Tolerance isn’t enough. Teaching Kindness.

Job and travel plans are happening fast and furiously around here. I will get back to the questions, but I wanted to post about something that happened before I forgot.

The other day, one of M’s very best friends (who happens to be a boy who I will call Brad) told her “I have a crush on Josh”.

I wasn’t there, but Brad’s mom told me that M laughed and said “Get outta here!  You can’t have a crush on a BOY!”

When the story was repeated to me, it gave me pause.

M’s other best friend has two moms (LESBIAN moms, to be clear).   Just last week, I had a talk with M about the responsibility of voting and the importance of trying to change laws that go against our beliefs.  I used the two mom family as an example of families who face legal discrimination because they can’t marry.  We talked about equality and how there are many kinds of families (mom/mom, mom/dad, dad/dad, etc.) who should all have the same legal protections and rights.

M knows girls can like girls or boys can like boys.  It breaks my heart a little bit that she has somehow internalized the fact that it is somehow socially unacceptable to admit it in elementary school.  I know she isn’t learning that crap at our house.  She is picking it up at school or from her friends or maybe even from their parents.

So last night, I asked her about it.  She repeated the same story, but said she “forgot” what she said to Brad.

“I heard you said ‘Boys can’t have crushes on boys!’ Is that true?” I asked.

“Oh.  Well, it is UNUSUAL.” M said.

“It might not be very common, but you know that girls can like girls and boys can like boys.  That is just the way some people are born.  People like who they like.  A boy having a crush on a boy is just like some families that have two moms or two dads.”  I reminded her.

“Oh.” she said, “I never thought about it with kids.”

“You know, if you laugh when someone tells you something important about themselves, it could make them feel bad about who they are. If it happens enough times, a gay boy or a lesbian might start to not like that part of themselves.  They might want to hide it.  It hurts to have to hide the truth about yourself.” I said.

“You know how we talked about people who think it is wrong for boys to like boys or girls to like girls?  Sometimes, those people are really mean.  People can love whoever their heart tells them to love.  We need to make sure we never, ever make them feel bad about it.”

“I didn’t want Brad to feel bad!” M said.

“I know, kiddo.  But lots of other people would want a boy who likes boys to feel bad on purpose. They might tease him or pick on him.  You need to make sure you don’t do something like that, even if it is on accident.”  I said.

“Oh.” M said, looking very concerned.

“The next time a boy tells you he likes a boy, what could you say so he doesn’t feel bad about sharing his feelings?” I asked.

“I could just say ‘Oh, OK.’” M said, “I could just act like it was no big deal.”

“I think that would be a good response.  I also want you to remember that if you ever hear anyone getting teased for who they are, whether it is who they love or for any other reason, I want you to stick up for them.”

“Ok.” M said.

Then she asked me to turn up the radio.

More Confessions

Ok, in the spirit of Mother’s Day, I am going to confess to a bit of parenting crazy.

Before I go on, let me say that M is  a  relatively athletic kid.  She is fit, strong and pretty fast.  Unfortunately, girlfriend is also pretty uncoordinated.  And sometimes one might even say she is spacey and more interested in socializing during her little league soccer games than playing hard.  Mr. A and I agree she is probably not going to be a soccer star, but we like that she is learning to play a team sport and getting to learn to use her body.  We like to think we are generally cool with her soccer mediocrity.

In this same vein, I like to think Mr. A and I are not particularly competitive parents.  ESPECIALLY with respect to sports.  Last week at M’s soccer game, we sat on the sidelines feeling smug while a set of assholes super-critical parents yelled nasty things at their daughter who was not playing up to their very high standards for FIRST GRADE soccer.  Actually, we ended up cheering for their daughter because we were so annoyed.

Fast forward a few days.  I went to M’s soccer practice because Mr. A had to work late.  What did I find during the scrimmage against the kindergarten boys?  M chasing cottonwood fluff around the soccer field instead of paying attention to her goalie job.   When she wasn’t playing goalie, she was not watching the ball.  She was just running around aimlessly in the vicinity of the pack of kids, but not really putting in any effort.  Then there was the last straw:  When the mass of kids ran toward the other end of the field, she SAT DOWN in a heap to wait for the ball to come back her way.  SHE SAT DOWN. DURING A (sort of practice)  GAME!

To my surprise, I was pissed. Really pissed.  How dare she sit down!  We were here so she could PRACTICE and improve her skills!!   I called her over and gave her a lecture about working hard and paying attention.  And as I was saying the lecture well-known to parents of mini-athletes everywhere, I really meant it.

You need to HUSTLE!  You need to PAY ATTENTION!  You need to work hard FOR YOUR TEAMMATES!  If you want to be a better player, you need to PUT IN SOME EFFORT! If you want to lay around, we should just GO HOME!  Blah Blah Blah.

It was the same lecture I heard from my College Athlete father my entire childhood.  It was practically like I could hear his voice coming out of my own mouth.  (And he certainly heard the same if not much worse from HIS College Athlete father who has recently been banned from my niece’s kindergarten soccer games after he kept making a huge scene yelling ‘advice’ to her from the sidelines.)

Because M is only seven years old, not surprisingly, the lecture made her cry.

And AFTER I got over being pissed off about her screwing around*, I felt like a major league asshole.

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I am inserting a pause here so you can all take a moment or two to feel smug about one of the following:

  • Your own personal laissez faire – parenting style which is clearly superior to mine
  • Your child’s athletic prowess and lack of laziness
  • The wise choice of not signing YOUR  kid up for stupid things like first grade soccer in the first place

Feeling good about yourself?  Good, carry on…

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There is more I could say about my underlying fear that M hasn’t found her “thing” yet.  She hasn’t found a hobby or sport that she really excels at and loves.  There is a low-level undercurrent of pressure that I can feel for M to find a “thing” so we can focus on that instead of dabbling in lots of other stuff.

Don’t get me wrong, I know this is ridiculous! I know she is only SEVEN.  I know we don’t need to start filling in her college applications yet and we don’t have aspirations to raise a sports (or music or whatever!) prodigy.   But I can’t stop myself from worrying that she won’t be able to play a varsity sport at her pretty-big high school if she doesn’t start working on some skills NOW.

And yet, on some level I worry about it.

Hello, First World problem!  Hello, too much free time spent thinking about my kid’s future hobbies!  Hello, Stupid suburban over-achiever lifestyles infiltrating my brain!

So there it is.  A parenting confession for Mother’s Day…

I will even confess I would worry even more if I didn’t have a secret plan to make M a rock-star Taiwanese Diabolo-er before it is time for her to apply for college.

Heh heh heh.  Only joking…sort of.

* My only shabby defense is the fact that  I had been running the kids around all day, hadn’t eaten lunch and STILL hadn’t eaten dinner at 7:00 pm.  Low blood sugar is not my friend.

Love isn’t enough.

It has been almost three years since we met L.  From day one, I have felt a nagging worry that I am not doing the right things or doing enough for her.

I never felt that way about M, or if I did, those worries have been fleeting.  M and I shared one body; our hearts beat together before she was even born.  I see myself reflected in M: her behavior; the way she thinks; why she makes the choices she makes; and her mannerisms.  With M, there is familiarity and recognition.  There is nothing about her I do not understand.  She can’t keep herself secret from me.  Because I know her, I know what she needs and when she needs it.

L is a puzzle.  When we adopted L she was a stranger to me and she didn’t want to give up her secrets.  She is a tough little nugget on the outside protecting a wounded, broken heart.   She is a mystery wrapped in a mystery hidden under a shell of false bravado. I have spent three years  loving this girl, but I am still learning who she is and what she needs.

I am afraid someone will read this and misunderstand what I am saying.  It isn’t that there is a difference in the intensity of love I feel for my children whether they are adopted or born to me.  I love them both with a love I never thought was possible. Overwhelming and all-encompassing love that could break my heart.

The difference is in the knowing.  I have to learn L.  I have to study her and unwrap her secrets one at a time.  I have to tweeze apart the layers of false confidence and see the tiniest flicker of her eyes to tell me she needs me.  I have to see past the brave front.  I have to show her it is OK to be scared and she can trust me to keep her safe.

This week, we began L’s occupational therapy evaluation and it broke my heart.  My brave girl marched through the testing with barely a peep of protest.  It was only when we asked her to do something that was causing pretty serious discomfort (we think) that she showed the slightest hesitation.  “Can I be done?” she asked in the tiniest voice, with a flash of panic in her eyes.

My sweet baby girl.  Things are harder for her than they should be.  Seeing is harder.  Loving is harder.  Just the simple act of being is harder.  The effects of L’s rocky beginning are written on her body, her brain and her heart.

I have known all along, she was wounded, but we are still trying to figure out how extensive the damage will be.  As her mother, I feel like I should already know but I don’t.

I love her so much, I  should know what she needs.  I should have known she was struggling.  I should have trusted that nagging feeling that was telling me I wasn’t doing enough.

I don’t know if I will ever be able to do enough.

One is the _____est* number

Tomorrow, something very exciting is going to happen: I am going to be alone for EIGHT full hours.

Even better than that, I am using those eight blissful hours of solitude to drive to North Carolina to visit a friend.  And get this, NO KIDS are coming with me!  I will be without my children for FOUR DAYS.

I can’t even begin to tell you how excited I am.  Since we adopted L, I have NOT slept away from home without her.   Sure, sure, she has spent some nights at my parents’ house in the past year, but *I* haven’t been away from home without her at ALL.  And now I get three whole nights and four whole days!

We are going to watch dvds, go to the beach and generally relive our days as childfree party girls.

(Ok, to be honest, that is a bit of an exaggeration.  Technically, we will only be childfree until my friend’s son comes home from his dad’s at 7:30 each night.  And we won’t really be partying per se, but we will eat ice cream and watch some movies!  Without my kids!)

Seriously, I can’t wait to get on the road.  I expect to come home having reclaimed a small but significant chunk of my brain.   You know, that part  that is constantly being eaten by the children.

*The title of this post should probably be One is the Exciting-est Number!

Greedy

L spent today my mom’s house.  She has been going over there for an evening every other weekend and she enjoys spending time there.  Usually, those visits are initiated by my parents.  Mr. A and I use them as date nights.  (Or sometimes we just hang around the house and watch TV.  Yes, we are party animals.)

Today was the first time in a really long time that I had a stretch of time where I was completely alone in the house.  For three whole hours, I controlled my own agenda and didn’t have to listen for a little voice calling me away from my project.

What did I do with those glorious three hours?  I ironed and did laundry.  It took forever, but I washed all our bedding (including blankets and comforters) and spent a big chunk of time ironing all the bedskirts and the dumb linen shower curtains.

How crazy is it that I find IRONING in solitude to be a huge treat?

If I were going to be all introspective, I would write more about how we have finally reached a place where L is really beginning to se ek interactions and connections outside our immediate family.  That means that the work of parenting may soon be less intense and exhausting.

I feel like I am within spitting distance of being able to carve out a small chunk of my life that does not revolve around parenting.  Obviously, parenting is going to take up most of my time and energy for the forseable future, but I would love to have a little more space to breathe and think and BE.  Some time where I can just be myself without the added responsibility of being MAMA.

One tiny taste of freedom and I am greedy for more.