Lucky Number Seven

This weekend we'll be celebrating Miss Awesome's seventh birthday. She's super excited. I'm a little conflicted. As we were running errands yesterday she was wearing "high heels" (about an inch) and a dress that's starting to get too short. I turned around and nearly fell over with astonishment at the preview of a gorgeous, leggy, teenager stalking along. Then she came up and held my hand and for a little while she was my baby again.

Miss Awesome is not an easy child, nor has she ever been. In her first couple of months she never wanted to be put down, and it was only thanks to a wonderful cadre of women -- Aunt Peg, Grammy Vi, and Mimi in particular -- who took turns toting her around Vermont that I was able to function those first three months. As a toddler she fought tooth and nail when we stopped carrying her. She spent hours sitting on floors, wailing because she wanted me to pick her up, and I just had to wait her out. We were tortured by defiant screaming whenever she was buckled into her car seat. I had to take away her dresses for a year when she refused to wear underwear. More recently I took away all her toys when she wouldn't clean her room.

Will gets extraordinarily upset by her defiance, and we both struggle to redirect her energy from anger to something more positive. Nonetheless I am astonished by and grateful for her spunk. True, Miss Awesome regularly renders me speechless with frustration, but still I look at her and see someone absolutely amazing. She has a truly indomitable spirit, and I can only imagine what she will do with it. Too often I see girls who are meek and quiet and nice. Miss Awesome is not, and hopefully never will be, nice. She is proud and strong and confident and intense and powerful. She is beautiful and determined and strong-willed and creative.

She is a gift.

This weekend we celebrate the anniversary of her birth, but in my heart I will be celebrating my good fortune in being her mother.

I Walk The Line

My stomach clenched as I bought a doll this past weekend. Julie, an American Girl doll, to be precise. Miss Awesome has been asking for an AG doll for more than a year now. The longing started when she was given a pair of hand-me-down AG-type dolls by a friend who had "upgraded" to the real thing. She immediately began planning for "when I get my real American Girl doll". I explained how expensive they were, and how I didn't see the need, especially since she had two dolls almost exactly like an AG. But that didn't end it. We (Grammy) tried at Christmas to appease her with another 18 inch doll by Madame Alexander, but apparently girls of a certain age know and note the difference.

Miss Awesome has been unwavering in her goal. She recently determined to use her savings to buy the doll herself, which my husband and I both admire. But with her birthday coming up and better uses for her savings later in life, we decided to buy it for her. I'm looking forward to seeing her face when she opens the package. Still, paying more than $100 for a doll seems like a classic example of conspicuous consumption, and I worry about what I'm teaching my child.

Will would disagree, but I consider us wealthy. True, we are careful with our money; I drive a 10 year old car we bought used, we are waiting to redo our back yard until we have enough in savings, and big purchases are carefully considered and budgeted. But we also are able to take every other summer in Vermont, and take the kids to Disneyworld on vacation. They get fairly elaborate birthday parties, and have all the modern conveniences. We certainly have far more than my family did when I was young.

When I was little we had everything we needed, but I didn't always have what I wanted. I don't regret my childhood; I learned a great work ethic and the value of the money I earned. But I also have memories of longing for what others had. In high school I couldn't afford the Express and Benetton clothing of my peers, except when I could find their cast offs in the thrift store. I bought my own car, but parking my turquoise Volvo -- older than I was -- next to the new Audis, Saabs, and Porsches in the school lot was an act of courage the first day. In middle school I wanted a new-fangled mountain bike. Most vividly, I remember how, much earlier, I too desired a doll.

In 1983 the only thing little girls could talk about were Cabbage Patch dolls. They were cute and soft and each one had its own story. I begged for one for Christmas. It was the only thing I asked for. To me it was a magic key of acceptance and friendship as well as a new toy to love. When the day came I could hardly wait to open my present. But instead of a Cabbage Patch baby of my own, I got Mandy. She was a lovely doll with clothes I could remove and a straw hat and glossy yellow hair. But she wasn't THE ONE. I played with her for years, but our games were always tinged with disappointment, as if they could have been better if only I had the right companion.

My children have everything they need, and a fair amount of what they want. I hope I'm making the line between the two clear. I try to create limits and teach them to appreciate what they have. I tell them "no" as much as I deem fair. They are required to do chores, and sometimes can earn money by doing odd jobs around the house. Both must use their own money to buy non-essentials. Miss Awesome makes many of her doll accessories from scrap fabric and tape. Still, I don't know how much of my parenting is an effort to give my kids the things I grieved for when I was little. Perhaps that's why I plunked down so much money on a silly doll.

An Instructional From Violet

No matter how heavy things get around here, I can always count on my kids for a laugh.

Last night we got home late from a basketball game and Violet crashed almost immediately. I came upstairs to find my girl, still clad in a sweet pink plaid dress, sound asleep in my bed with the following "How To" on the floor below.

Translation:

How to make a Burp

First make a deep breath and then

drink a glass of water

and then make it into

a burp

That's my girl!

Teaching Feminism at McDonald's

Let me start by saying yes, I do take my children to McDonald's. I have reasons both for and against doing so, and have made an informed decision that we can occasionally go to the nearby "Old McDonald's" for a treat. In a similar vein, my kindergarten-aged daughter wears a LOT of pink sparkly things, has make-up and high heels, and frequently talks about being a princess. Again, I've made my choices, and stand by them, even if I sometimes wince at the results.

That doesn't mean I've compromised my values.

A couple weeks ago, I took my sparklicious daughter and her more sedate brother to McDonald's for lunch and a romp in the play structure there. While they climbed and played I ordered a couple of Happy Meals and something for myself. Now, McDonald's, for whatever asinine reason, not only categorizes their toys by age (toddlers get "safer" bits of cheap plastic); they also gender-identify them so that when ordering one has to request a boy Happy Meal or a girl Happy Meal, or else the cashier freezes in a quandary of what toy to put in the sack. And, of course, the toys for girls are soft and sweet and pink (Strawberry Shortcake, My Little Pony, random stuffed animals) while boys get action toys (Transformers, skateboards, Bakugan).

I resent that.

However, I also get physically ill when facing the bickering that ensues when two kids have the same toy and one disappears, so I took the easy route and ordered one boy toy (ooh, that sounds kinky!) and one girl toy (that does too!) and called the kids down to eat.

After wolfing down their apples and some nuggets, the kids clamored for their toys. Violet got a pink fuzzy thing that may or may not have been a hamster (by making it amorphous the toy company could claim it was any one of four sweet animals -- I think. The explanations were in translated Chinese.) Sam got a Bakugan. For those unfamiliar with the ongoing trend of inexplicable (by which I mean, I don't understand it so I can't explain it) toys/games from Japan, Bakugan is/are a series of robot balls, each of which has a "power" and which seem to be a bastard cousin of Transformers, in that they open up into robots with faces. Some can even combine into greater robots. There are accompanying cards that list the robots' strength, skill, and attack points, all of which reminds me mightily of Dungeons and Dragons in which one's character had strength, skill, and attack points, and I wonder why that was unbearably geeky, but this is cool? But I digress.

Sam was delighted with his Bakugan, immediately disappearing into the tubes and germs that are a PlayPlace. Violet, on the other hand, looked plaintively up at me and asked, "Why did I get _this_ while Sam got a Bakugan?"

So, I took a deep breath and gave Violet a 5 year old's summary of gender discrimination, (yes, I did use those words) and boiled it down to: because she's a girl people think she wouldn't want to play with cool robots. And my fabulous little girl, who is so fierce and strong, understood, and immediately said, "Well, I want a Bakugan." And she took her stupid stuffed blob up to the counter and asked if she could please have a different toy.

The very nice cashier handed her a different sweet fuzzy blob.

She looked at me, then back at the cashier, and said quite clearly, "No, I want a Bakugan."

He didn't get it at first. He stood there, looking at me, then at the pink, sparkly, tiara-bedecked princess in front of him, and at the "girl" toy in his hand. And then the cashier took the second blob back, and handed Violet TWO Bakugan. Because she wanted to play with cool robots, and he was going to make that happen.

We've had a couple more conversations since then about girl toys and boy toys, and gender in general. Our kids are pretty good about it. Sam likes to wear nail polish, and has learned to ignore friends and classmates who make negative comments about it. Violet is still of an age where she's trying to use physical cues to help her distinguish boys from girls, but clothing and hair length are no longer the first things she sees. Most important (to me), is that both of them understand that they can be or do whatever they want, and we'll love them unconditionally.

And that, whenever we go to McDonald's, they can have whatever toy they want.

Holiday greetings

Dear Family
Happy holidays
I love you XOXOXOXO
Violet

Contemporary Art a la Five Year Old

Actual transcript of a conversation with V as she was getting into the bathtub tonight:

Mom: "Why do you have green marker all over your bottom?"

V: (grinning) "I was making a peanut!"

M: "A peanut?"

V: "Yeah! A peanut with my BUTT!"

M: "A peanut with your butt?!?"

V: "Yeah!"

At which point girl-child sat down on the bathroom floor and mimed tracing her naked cheeks with a green marker.

V: "I sat on a piece of paper and made a peanut. Then I cut it out!"

She then raced (naked) out of the bathroom and returned, triumphantly, with her peanut.

I think I should apply for an arts grant for her, don't you?

the peanut in question

Picasso-esque

My little girl drew this portrait of me when I was four, and I thought you'd like to see how much I've changed since then.

Not so little girl

Yesterday we celebrated Violet's 4th birthday. Holy Cow! We had a Tinkerbell cupcake-cake, she got several princess-themed presents, and she proudly told Mimi and grandpa all about her new baby doll. I suppose she's meeting all the right milestones, but lately I look at and listen to her and I feel like I'm at the wrong end of a telescope. It's like she's a fully formed person, and I'm seeing a distant echo of her. I barely recognize her - she's taller and more delicate than ever before, and she uses words like preposterous and actually and definitely, even though she still can't even say them correctly. She's also working on her ability to bat her eyes and manipulate people (doesn't work on me so much) and how to drive her brother crazy with just a glance. She is everything I want to see in a young woman, but I can't quite handle it now. I am a very lucky person to have my Violet in my life. Many happy returns, little one!

Wake-up call

My little girl wandered into our room at 4:30 this morning to use the bathroom.  All  went well until she discovered the toilet paper was not in its usual place (the holder broke and Dad has yet to fix it).  So at about 4:35, she started crying at me, "Momma, I can't find the toilet PAP-ER!"

Alarmed out of a confusing dream into an even stranger reality, I attempted to address the situation without actually rising.  From underneath my pillow I first suggested she look on the windowsill.  That was, loudly, declared an unacceptable response.

I suggested she check the floor.  That, even more loudly, also was not acceptable.

Still clinging to the absurd notion of bedrest at 4:40 in the morning, I, also rather loudly, suggested she use tissues from the two boxes on the back of the toilet.

Will made some noise about Violet needing to quiet down.

Violet responded to us both by going into full-on, fire-truck quality, emergency wailing.

I did not handle the emergency well.

I dramatically threw the covers back, stormed into the bathroom, flipped on the light (I would have done so with flair, if light switches were only less pedestrian), grabbed the toilet paper from it's perch next to the tissues, and forced it into her hands with a less-than-polite comment.  Then I flounced back to bed (turning the boring old lights off on the way) and buried myself under the covers.  Violet silently wiped and pulled her jammies back on, then lay on the floor on my side of the bed and quietly cried the kind of intermittent, hurt tears she will someday shed by herself in a locked bathroom.

I asked Will to (gently) put her back in her bed.  Then I proceeded to dramatically, angrily, not sleep for another fifteen minutes.  Finally I got up, checked on Sam, and crawled into bed with V, who cheerfully turned and gave me a big hug before (triumphantly?) turning over and going back to sleep.

As a result of this early-morning tableau I am tired and cranky, and fairly certain that Violet won. Not just because of that hug in the dark, but because, when I finally dragged myself out of bed this morning and went to the bathroom, I couldn't find the toilet paper.

Autodidact

Violet desperately wants to do everything her big brother does, and he currently is focused (rather, is being reluctantly forced by us and his teacher to focus) on reading and writing.  She's watched and listened, and the other day presented me with a picture on which she wrote her name and Sam's (his is backwards).  I get no credit, but I sure do take pride in my little self-taught child.

Mini-mirror

I never imagined what spending my days with a three year old would be like, let alone one who is dangerously observant.  I love Violet's company, but every once in a while she does something I hate: she behaves like me.  Sam did this too -- "Mommy, if you don't do this, then you will be in time out!" but from him it was cute and obvious. Violet is more subtle. I recently have been hugely frustrated with the molasses-in-January-like response to morning promptings to get up, dressed, fed, and out the door. My (unfortunate) response has been to get much louder (and, dare I say it? meaner) about the whole thing. Lo-and-behold! Violet has recently been expressing her anger by yelling.  Her childish temper tantrums have evolved into more grown-up temper tantrums. Her play also mirrors my behavior. She has found a compact mirror and uses it as a telephone while she "works" around the house on her (toy) computer or, even worse, she feels the need to clean the floors and has even put off going somewhere or doing something with me because she needs to finish cleaning.  What am I teaching this child?

Complicating matters is my desire that both children see past the very 1950s life we have right now (Dad working, Mom cooking, cleaning, and caring for the family) to understand that all household jobs can be done by everyone in the family regardless of gender. I save basic repairs (tightening loose screws on chairs, minor plumbing, fixing broken toys) for myself to do in front of the kids, and I believe everyone in our family needs to learn the basics of "homemaking". Sam is well on his way with cooking; he makes our scrambled eggs many mornings, both kids are great help with baking projects, and both have chores. Will obliges when I insist that he clear his own plate and occasionally vacuum, do dishes, and help fold laundry.  Yet I won't let Violet help clean the toilets.  So far I have put her off with explanations of the danger of the chemicals I am using, but really it's the fact that I don't want her to grow up feeling that it's a GIRLS job.

Sometimes I wonder if I'm doing the kids a disservice by staying home with them.  They do get healthy meals and have incredible opportunities (especially summers in Vermont and whole weeks at my family cabin) and I get to spend a great deal of time with them.  But they don't always appreciate what, and who, they do have.  Perhaps I would make better use of my time with them if I had less of it, instead of wandering the internet aimlessly while they make mud pies in the back yard.  Plus, I could afford a maid . . .  

There's no real way to know if we're on the right path. In the meantime, I do occasionally get a good laugh out of my mini-mirror. This morning as we got dressed, Violet came into my bathroom with a light-blue oval block.  She raised her left arm, and sliding the block up and down her armpit, earnestly told me that it was, "What do you call it, Mommy? Deodorant for tree-years old".  She doesn't miss a thing.  Except the other armpit.

How My World Has Contracted

I just spent 45 minutes going around the block.  Granted, we went three times 'round, but still, it took 45 minutes.  V was on her tricycle singing a variety of songs, most of which went something like "bumpy bumpy bumpy bumpy -- Mom!  Did you like that song? -- Bumpy bumpy bumpy . . ."  I took the dog, who was nearly frantic with impatience at going the speed of a three-year-old.  Ironic, considering she, too, likes to stop for no apparent reason and for random intervals of time, and with no concern for who might bump into her.  Fortunately for us all it is a perfect spring day, with just a few clouds in the sky, lovely sun, and random strangers to cheerfully greet along the way.  Nonetheless, I couldn't quite settle into a walking-with-a-kid groove.  I kept thinking how far my world has contracted.  I rarely go more than 20 blocks from home; a trip to the grocery store alone is an adventure; strangers' blogs have become my window on the world.  It's a far cry from backpacking through Europe alone, using my last Deutsche Marks to buy a cup of tea, an orange, and the International Herald Tribune in a dreary train station in East Berlin and casually avoiding the random stranger who wanted me to come home, cook and bear children for him (I think -- it was all done in drunken early-morning sign language).  My walk today made me nostalgic for who I was then.  But then V turned around, smiled, and told me that she sang that song just for me.  And my world, small as it is, was enough.

Solitude

V came into my room at five this morning. She's been doing that -- demanding bed space at first light; trying to play games while my eyes are still crusted shut. At first I was resentful, but after she fell back to sleep I realized she'd given me a gift. Solitude.

I don't often get time to myself. Granted, the younglings play by themselves a fair bit, but their games sparkle with brilliant ideas that need monitoring by less inventive folks. Otherwise we'd have a yard pocked by randomly spaced, ankle-twisting holes filled with stew (made of water, grass, mud, leaves, bugs, ashes, soap, and other things I dare not contemplate); leprechaun traps (bricks, rocks, pointy sticks and nails); and interspersed with found and then forgotten "treasures" such as broken tail lights, bits of jump rope, bottle caps tied on strings, and many, many small rocks. My children have deep white trash roots I can only attribute to my husband. It's all his fault. Really.

But this morning my inventors are asleep, and I have solitude. As I lay in bed contemplating my own wakefulness, I began listing all the things I could do while they slept: grocery store, respond to email, empty the dishwasher, make more lists. Then I got up, made myself a cup of tea, and sat on the porch to watch the sunrise reflected on the trees. First, the ends of certain branches shone orange and pink, then a shaft of light hit a blooming rose in the neighbor's yard, turning it from pink to burning magenta. It rained last night, and the air is cold on my toes. I savor these early morning goosebumps against the prediction of several ninety degree days in a row. My green tea is grassy and fresh on my tongue, and the robins are serenading me, in hopes that I will sprinkle the lawn and draw worms to the surface for them.

I breathe, and put off obligations for a few more minutes. Solitude is a gift. I will cherish it.