own politics, my own feelings, my own shortcomings, fears, desires and lead them to their own paths.
I want to raise my girls stronger, more self-aware, and centered than I ever was. I want them to know their strengths--emotional, physical, and spiritual, their beauty, their wisdom, their intuition, intelligence, and their magic. But I also want them to use their powers for good and not evil. I, like so many parents of girls my age, love the fierce, young things out there, images of girl power that are not as obviously sexist, racist, misogynistic as images from the past. My girls believe they can do anything though they often need some coaxing to see the application of this mantra. All things new are met with a little apprehension and fear and some embarrassment about being made a fool of by their peers real and imagined. I sit with that part as it runs in me too, but as a woman, I am able to throw myself into the new, knowing the rewards often outweigh the risks.
I love almost anything that lets little girls and women high five themselves at the show of strength, power, and confidence, that shows the second sex flexing all its muscle--physical, emotional, intellectual, and spiritual. I like girls in real life and fiction that challenge the status quo, that bring it, find themselves alienated because they are so misunderstood in their desire to march to the beat of their own damned beatbox. I believe that leadership comes with strength and compassion and I teach my girls how to lead themselves. I have told them to lead by example and others will follow but I do not know that that is true. Sometimes it seems like the sassy wheel gets the grease.
There are so many other reinforcements for an aggressive show of strength--girl bullying, the "I don't care," the blasé response to a life lived with just 6 or 7 years under the belt and parents' oblivious acceptance or ignorance of them. Mine see wonder in everything, Believe that every image seen will enhance the dreams in their minds, every experience had will feed the possibilities. They are open to the idea of everyone's joy and believe there is enough to go around for everyone. Sure, they fight like heck when they get locked in the house on a cold day or a boring morning where Mommy does not jump up and show them the fireworks, but they cut their teeth at home where the sparing is playful at best, chock full of Mommy-shouting, teachable moments at worst. Like two little lion cubs they spar and jab and resist and pounce and I call from the other room, "That's too much. Not like that. Don't say words just to be cruel, just to hurt. Say them to make your point."
Mine know the first of the Four Agreements because I say it so often. "Be impeccable with your word." It's kind of like "use your words" but with intention and conviction behind them. Know that what you say or do definitely has a reaction in the world and who the heck wants a reaction that hurts someone else. When little girls are cruel, abusive, short-tempered with others, I often wonder if their parents have goaded them on, cheered them, encouraged them by telling them that they are strong, singular, fierce. I wonder if the girls long for a tribe of like-minded chicas or if they believe that to be a strong girl or woman one must do it alone. I wonder why compassion gets taken out of the equation when one is being prepped for greatness.
Yesterday, after a dance class, I spent a good hour talking with some mommy-friends about raising children and girls in particular. My parents involved themselves very little in my social development and I navigated using clues from television, playground politics, and bearing witness to schoolyard hierarchies. I was nervous, but found that humor and revealing very little about my real feelings was helpful. Only I knew how trying it was to find my way through this maze and I grew a thick skin. I shored up and developed a hard shell to protect my gooey insides. But what for the girls who appear quiet, but really have a silent roar? Those that are nurturing a strong character, who are watching and mindful and intelligent and sharp? Who don't know how or won't fight for the top of the pyramid but could surely get there on their own strength.
The narcissistic side of me hopes that my girls are tiny avatars of all my good qualities with daring, commitment, and perseverance in extra measure. I hope that when they are doing something that makes them stand out, either because they are great or not so, that they keep doing it anyway because they love it. I hope that the voices--inside their heads and from other littles who have already taken in the sad, scary, tiny messages delivered on a pink tray to little girls--can be ignored and they can blaze hot, fiery paths of their own making. Or even lay tiny little stones, like Gretel and her brother Hansel, on their path to find their way. I don't care how they do it, just want it to be their very own.
My girls are sweet, easy playmates, sugary and gooey and lovey with enough character and drive to spice up all interaction with them. The fierceness will come as their confidence strengthens and they feel safer navigating knowing that I have their backs and support every effort they make towards self-discovery and self-improvement and self-love. I'm in it with them.
Those sassy, precocious, sophisticated, modern kids who call adults by their first names and treat children and adults alike with the same snarky attitude, who are already bored, unmoved by the real miracles of life, the joys, the highs, who hide the miserable, scary lows, who have even us fooled that "they got this" when they are way too young to GET this and just need to be parented, to be given limits, to have consequences to face, need guidance. They need us to help them find their way to their best selves, to their potential, and to do it without having to break others down to the quick. They run this town and they know it. We let them tell us what to do, talk back, assault us, call us names and then wonder why they just can't seem to connect with others.
Fierce is not mean or biting or cruel. It's not manipulative or controlling. It doesn't make others feel less than so that one can feel whole. We know this, but they may not. May not be able to read through the pages of confusing messages directed at them or lives lived vicariously through them. I don't want my children to be too heavy on the sugar, so sweet and kind and easy-going that they give up their strength. But the healthy snack to that meal is not snark or sassiness. It's the true power--self-reliance, self-love, intelligence, empathy, and compassion. Sugar and spice and everything nice? I don't know about that. But crystallizing that inner awesome, seeing it in others too, and letting everyone be led by their own star? I can get with that.
(c) Copyright 2014. Repatriated Mama: Back to the Suburban Grind.
I want to raise my girls stronger, more self-aware, and centered than I ever was. I want them to know their strengths--emotional, physical, and spiritual, their beauty, their wisdom, their intuition, intelligence, and their magic. But I also want them to use their powers for good and not evil. I, like so many parents of girls my age, love the fierce, young things out there, images of girl power that are not as obviously sexist, racist, misogynistic as images from the past. My girls believe they can do anything though they often need some coaxing to see the application of this mantra. All things new are met with a little apprehension and fear and some embarrassment about being made a fool of by their peers real and imagined. I sit with that part as it runs in me too, but as a woman, I am able to throw myself into the new, knowing the rewards often outweigh the risks.
I love almost anything that lets little girls and women high five themselves at the show of strength, power, and confidence, that shows the second sex flexing all its muscle--physical, emotional, intellectual, and spiritual. I like girls in real life and fiction that challenge the status quo, that bring it, find themselves alienated because they are so misunderstood in their desire to march to the beat of their own damned beatbox. I believe that leadership comes with strength and compassion and I teach my girls how to lead themselves. I have told them to lead by example and others will follow but I do not know that that is true. Sometimes it seems like the sassy wheel gets the grease.
There are so many other reinforcements for an aggressive show of strength--girl bullying, the "I don't care," the blasé response to a life lived with just 6 or 7 years under the belt and parents' oblivious acceptance or ignorance of them. Mine see wonder in everything, Believe that every image seen will enhance the dreams in their minds, every experience had will feed the possibilities. They are open to the idea of everyone's joy and believe there is enough to go around for everyone. Sure, they fight like heck when they get locked in the house on a cold day or a boring morning where Mommy does not jump up and show them the fireworks, but they cut their teeth at home where the sparing is playful at best, chock full of Mommy-shouting, teachable moments at worst. Like two little lion cubs they spar and jab and resist and pounce and I call from the other room, "That's too much. Not like that. Don't say words just to be cruel, just to hurt. Say them to make your point."
Mine know the first of the Four Agreements because I say it so often. "Be impeccable with your word." It's kind of like "use your words" but with intention and conviction behind them. Know that what you say or do definitely has a reaction in the world and who the heck wants a reaction that hurts someone else. When little girls are cruel, abusive, short-tempered with others, I often wonder if their parents have goaded them on, cheered them, encouraged them by telling them that they are strong, singular, fierce. I wonder if the girls long for a tribe of like-minded chicas or if they believe that to be a strong girl or woman one must do it alone. I wonder why compassion gets taken out of the equation when one is being prepped for greatness.
Yesterday, after a dance class, I spent a good hour talking with some mommy-friends about raising children and girls in particular. My parents involved themselves very little in my social development and I navigated using clues from television, playground politics, and bearing witness to schoolyard hierarchies. I was nervous, but found that humor and revealing very little about my real feelings was helpful. Only I knew how trying it was to find my way through this maze and I grew a thick skin. I shored up and developed a hard shell to protect my gooey insides. But what for the girls who appear quiet, but really have a silent roar? Those that are nurturing a strong character, who are watching and mindful and intelligent and sharp? Who don't know how or won't fight for the top of the pyramid but could surely get there on their own strength.
The narcissistic side of me hopes that my girls are tiny avatars of all my good qualities with daring, commitment, and perseverance in extra measure. I hope that when they are doing something that makes them stand out, either because they are great or not so, that they keep doing it anyway because they love it. I hope that the voices--inside their heads and from other littles who have already taken in the sad, scary, tiny messages delivered on a pink tray to little girls--can be ignored and they can blaze hot, fiery paths of their own making. Or even lay tiny little stones, like Gretel and her brother Hansel, on their path to find their way. I don't care how they do it, just want it to be their very own.
My girls are sweet, easy playmates, sugary and gooey and lovey with enough character and drive to spice up all interaction with them. The fierceness will come as their confidence strengthens and they feel safer navigating knowing that I have their backs and support every effort they make towards self-discovery and self-improvement and self-love. I'm in it with them.
Those sassy, precocious, sophisticated, modern kids who call adults by their first names and treat children and adults alike with the same snarky attitude, who are already bored, unmoved by the real miracles of life, the joys, the highs, who hide the miserable, scary lows, who have even us fooled that "they got this" when they are way too young to GET this and just need to be parented, to be given limits, to have consequences to face, need guidance. They need us to help them find their way to their best selves, to their potential, and to do it without having to break others down to the quick. They run this town and they know it. We let them tell us what to do, talk back, assault us, call us names and then wonder why they just can't seem to connect with others.
Fierce is not mean or biting or cruel. It's not manipulative or controlling. It doesn't make others feel less than so that one can feel whole. We know this, but they may not. May not be able to read through the pages of confusing messages directed at them or lives lived vicariously through them. I don't want my children to be too heavy on the sugar, so sweet and kind and easy-going that they give up their strength. But the healthy snack to that meal is not snark or sassiness. It's the true power--self-reliance, self-love, intelligence, empathy, and compassion. Sugar and spice and everything nice? I don't know about that. But crystallizing that inner awesome, seeing it in others too, and letting everyone be led by their own star? I can get with that.
(c) Copyright 2014. Repatriated Mama: Back to the Suburban Grind.
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