Driving home from ice skating this winter -- ah, ice skating, the subject of many blog notes on my phone, some of which may someday be turned into blog entries -- we pulled in behind an ambulance. Its rollers weren't on, but it was lit inside. And, in this tiny mobile theatre hurtling down the freeway, someone was lying on a stretcher and talking to the EMT.
We passed in a blink. I thought He'en wouldn't notice, but she did. She said, "There is someone who is sick in there. I wish I could make it better." (Every time I am tempted to think she is a complete sociopath, she surprises me with a burst of empathy.)
So we talked about what she could do. And we talked about how, sometimes, there is nothing you can do. Well, we concluded, there is always one thing we can do. Always, we can pray.
Now, as previously established in this blog, my theology is shaky and my faith often equally so, although admittedly less so since the arrival of my offspring.
But I have undertaken to raise these children. There may come a time in their lives when they have nothing to hold onto except faith. Faith in something, faith in anything. Despite my own misgivings in the religion area, I feel that I should give them some avenue for hope in case they need it down the line. Some, um, cross-denominational faith training.
So, shamelessly relying on my memory of the Cliff Notes on To Kill a Mockingbird, I told He'en that she could pray. She could pray for courage for the sick person, and pray for strength for the sick person and their family, and pray for wisdom for all the people helping the sick person so that they would know the best thing to do.
I explained that you don't just pray for things you want, because God doesn't work that way, but that you can pray for the ability to get through it all, on your own behalf or anyone else's, because God definitely works that way.
I tried hard to put it all in five-year-old language. Then, feeling that I'd done the best I could, I shut up for a while and concentrated on driving while He'en chewed on my little homily.
She was very quiet for a while, and then,
"I blew him some kisses," she announced with calm assurance.
I nodded, my eyes welling up with Mom-tears, and told her that, yes, I was sure that would help. And I made a little prayer of my own, then, that her faith in something, anything, would always be exactly that strong.
Showing posts with label Dor L'Dor. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Dor L'Dor. Show all posts
Wednesday, May 7, 2014
Monday, December 24, 2012
Do They [need to] Know it's Christmas?
Who remembers this BandAID video from 1984?* The sentiment is fine, but nowadays even the question "Do They Know it's Christmas?" feels so so very Americentric. I can pretty well guarantee that, in Ethiopia, they do not know it's Christmas.
I say this with some authority because I am right here *in* America, smack in the middle of America in fact, in my messy American kitchen this morning, here on Christmas Eve day, and planning not one single Christmassy thing for the two kids in this as-Jewish-as-it-needs-to-be household.
No tinsel, no lights, no glitter. No racing downstairs with the dawn on Christmas morning. No lifting the plump heavy stockings down from the fireplace, or -- even better -- happily cradling them in two hands because they are too plump and heavy to keep hanging and have been thoughtfully laid on the hearth. No candles on the buffet. No traditional Norwegian foods, no songs, and certainly no tree. None of the Christmas joys with which I was so lovingly raised. We've chosen to partake of a different tradition.
Some would argue that it's a more tenacious tradition. Some would argue that a December Dilemma choice for Hanukkah instead of Christmas -- as opposed to "both" or "with grandparents" or "hybrid" or any of the other impressive number of holiday permutations and workarounds -- represents the choice between mellow gold versus glittering brass; deep diamond versus flashing cubic zirconia; subtle harmonies versus trumpet fanfares. OK, in fairness, I don't think my kids would say that if you dangled a sparkly tree and a pile of presents in front of them, but they had a terrific Hanukkah, spearheaded by my amazing sister who is a Village unto herself, and I am great with that.
So, no, my kids don't know it's Christmas, any more than most Ethiopians.
That said -- and before I am accused of sociopathically missing the point of BandAID's hard work and Christmas as a whole -- I don't think my kids need to know it's Christmas. Because shouldn't Christmas be every day? Peace on earth? Goodwill to men? In America, Ethiopia, and Israel too?
I'll share a little sumthin' sumthin' I've picked up over the last few years: the Jewish faith celebrates Christmas every week. And, what's more, the Jewish people are exhorted and commanded to celebrate Christmas every day, all day.
How's that, you say? Well, every week, there is a day set aside to light candles, give thanks, eat a special meal, bring strangers into your home, give comfort to those who are alone, give charity to those in need, and live in total peace with yourself, God, and others for just one day. Every week. They call it Sabbath.
Imagine if everybody did that? All the time? Every day? Or even for one special day each year? Gee, that day would be starting to look a lot like Christmas . . . and, some Jews believe, that day would herald the arrival of God's kingdom on earth. Sounding familiar?
I am posting in haste and without much proofing because I was just now interrupted by the pittypat of little feet in pink tights and a blue sequined swimsuit cover-up. "I yam all dwessed!" she announces. "I weah this shirt two weeks evewy day!"
But if I don't get back to making a lump in my own throat on this happy day and magical night and the following holy-day, God bless us, every one. Peace on earth. Goodwill to all men.
=====
*OK, I am probably just a little sociopathic because I can't thinking that BandAID probably raised more money for men's hair products than for the famine in Ethiopia. Check out those stylin' styles.
I say this with some authority because I am right here *in* America, smack in the middle of America in fact, in my messy American kitchen this morning, here on Christmas Eve day, and planning not one single Christmassy thing for the two kids in this as-Jewish-as-it-needs-to-be household.
No tinsel, no lights, no glitter. No racing downstairs with the dawn on Christmas morning. No lifting the plump heavy stockings down from the fireplace, or -- even better -- happily cradling them in two hands because they are too plump and heavy to keep hanging and have been thoughtfully laid on the hearth. No candles on the buffet. No traditional Norwegian foods, no songs, and certainly no tree. None of the Christmas joys with which I was so lovingly raised. We've chosen to partake of a different tradition.
Some would argue that it's a more tenacious tradition. Some would argue that a December Dilemma choice for Hanukkah instead of Christmas -- as opposed to "both" or "with grandparents" or "hybrid" or any of the other impressive number of holiday permutations and workarounds -- represents the choice between mellow gold versus glittering brass; deep diamond versus flashing cubic zirconia; subtle harmonies versus trumpet fanfares. OK, in fairness, I don't think my kids would say that if you dangled a sparkly tree and a pile of presents in front of them, but they had a terrific Hanukkah, spearheaded by my amazing sister who is a Village unto herself, and I am great with that.
So, no, my kids don't know it's Christmas, any more than most Ethiopians.
That said -- and before I am accused of sociopathically missing the point of BandAID's hard work and Christmas as a whole -- I don't think my kids need to know it's Christmas. Because shouldn't Christmas be every day? Peace on earth? Goodwill to men? In America, Ethiopia, and Israel too?
I'll share a little sumthin' sumthin' I've picked up over the last few years: the Jewish faith celebrates Christmas every week. And, what's more, the Jewish people are exhorted and commanded to celebrate Christmas every day, all day.
How's that, you say? Well, every week, there is a day set aside to light candles, give thanks, eat a special meal, bring strangers into your home, give comfort to those who are alone, give charity to those in need, and live in total peace with yourself, God, and others for just one day. Every week. They call it Sabbath.
Imagine if everybody did that? All the time? Every day? Or even for one special day each year? Gee, that day would be starting to look a lot like Christmas . . . and, some Jews believe, that day would herald the arrival of God's kingdom on earth. Sounding familiar?
I am posting in haste and without much proofing because I was just now interrupted by the pittypat of little feet in pink tights and a blue sequined swimsuit cover-up. "I yam all dwessed!" she announces. "I weah this shirt two weeks evewy day!"
But if I don't get back to making a lump in my own throat on this happy day and magical night and the following holy-day, God bless us, every one. Peace on earth. Goodwill to all men.
=====
*OK, I am probably just a little sociopathic because I can't thinking that BandAID probably raised more money for men's hair products than for the famine in Ethiopia. Check out those stylin' styles.
Wednesday, December 19, 2012
My Preschool Hanukkah Lesson
To celebrate the 2012 holiday season, we are moving into a new house, balancing a four-month-old and a four-year-old, emerging from a scary bout of croup, participating in a co-op art show, and planning three (3) major December trips, one of them outside the country.
Accordingly, Five Kids Is a Lot of Kids's "When Good Enough Turns Out to be Good AND Enough" has hit me right in the necessaries. This concept deserves lapel pins, colored ribbons, and an Awareness Day.
My Good Enough this month: preschool Hanukkah. As the parent of the only Jewish kid in the class, I was approached for a Hanukkah Day contribution. I tried not to look too deer-in-the-headlights as the teacher enthused over past years' activities. In one banner year, apparently, a Mama appeared with a frying pan and cooked latkes right there for all the kids. The word "latkes" was, in fact, tossed around several times during the discussion.
Now, although I am committed to raising Jewish children, I have never in my life made a latke. And I didn't think that my first time should involve 15 preschoolers and a vat of hot oil. So I cheerfully agreed to do something, then went home and cast about for an alternate activity.
Idea #1: maybe we could make sufganiot! (Wait, that falls into the "preschoolers and hot oil" category.)
Idea #2: ok, what about baked donuts? (Oh. "Preschoolers and hot oven" is not really better.)
Idea #3: let's make little oil lamps! (Right, yes, mixing preschoolers, hot oil, and fire.)
The class is already doing marshmallow menorahs. Hunh. Those clever teachers snapped up the easy one.
More Googling ensues, landing me eventually at the story of Yehudit, which is suspiciously similar to the story of Ya'el, but who cares because it does not involve hot oil. Instead . . . cheese!
Down the cheesemaking rabbithole we go, desperately searching for a no-cook recipe. This, as those in the know will know, is a good challenge. But I found one, and the next day buttonholed the teacher with a full report:
Me: " . . . and we'll have to edit the story of Yehudit some, because in the real story she cuts off the general's head and we don't want it to be gory so instead we can just say he fell asleep and . . ."
Teacher: [cautiously] "Well, you know, it should be simple, or else they lose interest . . ."
Me: [frenzied babbling] ". . . so that's the tie-in to the cheese, and then it's a combined snack and a craft, well, we might not be able to really make cheese, but that's okay, because it should be quick and not too much mess, and we can use the sink right? but we won't have to cook anything . . ."
Teacher: [edging slightly away] "Maybe you could just bring some cheese?"
Me: "and I could bring cheesecloth so they'd each have their own little . . . wait . . . did you say just bring cheese?"
Teacher: [clearly used to dealing with irrational four-year-olds] "And maybe a book?"
Me: ". . . a book? To read? Just a book?"
Teacher: [gently] "We even have Hanukkah books, if you don't want to bring one."
Me: "Bring cheese? And a book? And that's it?"
Teacher: "Well, if you have some of that flat bread, they might like that, too."
Me: "Matzoh? Sure, yes, um, I can bring cheese and matzoh."
Teacher: [probably greatly regretting the whole conversation and greatly relieved to be shut of this crazy-eyed Mama] "That would be great, just great, and you could maybe read a story to them during snack time. They would love that."
So I was off the hook, right? No fancy combined-craft-and-snack activity required. No best-ever Hanukkah doings expected. No adaptations of gory Bible stories. No homegrown cheese recipes.
You would think I could be content with that and move along. But even so, I didn't feel it was enough. It seemed totally inadequate for the Hanukkah Day activity provided by the Mama of the Only Jewish Kid In The Class. So inadequate, in fact, that I even crazily attempted to crap out at the last minute:
Me: "He'en, how would you feel if I just sent the snack tomorrow?"
He'en: "But? But you are com-een, wight?"
Me: "Well, I thought maybe I would not come to class. But you would have your snack."
He'en: [tears begin to flow] "But! But you are com-een to cass, wight?"
And that's where I realized, Duh!
DUH, Mama!
It's not about the Hanukkah craft or activity or latkes or anything else. Duh! It's just about com-een to cass. Little He'en just wants to show off her Mama to the class and provide a snack. Of any kind. Duh!!! I don't know how I missed that. It's just been such a month, I guess. But DUH.
So the Good Enough Preschool Hanukkah, in the end, included:
NOT a cleverly adapted Yehudit story. Just me, ol' boring Mama, reading aloud a whopping two pages about Hanukkah from A Mouse in the Rabbi's Study.
NOT matzoh. Couldn't find it this time of year. Instead, crackers from Walmart.
NOT Hanukkah gelt. Walgreens was sold out. Instead, stocking-stuffer chocolate coins.
NOT re-enacted handmade biblical artisan cheese. Instead, oh, I can't even type it:
That. I did that. To 15 unsuspecting preschoolers. For Hanukkah. If Judaism had hell, I would be going there.
But you know what? It didn't matter. The kids happily listened to their excerpt. They cheerfully ate their crackers. They delightedly savored their "gelt."
And afterward, my child -- the Only Jewish Kid in the Class -- was beaming with pride and delight.
It was enough.
And it was good.
Accordingly, Five Kids Is a Lot of Kids's "When Good Enough Turns Out to be Good AND Enough" has hit me right in the necessaries. This concept deserves lapel pins, colored ribbons, and an Awareness Day.
My Good Enough this month: preschool Hanukkah. As the parent of the only Jewish kid in the class, I was approached for a Hanukkah Day contribution. I tried not to look too deer-in-the-headlights as the teacher enthused over past years' activities. In one banner year, apparently, a Mama appeared with a frying pan and cooked latkes right there for all the kids. The word "latkes" was, in fact, tossed around several times during the discussion.
Now, although I am committed to raising Jewish children, I have never in my life made a latke. And I didn't think that my first time should involve 15 preschoolers and a vat of hot oil. So I cheerfully agreed to do something, then went home and cast about for an alternate activity.
Idea #1: maybe we could make sufganiot! (Wait, that falls into the "preschoolers and hot oil" category.)
Idea #2: ok, what about baked donuts? (Oh. "Preschoolers and hot oven" is not really better.)
Idea #3: let's make little oil lamps! (Right, yes, mixing preschoolers, hot oil, and fire.)
The class is already doing marshmallow menorahs. Hunh. Those clever teachers snapped up the easy one.
More Googling ensues, landing me eventually at the story of Yehudit, which is suspiciously similar to the story of Ya'el, but who cares because it does not involve hot oil. Instead . . . cheese!
Down the cheesemaking rabbithole we go, desperately searching for a no-cook recipe. This, as those in the know will know, is a good challenge. But I found one, and the next day buttonholed the teacher with a full report:
Me: " . . . and we'll have to edit the story of Yehudit some, because in the real story she cuts off the general's head and we don't want it to be gory so instead we can just say he fell asleep and . . ."
Teacher: [cautiously] "Well, you know, it should be simple, or else they lose interest . . ."
Me: [frenzied babbling] ". . . so that's the tie-in to the cheese, and then it's a combined snack and a craft, well, we might not be able to really make cheese, but that's okay, because it should be quick and not too much mess, and we can use the sink right? but we won't have to cook anything . . ."
Teacher: [edging slightly away] "Maybe you could just bring some cheese?"
Me: "and I could bring cheesecloth so they'd each have their own little . . . wait . . . did you say just bring cheese?"
Teacher: [clearly used to dealing with irrational four-year-olds] "And maybe a book?"
Me: ". . . a book? To read? Just a book?"
Teacher: [gently] "We even have Hanukkah books, if you don't want to bring one."
Me: "Bring cheese? And a book? And that's it?"
Teacher: "Well, if you have some of that flat bread, they might like that, too."
Me: "Matzoh? Sure, yes, um, I can bring cheese and matzoh."
Teacher: [probably greatly regretting the whole conversation and greatly relieved to be shut of this crazy-eyed Mama] "That would be great, just great, and you could maybe read a story to them during snack time. They would love that."
So I was off the hook, right? No fancy combined-craft-and-snack activity required. No best-ever Hanukkah doings expected. No adaptations of gory Bible stories. No homegrown cheese recipes.
You would think I could be content with that and move along. But even so, I didn't feel it was enough. It seemed totally inadequate for the Hanukkah Day activity provided by the Mama of the Only Jewish Kid In The Class. So inadequate, in fact, that I even crazily attempted to crap out at the last minute:
Me: "He'en, how would you feel if I just sent the snack tomorrow?"
He'en: "But? But you are com-een, wight?"
Me: "Well, I thought maybe I would not come to class. But you would have your snack."
He'en: [tears begin to flow] "But! But you are com-een to cass, wight?"
And that's where I realized, Duh!
DUH, Mama!
It's not about the Hanukkah craft or activity or latkes or anything else. Duh! It's just about com-een to cass. Little He'en just wants to show off her Mama to the class and provide a snack. Of any kind. Duh!!! I don't know how I missed that. It's just been such a month, I guess. But DUH.
So the Good Enough Preschool Hanukkah, in the end, included:
NOT a cleverly adapted Yehudit story. Just me, ol' boring Mama, reading aloud a whopping two pages about Hanukkah from A Mouse in the Rabbi's Study.
NOT matzoh. Couldn't find it this time of year. Instead, crackers from Walmart.
NOT Hanukkah gelt. Walgreens was sold out. Instead, stocking-stuffer chocolate coins.
NOT re-enacted handmade biblical artisan cheese. Instead, oh, I can't even type it:
That. I did that. To 15 unsuspecting preschoolers. For Hanukkah. If Judaism had hell, I would be going there.
But you know what? It didn't matter. The kids happily listened to their excerpt. They cheerfully ate their crackers. They delightedly savored their "gelt."
And afterward, my child -- the Only Jewish Kid in the Class -- was beaming with pride and delight.
It was enough.
And it was good.
Sunday, December 2, 2012
Draydoh, Draydoh, Draydoh
He'en's preschool Holiday Program is approaching. This one sandbagged me, and I am triple-booked for the day. Fie upon't. With Sister's able assistance, I probably can rearrange things enough to get there. After all, He'en is approaching the age where she just might remember if I attended or not.
I would ask DH to cover, but I'm keeping a low profile about the Holiday Program. I expect it's the usual mishmash of Christmas traditionals, a token rendition of "Dreidel Dreidel" for the two Jewish kids in the school, and then the rest are about what Sister calls, "Reindeer songs, a totally gray area." Maybe they've included something Kwanzaa-ish if they are really ambitious.
To my lapsed-Lutheran ears, this all sounds pretty harmless, but DH could have a differing opinion and I don't want a tussle. We don't have time for a tussle, and we don't have any options anyway. There is no Jewish preschool within an hour's drive, so our religious homeschooling, such as it is, falls on my patently unqualified shoulders. For four years, I've been limping along with the help of Jewfaq.org, and since He'en can recite basic table grace in Hebrew, I think I am doing pretty well. For eleven months of the year, I am doing pretty well.
For the twelfth month, oy vey, enter the Christmas season. It's such a widespread problem that there is a catchy catchphrase for it, and if you Google "December Dilemma" (hereinafter "DD") you can read more than you ever wanted to know. Here's one to get you started. Here's another, this one by a rabbi.
Everyone approaches the DD in a different way, according to the mandates of their hearts, faiths, and families. When DH and I decided to raise the kids exclusively Jewish, my parents were incredibly sporting about the DD. Without a fuss, they converted their Christmas presents to Hanukkah gifts. They even have accepted the absence of the grandkids on that great glittery day. Instead they welcome me, staggering in solo every year for Mom's Week Off, Oh, and Christmas, Too, and sleeping for 12-hour stints blissfully alone in a hotel room - O Holy Nights indeed!).
But no matter what you choose to do with your kids, unless you live in a seriously Jewish community, it's just plain tough to say to a four-year-old, "Those 14 aisles of glitter in Target are for other kids, not you. You get this blue-and-silver endcap with the menorahs printed on the napkins. And we light some candles. But don't feel marginalized!"
He'en, however, seems to be quite competently working through the theological difficulties on her own. This morning, she was singing a little wheedly song into her egg. On closer listening, I realized it was "Dreidel, Dreidel, Dreidel." *Except that He'en is working on the letter L, still, so "Dreidel" rhymes with "Playdoh.")
She is so happy and content, meandering through this simple little song, and then she launches into "Jinguh Beyos." Then she abruptly stops.
"MOM!" (Every "Mom" lately is smartly spat like the "Sah!" on a Marine's first day of boot camp.)
"Eh? What? Yes?"
"You kin cewwebwate [celebrate] Kwistmas and still be Dewish, right?"
"Little one, you certainly can."
"Becoss I am Dewish no matter what, right?"
"Yes, you are. No matter what."
I think she has summed it up nicely.
I would ask DH to cover, but I'm keeping a low profile about the Holiday Program. I expect it's the usual mishmash of Christmas traditionals, a token rendition of "Dreidel Dreidel" for the two Jewish kids in the school, and then the rest are about what Sister calls, "Reindeer songs, a totally gray area." Maybe they've included something Kwanzaa-ish if they are really ambitious.
To my lapsed-Lutheran ears, this all sounds pretty harmless, but DH could have a differing opinion and I don't want a tussle. We don't have time for a tussle, and we don't have any options anyway. There is no Jewish preschool within an hour's drive, so our religious homeschooling, such as it is, falls on my patently unqualified shoulders. For four years, I've been limping along with the help of Jewfaq.org, and since He'en can recite basic table grace in Hebrew, I think I am doing pretty well. For eleven months of the year, I am doing pretty well.
For the twelfth month, oy vey, enter the Christmas season. It's such a widespread problem that there is a catchy catchphrase for it, and if you Google "December Dilemma" (hereinafter "DD") you can read more than you ever wanted to know. Here's one to get you started. Here's another, this one by a rabbi.
Everyone approaches the DD in a different way, according to the mandates of their hearts, faiths, and families. When DH and I decided to raise the kids exclusively Jewish, my parents were incredibly sporting about the DD. Without a fuss, they converted their Christmas presents to Hanukkah gifts. They even have accepted the absence of the grandkids on that great glittery day. Instead they welcome me, staggering in solo every year for Mom's Week Off, Oh, and Christmas, Too, and sleeping for 12-hour stints blissfully alone in a hotel room - O Holy Nights indeed!).
But no matter what you choose to do with your kids, unless you live in a seriously Jewish community, it's just plain tough to say to a four-year-old, "Those 14 aisles of glitter in Target are for other kids, not you. You get this blue-and-silver endcap with the menorahs printed on the napkins. And we light some candles. But don't feel marginalized!"
He'en, however, seems to be quite competently working through the theological difficulties on her own. This morning, she was singing a little wheedly song into her egg. On closer listening, I realized it was "Dreidel, Dreidel, Dreidel." *Except that He'en is working on the letter L, still, so "Dreidel" rhymes with "Playdoh.")
She is so happy and content, meandering through this simple little song, and then she launches into "Jinguh Beyos." Then she abruptly stops.
"MOM!" (Every "Mom" lately is smartly spat like the "Sah!" on a Marine's first day of boot camp.)
"Eh? What? Yes?"
"You kin cewwebwate [celebrate] Kwistmas and still be Dewish, right?"
"Little one, you certainly can."
"Becoss I am Dewish no matter what, right?"
"Yes, you are. No matter what."
I think she has summed it up nicely.
Saturday, October 6, 2012
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.
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.
Sunday, September 23, 2012
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.
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.
Wednesday, August 29, 2012
A Beautiful Reversion
Sister Mine has observed that, when you have kids, you discover
a bunch of latent things that you suddenly want to pass along. For some, it's a newfound concern with healthy foods or family relationships.
For others, it's a near-forgotten coin collection or a near-dormant religion.
With me, apparently, it's playing dress-up.
Long, long before this blog -- which makes it long, long ago indeed -- I was profoundly committed to a closet full of flowing capes, poet shirts, funny hats, full skirts, and scrunchy boots. Of course, that was the 1980s.
Fast-forward through 20 years of very boring suits and heels with matching scarves and bags, and here I am in Mommy-land with the freedom to do, and to wear, whatever I want.
So, with this insane freedom enfolding me, I find myself now profoundly committed to dressing up He'en and dragging her to every Renaissance festival in the tri-state area. Who knew?
He'en loves it, of course. We have much preparatory talk about "Peay Desses" (pretty dresses) and hearing "max" (music). She knows what "road trip" means. And the other month she lisped out - to my heart's delight - "Mommy sooo HAP-py! Mommy go wenfest!"
Yes, Mommy is so unspeakably happy to go to Renfest. We've bought pastries and facepaint. We've ridden elephants. We've tried on endless little princessy hats. She has bumbled around to bagpipes, hopped to hammer dulcimer, and lyrically twirled to lute. I have one great mental picture of her - because I wasn't fast enough with the camera - in her tiny brown-and-red tabard dress, standing in the lanes and staring up from knee-height in delight at six or seven huge barbarians costumed in furs and leathers.
As I watch my little one taking such joy in all this music and motion, I remember who I used to be. It's a chance to remember the good parts without all the angst and squick: the creativity, the colors, the joy of sharing a good day with like-minded people doing something slightly bonkers.
I thought once that I was not ready to stop and be still for a child. Now that I actually have a child, I realize that I haven't stopped at all. Well, I have. But in a good way. It's a stopping of meditation, of examination, of being rather than doing. It's a stopping, and a quiet backward-moving, in a gentle eddy of life's emotional river. It's a fleeting time and an amazing gift.
And maybe there is some divine forgiveness at work here, too, in the form of a grace-full and entirely unexpected chance to wear Peay Desses once again.
[N.B. - This musing, with an original drafting date of February 26, 2011, seemed a perfect sourdough starter for the new blog.]
With me, apparently, it's playing dress-up.
Long, long before this blog -- which makes it long, long ago indeed -- I was profoundly committed to a closet full of flowing capes, poet shirts, funny hats, full skirts, and scrunchy boots. Of course, that was the 1980s.
Fast-forward through 20 years of very boring suits and heels with matching scarves and bags, and here I am in Mommy-land with the freedom to do, and to wear, whatever I want.
So, with this insane freedom enfolding me, I find myself now profoundly committed to dressing up He'en and dragging her to every Renaissance festival in the tri-state area. Who knew?
He'en loves it, of course. We have much preparatory talk about "Peay Desses" (pretty dresses) and hearing "max" (music). She knows what "road trip" means. And the other month she lisped out - to my heart's delight - "Mommy sooo HAP-py! Mommy go wenfest!"
Yes, Mommy is so unspeakably happy to go to Renfest. We've bought pastries and facepaint. We've ridden elephants. We've tried on endless little princessy hats. She has bumbled around to bagpipes, hopped to hammer dulcimer, and lyrically twirled to lute. I have one great mental picture of her - because I wasn't fast enough with the camera - in her tiny brown-and-red tabard dress, standing in the lanes and staring up from knee-height in delight at six or seven huge barbarians costumed in furs and leathers.
As I watch my little one taking such joy in all this music and motion, I remember who I used to be. It's a chance to remember the good parts without all the angst and squick: the creativity, the colors, the joy of sharing a good day with like-minded people doing something slightly bonkers.
I thought once that I was not ready to stop and be still for a child. Now that I actually have a child, I realize that I haven't stopped at all. Well, I have. But in a good way. It's a stopping of meditation, of examination, of being rather than doing. It's a stopping, and a quiet backward-moving, in a gentle eddy of life's emotional river. It's a fleeting time and an amazing gift.
And maybe there is some divine forgiveness at work here, too, in the form of a grace-full and entirely unexpected chance to wear Peay Desses once again.
[N.B. - This musing, with an original drafting date of February 26, 2011, seemed a perfect sourdough starter for the new blog.]
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