Superheroes, Take 2

My previous post by the same name got derailed. Another thought wanted to be thunk, apparently, so I thunked it, posted it, and now return to drafting the post originally designated for this title.

As the mother of two girls, I thought it would behoove me to spend some time digging around on Miss Representation's website. This indie documentary, in the words of its own website (a new quote, germane to this post, as compared to Superheros, Take 1), "challenges the media’s limited and often disparaging portrayals of women and girls, which make it difficult for women to achieve leadership positions and for the average woman to feel powerful herself."

I can get behind this one hundred percent, but my still small inner voice is compelled to ask whether girl-children inherently suffer any more than boy-children from the urge to be something more than what they are?

Case in point: when dropping He'en off at preschool last year, I noticed one of her playmates leaping around the room. He would leap, then freeze, crouch, and glare at me. He did this six or seven times.

I confess that I sort of glared back, which must have disconcerted the kid's mother because she tossed me one of Those Looks from across the playroom and said with a little fake laugh, "Oh, he's just pretending to be Spiderman!"

It was on the tip of my tongue to say, Well, tell him not to be Spiderman near my daughter, because it's damned creepy. Instead, of course, I gave a little fake laugh back and weakly chirped, "Awwww, how cuuuute."

So here we are, browsing Netflix on Roku last week [Roku = best $90 a parent will ever spend], and He'en asks to watch the animated Spiderman. I told her nyet. Instead, I said, she could pick a new Barbie movie. Is this because I am trying to drive my daughter into an eating disorder? Hell, no. It's because I don't want my daughter leaping around the room, freezing, crouching, and glaring at strangers! 

Plus, in the wake of the horrible Aurora shootings, I am really hesitant about exposing her to any superhero franchise before it's absolutely unavoidable.  Barbie may not send the absolute best messages for girls, but at least I know that nobody will be beaten up or explode on-screen into bloody goo.  Additionally, He'en is sick of Little Einsteins and refuses to watch Sid the Science Kid because the first episode she watched was about getting shots at the doctor and she is terrified of reliving that experience.  We've watched every episode of Doc McStuffins at least twice. (For those who don't wish to follow the link, this animated series features a female child "doctor" to her stuffed animals, whose mother also is a female doctor, and whose dad is a SAHD. Awesome.)

In real life, I've switched to a great female pediatrician in part because I think she's a terrific role model for the girls. Her professional staff happens to be all-female as well.  And I try to "deprogram" in real-time when I read He'en the books that I had as a child:  "Can girls be firefighters? Of course they can! Can men be nurses? Of course they can! Our neighbor Mister Colin is a nurse. He was the one that you watched using the chainsaw to cut up that tree last summer, remember? Well, his job is helping hurt people get better. Someday Mom will teach you to use a chainsaw, by the way."  And so forth.

I think Miss Representation's messages and goals absolutely are in the right place. But I cannot feel overly guilty about fanning the flames of the Barbie franchise, either.  The raising of girl-children is an exercise in complexity. It's often an exercise in choosing the lesser or least of evils.  All you can do is your best, which I submit is a good and positive message regardless of whether it comes from Mom, Barbie, Doc McStuffins, or Condoleeza Rice.

Superheroes, Take 1

In the local news -- which I read about every third day if I a) am lucky and b) remember to take the phone into the ladies' room -- I recently read about a screening of Miss Representation. As the mother of two girls, I was interested enough to visit the website and read a little more about this indie movie, which, in the words of its own website, "explores how the media’s misrepresentations of women have led to the underrepresentation of women in positions of power and influence."

Um, okay, but I don't think we can blame the media for every woman's position.  Take me, for example, 'cause it's my blog and I can:  of late, I've been patently un-powerful and un-influential. As I type, baby snot is drying on my right forearm. I changed my hair color from platinum blonde to light brunette four days ago; my husband still has not noticed. And a piece of dried fetuccine fell out of my bra last night when I was getting ready for bed, which occurs in the guest room so that Dragon Girl's nocturnal antics -- she still is taking 3 night feedings -- do not disturb DH who is working across three continents and trying to close three or four deals-of-a-lifetime in the timespan of 14 days of one lifetime.

And, let's note, said bedtime is only kicking off the night shift, which begins when I am done with a 12-hour day of providing cheese slices, making sure the Correct Top is on the Correct Sippy Cup, and pretending amazed delight at my preschooler's prowess at jumping onto her beanbag, each time accompanied by a commanding squeal of, "Mooom! WATCH what I CAN DO!"

Yep, definitely exploring the bottom of the "power and influence" heap nowadays. 

According to any major indicator, I shouldn't be. I have a full-time nanny in the wonderful personage of Sister Mine. I have an advanced degree and professional licenses in two jurisdictions. I was #2 in command of a multimillion dollar service business in Florida. I had direct paths available into politics, law, and the judiciary.

But I took none of them and here I sit, baby snot and all, honestly quite content with my life.

I wish I could say the media talked me into this fast slide to un-empowerment, but I'm pretty sure it had more to do with an excess of Christmas 'nog and that cozy B&B suite in Madera Canyon back in 2007.

Stories: How Maleficent Got Her Castle

[N.B. - This was the first of the Maleficent Stories. Accordingly, it's a little more elaborate than subsequent Maleficent Stories. I started to scale back the complexity once I twigged that He'en apparently was going to request a "New Mayefficen' Stowy!" every single bedtime until she left for college.]

Once upon a time, Maleficent was flying around the kingdom, making mischief --

Aside: "What does that mean?"
Little voice: "Making twubble. Because she iss twubble."
Aside: "That's right, she is trouble."

-- and a thought came into her head. And the thought was, "I think I would like a castle."

So Maleficent flew and flew until she saw a castle that was just right. It was shining gold and silver and perched high up on a great knob of rock.

"What a beautiful castle," thought Maleficent. "I will have it for my own."

So in a POOF of green smoke, she flew down to the castle and knocked on the door. But nobody answered. That didn't stop Maleficent. She pushed open the door and went inside.

Aside: "Should she have done that?"
Little voice: (emphatically) "No!"
Aside: "Right, but she did it anyway, because Maleficent is not polite."
Little voice: (with great satisfaction and a little snuggle) "Wight."

And inside the castle Maleficent saw. . .
. . . a dining room, with a dinner all laid out,
. . . and a game room, with games all ready to play,
. . . and a bedroom, with a bed all made and ready!

She walked all though the castle, but nobody was home. So Maleficent . . .
. . . went to the dining room and ate the dinner,
. . . went to the game room and played with all the games,
. . . and went to the bedroom and crawled in the bed to sleep.

But no sooner was Maleficent asleep than the castle's *real* owner came home! He was a magnificent dragon, with red and orange and gold scales and golden eyes. And his name was Firebrand. 

Firebrand walked into his castle and said,
"Somebody's eaten my dinner!"
Then he walked to the game room and said,
"Someone's been playing with my games!"
Then he walked to the bedroom and said,
"Someone's sleeping in my bed!"

But as soon as he said that, Maleficent woke up! And with a POOF of green smoke, she cast a spell on Firebrand and imprisoned him in his own dungeon! And not only that, but she made Firebrand work very hard. She used his firey breath to . . . heat her bathwater.

Well, Firebrand didn't like this at all. So one day, he was looking at the small window of his dungeon cell and thought, "I'll bet I can get out of there." So he used his firey breath and with a great blast melted the bars on the dungeon window. And he gave a little
. . . mmf . . .
and an
. . . oompf . . .
and a big
. . . ungggh wiggle . . .
and POP, he was out of the dungeon!

Firebrand flew away as fast and as far as ever he could. And while he flew, he said to himself, "I don't want anything more to do with HER. She can KEEP that castle!"

So that is how Maleficent got her castle. But, because she was evil, it didn't stay gold and silver and shiny. It turned black and purple, and green clouds swirled around it.

And THAT is the castle you see in the movie.

The Maleficent Stories: Introduction

Sister Mine and I debated over whether He'en was ready for Sleeping Beauty. After all, Maleficient had deeply moved both of us in her time. Sister Mine says, "She scared the bejabbers out of me."  I suppose that Maleficent scared the bejabbers out of me, too, but, as my coping mechanism, I channeled Maleficient and went around for quite a long time in high school being all sweepy and dramatic. The villains always had the best makeup.

Because He'en had sailed through Bambi, however, with only some minor discussion about out-of-season hunting -- we'll save the harsh reality of doe permits for another year -- we decided she was emotionally prepared to handle Maleficent in all her wonderful awfulness. So Sleeping Beauty was duly purchased, and it was duly watched, and although I had to sit with He'en during a couple "scawwy pawts," we thought that she had managed just fine.

Well, she had . . . but as soon as the closing credits concluded, she attacked me with a rabid case of the curiosities.
About what, you may ask? 
The good fairies?  Pssht.
Aurora? Take a number.
Prince Philip?  Yawn.

No, no, my daughter wanted to know everything, and I do mean absolutely everything, there was to know about Maleficent:

How did Maleficent get her castle?
How did Maleficent get her crow?
Why are there green clouds around the castle?
Was Maleficent good once before she was evil?
Where did she get her castle guards? (Seriously.)
And on.
And on.
And on.
And at bedtime, no less.

In answer to this dire dearth of information, the Maleficent Stories were born. They have grown so numerous that I've started to forget them, so I will here record them from time to time both for reference and posterity.

I'll Take the Tea Set

My mother recently asked what He'en might like for her birthday. Feeling quite cheerfully smug, I whipped out my Magic Phone, activated the Memo app, and rattled off the list that I've been keeping thereon.

When I got to "Tea Set or Similar Pretending Toys," my diplomatic mother paused and delicately posed the question, "Now, are you sure you are good with her having a tea set or, er, a pretend kitchen stove, or things like that?"

This brought me up short. Well, of course little He'en could play with a tea set!  But then I realized that this question was justifiably loaded.  I had been quite a stinker about waving the Women Can Do Anything banner in my teens and twenties. I also probably had been quite a stinker during the same timeframe about my mother's choice to be a stay-at-home-mom.

Now that I've checked out of the rat race to spend my own days cutting sandwiches into triangles and stringing Cheerios onto necklaces, I have a completely different perspective . . . and here proffer public apology to my mother, who was a terrific SAHM.

So I mused over her question and concluded that, yes, I was OK with He'en playing with a tea set. After all, as I told Mom, I spent nearly ten years playing with my Little Lawyer Activity Kit and found it sadly wanting:

One (1) law diploma
One (1) bar admission card
One (1) very heavy desk
Forty-two (42) partially-written letters, briefs, and motions
Two (2) computers

For all this, you pay only $140,000.  Expansion items in the same set, sold separately, include:

Crazy Opposing Counsel Talking Doll:  threatens sanctions when you pull a string in its back!

Grumpy Judge Action Figure:  lifts and lowers a magazine during hearings and repeats, "Denied."

Assorted Business Cards

I know every generation needs to find its own way. But since I've been asked my opinion, I'll say, for the love of God, yes, please buy my daughter a tea set.

Sleep Junkie

"Anything else I should know?" asks another angelic nurse as she arrives for shift change.

"No . . . oh, yes, I am due for Percoset in another two hours."

"Okay," she chirps, marking the chart, "I'll be back in two hours! If you need it sooner, we can do that a half-hour sooner, so just let me know."

Off goes the nurse, and into the resultant void comes a husbandly grumble: "I'm not sure I am too thrilled about you asking for painkillers."*

"Well," I sighed, "with the last C-section, I was all trying-to-be-brave and I was absolutely miserable. And since nobody handed me a medal for that, I am taking all my painkillers on schedule this time."**

"That's drug-seeking behavior," declared DH, unmoved.***

But he ain't seen-ed nothing yet. Two months down the road, I am in full-on sleep deprivation mode. Dragon Girl is still taking three (3) night feedings, at three (3) hour intervals. Occasionally we get lucky and stretch to four hours. That is a banner night. We remain, however, nowhere near the blissful five hours that He'en enjoyed like clockwork the moment she got home from the hospital: the ones that had me smugly thinking, "I don't know what everyone's complaining about. This newborn thing isn't so hard." (Isn't it great how the universe rubs your nose in snotty comments like that?)

Enter the sleep addiction. I crave sleep. I seek sleep. I stash sleep. I've fallen asleep on the exam table at the doctor's office. I was actually excited to get a filling because I could lie horizontally in the kid-free dentist's chair for an hour.

I sneak a catnap wherever I can. In classic addict style, I'll even fib about it, "Nope, wasn't sleeping," when DH finds me prone on the couch with the preschooler in a Barbie movie coma and the baby firmly tucked into my armpit.

Likewise classically, I am ruthless in my treatment of those who may interfere with my next fix. Poor He'en has only heard half the words of "If I Ran the Circus" because I skip from couplet to couplet on the fly at bedtime.  Even the baby has suffered, since I gave up pumping breastmilk at night to eke out another hour of sleep in the small darks.

In 30 years, at the request of their therapists, I will let my kids read this entry. Until then, they are stuck with a sleep junkie mama.

=====

* DH is charming this way. He isn't too thrilled about my drinking coffee (caffiene), and he has extracted from me a promise never to give the kids soda (chemicals).  Once, in a strange city, I saw him reduced to steering-wheel-pounding fury by my search for a Starbucks: "An entire nation of people! My God, all of them addicted to this stuff!?" I think he did accept a sip of latte when we got there, however.

** Second best advice I ever got: take all the drugs they give you after a C-section. (The first best advice was, "He is gonna propose and you are gonna say yes. You can always change your mind later.")

*** My sister's response to this story was to ask, with deeply gratifying exasperation, "Did you tell him you were twenty-four hours out of abdominal surgery? Of course you are engaging in drug-seeking behavior! You'd be crazy not to. Man, I would have taken those painkillers and then crawled out of that bed and smacked him one. Next time let's take out his appendix and he can lie there with you and we'll see who's asking for drugs! Pffhht!" (Sister Mine is pleasantly sparky.)

Party Girl

I have promised DH that I will not expose the children to hip-hop or rap. Stated mildly, DH does not care for these genres of entertainment (he will not deign to call them music).  Even though He'en writhes in her carseat protesting she does not "yike" the classical music on the radio, he persists.  His kids are going to get some decent cultchah come hell or high water.

In this, I fear, he finds me a sloppy ally. For several years now, I have been carefully avoiding the issue of whether "club" falls into the "hip-hop or rap" category of child-poison. 

Poor DH. When he met me, he thought he was getting a refined intellectual type who would be a fit mother to his heirs. I had a reasonable command of current events, a bluffer's knowledge of opera, several years of ballroom dance experience, a basic ballet vocabulary, and enough classical music moxy to prove acceptable to a man who had grown up with the kids of Philadelphia Orchestra musicians and had studied piano at a conservatory in his youth. Little did he know that, ten years down the road, his wifely prize would disintegrate into a 40-year-old hip-hop-loving mall rat. 

The warning signs were there, of course. During our early dating days, we had some stellar squiffs over my tendency to be unavailable on nights when a good drag show hit Fort Lauderdale.

"You can come," I cheerfully invited him by phone between applications of black-cherry lipstick.

"Go there with you? I can't believe you would go to those . . .  things!" he huffed. "What if you want a judicial career someday? Someone might see you!"

"If they see me," I would counter, holding the phone with my chin to tighten my leather dog collar choker, "It would be because they were also there."

Well, we never did really resolve that issue. We just moved away from the scene, settled into quiet coupledom, and then I got too old and too busy for such delicious pursuits.  Days turned to weeks, then months, then years, and along came Offspring #1, which permanently ended any chances for such foolishness.

When Offspring #1 was about six weeks old, I wistfully noted that the last time I saw such early-morning numbers on the clock, I had been clubbing in Miami. 

From my mouth to God's ears: Offspring #2 was inconsolable tonight until I moved her into the kitchen and put fired up my "Shakira Channel" on Pandora.  As soon as the dance beats began, she quit thrashing in her lounger, spit out her pacifier, belched peacefully, and settled into a blissful sleep.

That's my girl, my little party girl.