Vygotsky. If you have been around education for any length of time, it is one of the names that gets kicked around in conversations about the philosophy and pedagogy of education. Usually filed under "names I can say that show I know something about the foundational origins of education" along with Piaget, Erickson, Pavlov, Skinner, Freud, Dewey, Montessori, Waldorf, Bruner...and many, many more. Prior to my decision to devote my academic life to him, I knew the same cursory information. A few of his main concepts. Enough lingo to get me by sounding like I knew of what I spoke.
So, at the request of E, I am going to give you a quick and dirty thumbnail of Lev Vygotsky. Maybe I can even communicate why I think he is/was so brilliant and my part in moving his theories forward. But no promises there.
Facts:
So who was this guy? A Russian Jew, born at the turn of the last century. Not the most progressive place to be born a Jew, let alone a smart Jew who wanted to further his education. He was lucky. He worked hard. He was chosen for one of the token spaces in University for a Russian Jew, but denied his first field of study because of his religion. And he was around during the Russian Revolution, which clearly influenced some of his writings...but mostly, he was incredibly smart. And forward thinking. And observant. Died in 1934 of tuberuloisis. He was 38.
Most of his writings were locked up - first banned by Stalin, then shielded by the Iron Curtain from the rest of the world. It wasn't until his texts started to wander out of Russia - rough translations in the early 60's and better ones in the mid 80's - that the rest of the world started to realize what had been sitting in front of them.
Now, you have to remember when Lev was writing and thinking, the world was coming to grips with some of the first theories of why we do what we do - Freud was at his heyday, Jung was right behind him. Piaget was studying mollusks and psychoanalysis and Pavlov was figuring out that dogs can be conditioned to salivate.
Much of what was being discussed and written concerned the Individual. The effects on One. Person as Island. We humans like to believe that we are each uniquely special - that we can control our own destinies and desire to learn. It still resonates in the "pull yourself up by your bootstraps" ideology that any person can achieve anything at any time - if he or she WANTS it enough. It emerges from the "Tabla Rasa" idea of a child - a blank slate upon which anything can be written, from this Watson quote: "Give me a dozen healthy infants, well-formed, and my own specified world to bring them up in and I'll guarantee to take any one at random and train him to become any type of specialist... doctor, lawyer, artist, merchant-chief and, yes even beggar-man and thief, regardless of his talents, abilities, vocations, and race of his ancestors. I am going beyond my facts and I admit it, but so have the advocates of the contrary and they have been doing it for many thousands of years" (Watson, Behaviorism, 1924, p. 82; 1930, p. 104).
But not Lev. He started to formulate theories on how Humans cognitively work in groups - How we use symbols (including language) to share information with one another. How those symbols are then taken and expanded or changed by other groups of other humans. How intelligence can not be defined by giving the correct answers on any given standardized test...but must be defined by how that individual navigates in his/her culture of origin with the symbols that are valued by that social structure. Further beyond this, Vygotsky suspected that we could never truly gauge the IQ of a person as a static fixable number (Like Binet and Piaget) , but that we should rather look at the individual in a continuum of learning, assuming that we all go through stages of apprenticeship and expertise. He called these fluid stages the zones of proximal development.
Vygotsky then went on to say that he suspected that we learned better Together. He posited that humans learn better when we have access to other humans - that we model for one another. He first looked at Mother/Child pairs. He noticed that these mother and child pairs seemed to work in a unique manner. He called it scaffolding. In essence, the expert (mother) provides a variety of tactics and techniques for the apprentice (child) to learn any given task ( language, feeding oneself) and that the scaffold/support is expanded, deconstructed and reconstucted in fluid movement with the growth of apprentice (Child). Vygtosky only had time to really look at this in a uni-directional way - Adult to child. I also think it moves from child to child as a matter of course.
Because Lev was thinking and writing at the same time as Jean Piaget, one would have to know that they observed something similar about children at work/play. They both noticed that they talk to themselves. However, they came to very different reasons as to what the purpose of this "self-talk" was in the cognitive development of children.
Piaget saw it as a sign of the immature thinker. The child had not yet developed the skills to think internally ( without speaking) and so talked out loud to problem solve. Piaget decided that this tendancy disappeared when the brain and problem solving had matured. Piaget liked nice linear things.
Vygotsky noticed the same "self-talk" but viewed it very differently. He viewed it as the accelerant for cognitive development. It was not an immature mind at all. It was evidence of the child acquiring the tools of the culture (as well as self regulation) and allowed the observer a window into the mind of the child - before the child internalized that information and no longer spoke it out loud.
My favorite Vygotsky quote is "From the Social, comes the individual". In this, he sums up something fundamental about how I believe humans learn. We are first and foremost products of a specific social group ( usually our family of origin). We then go forth and use the tools that we have learned and apply them successfully ( or unsuccessfully) to other social groups - usually child care or school situations for most western children. Children - as apprentice thinkers in our culture - have to form and reform LOTS of information to be able to function in each of these groups.
For instance, if you have a Preschool classroom of 14 children and 2 teachers -that individual child must (mediate) learn bits and pieces of 15 OTHER already formed cultural worlds. Those 16 people have to then teach or share enough of those worlds between each other to be able to agree on a Symbol system that will work in THAT space for THOSE individuals. Every time a child - or worse a Teacher - enters or exits that whole balance is disrupted and the process begins again.
My interest lies in the social use of the private speech - the self talk of children. I do not think it is purely cognitive in nature. It has a social function. I think of it as potentially the "glue" that binds the classroom together. I think that children - as apprentice thinkers - are broadcasting information for their peers by way of this speech. I also suspect that children hear and retain this information from their peers and then use it as a way to mediate information - to rebuild their social and cognitive construct in the classroom through each other. I further suspect that when children are given LOTS of time to get to know each other ( vis a vis talking - long play sessions ( minimum of an hour as it takes kids at least 20 minutes to get a play scenerio planned in order to then go forwards with it) - staying with a stable group of classmates over 2 to 3 years, etc) that we may see less hostile activity (ie bullying) and much better overall learning because they have done the work of constucting a set of social rules and knowledge together.
If I cast my mind outwards and start to think about classrooms in which the social life - and by this I mean the cooperation and coordination of any given class towards a common goal through the shared/mediated knowledge of each others knowledge and cognition - leads the learning?
What would teaching look like? What would those children be like who came out of those schools?
Meander
Monday, March 23, 2009
I need to laugh more.
This revelation follows no particular epiphany. But rather as I was just sitting here, flossing my teeth at 2 p.m. on a Monday afternoon.
If it is not a practice you enjoy, the flossing of ones teeth can become a deeply contemplative experience. I mean, you really have to PAY ATTENTION to what you are doing when you floss, otherwise all that effort is moot. And lets be honest, if you are going to take the time to actually buy at the store ( and not use that one mini sample you got at your last cleaning when you lied about flossing daily), get out and use the floss - you might was well do it right.
The flossing session followed my inexplicable desire to sharpen all the pencils in the house. Grabbing my x-acto pencil sharpener, I gathered all the pencils I could find and sat on the bed - sharpening one after the other. I fished out all the stubby broken pencils and gave them new leases on life with fresh new points. I sorted all of Emilys colored pencils back into their holder - the newly refreshed tips all pointing in the same direction. Terrance came home to me, covered with colored pencil shavings dust, sorting out crayons from markers from twistables from fine line markers from craypas.
I do this occasionally. This overwhelming urge to put things Right in the house, with particular focus on Em. It is a strange cross of maternal instinct and teacher training. If she has all the materials, and they are in their place and ready for use... well then, it proves I am a good Mom. A Capable Mom. A Mom who provides sharpened colored pencils at a moments notice.
I am trying to notice when these internal nesting urges spring forth - they may have to do with my going inside myself to produce something else. There are conferences coming, and I have finally been coaxed to go forth and present myself to others as a Researcher. This is an oddly important step for me, the perpetual know-it-all. Placing myself out in front of the other professionals in my field and asking for acceptance and acknowledgement is difficult, as part of my internal identity as been as an "outsider". My fears of never knowing enough to be an "expert" in my field also roll into play here. My supervisor jokes with me that I probably know as much about Vygotsky as anyone in the world, and yet I get choked up when I have to articulate his theories. Me, the unstoppable talker - completely unable to speak.
And my grandmother. And My mother, and my Aunt and Me and Emily. This line of women have occupied a sizable space in my brain as I puzzle out my grandmothers death, and my place along this continuum of females. The bullet train of Emily's puberty is aiming straight at me as I struggle to remain a granddaughter. The baby. The pumpkin, the best beloved. My grandmothers death makes me feel Old - moreso than the deaths of my fathers parents. My ability to mentally distance myself from that side of the family had also extended to the whole of the Ohio Valley. If I didn't return, then I never changed. A Lost Boy of one.
I finish flossing and throw the floss away. I drink from the coffee I got this morning, but which I never finish until the afternoon. I lay down in the afternoon sunshine, my rabbit standing guard next to my bed. I pull my quilt up close around my face and smile in the sunshine as I build up my energy for Emily's homecoming.
This revelation follows no particular epiphany. But rather as I was just sitting here, flossing my teeth at 2 p.m. on a Monday afternoon.
If it is not a practice you enjoy, the flossing of ones teeth can become a deeply contemplative experience. I mean, you really have to PAY ATTENTION to what you are doing when you floss, otherwise all that effort is moot. And lets be honest, if you are going to take the time to actually buy at the store ( and not use that one mini sample you got at your last cleaning when you lied about flossing daily), get out and use the floss - you might was well do it right.
The flossing session followed my inexplicable desire to sharpen all the pencils in the house. Grabbing my x-acto pencil sharpener, I gathered all the pencils I could find and sat on the bed - sharpening one after the other. I fished out all the stubby broken pencils and gave them new leases on life with fresh new points. I sorted all of Emilys colored pencils back into their holder - the newly refreshed tips all pointing in the same direction. Terrance came home to me, covered with colored pencil shavings dust, sorting out crayons from markers from twistables from fine line markers from craypas.
I do this occasionally. This overwhelming urge to put things Right in the house, with particular focus on Em. It is a strange cross of maternal instinct and teacher training. If she has all the materials, and they are in their place and ready for use... well then, it proves I am a good Mom. A Capable Mom. A Mom who provides sharpened colored pencils at a moments notice.
I am trying to notice when these internal nesting urges spring forth - they may have to do with my going inside myself to produce something else. There are conferences coming, and I have finally been coaxed to go forth and present myself to others as a Researcher. This is an oddly important step for me, the perpetual know-it-all. Placing myself out in front of the other professionals in my field and asking for acceptance and acknowledgement is difficult, as part of my internal identity as been as an "outsider". My fears of never knowing enough to be an "expert" in my field also roll into play here. My supervisor jokes with me that I probably know as much about Vygotsky as anyone in the world, and yet I get choked up when I have to articulate his theories. Me, the unstoppable talker - completely unable to speak.
And my grandmother. And My mother, and my Aunt and Me and Emily. This line of women have occupied a sizable space in my brain as I puzzle out my grandmothers death, and my place along this continuum of females. The bullet train of Emily's puberty is aiming straight at me as I struggle to remain a granddaughter. The baby. The pumpkin, the best beloved. My grandmothers death makes me feel Old - moreso than the deaths of my fathers parents. My ability to mentally distance myself from that side of the family had also extended to the whole of the Ohio Valley. If I didn't return, then I never changed. A Lost Boy of one.
I finish flossing and throw the floss away. I drink from the coffee I got this morning, but which I never finish until the afternoon. I lay down in the afternoon sunshine, my rabbit standing guard next to my bed. I pull my quilt up close around my face and smile in the sunshine as I build up my energy for Emily's homecoming.
Reviews of things You didn't ask for
Tuesday, March 17, 2009
I don't generally talk about the stuff I'm reading. This is for several reasons. I don't think that you would be super interested in Such titles as "Apprenticeship in Thinking" and "Perspectives on Socially Shared Cognition". Nor do I suspect that you are all aching for conversations on "Situating Constructivism" or "Describing the Bricolage: Conceptualizing a New Rigor in Qualitative Research".
Well - actually, maybe you are. If that is the case, feel free to email me and I would happily drag you into the bizarre academic world that one portion of my brain now habitually inhabits. Seriously. I can now talk your face off regarding the concept of the "bricoleur" and it's place in both teacher education AND qualitative research AND how I am planning to weave this into a paper I will be writing for my first major research conference paper presentation as first author.
Nope. Not dragging you into that room. In fact, lets lock that door for the moment and put the key in this drawer.
About a month or two ago, I realized that my pleasure reading - my pleasure watching had dwindled down to nothing. This, by historical measures, does not bode well. My mind must engage on a variety of levels and when it strips away anything that I feel as "pleasurable" to only "work" or "distraction from work" there are bad things on the horizon. Possible relapses into places of coal darkness and thick mud sludge.
This time, I caught myself before submerging too deep. I made lists. This is my first line defense to feeling overwhelmed - making lists of things that I should do. Things that I feel like I need to get done to feel like I am accomplishing something. Things that I know would make me happy. Reading and Watching Movies/Shows are some of those things.
So first up: The books and graphic novels/comics:
1. Let the Right One In by John Ajvide Linddqvist (book)
To tell you that this book has stayed with me in a viscerally way would be underestimating the power of this text. I had seen the movie first, and the movie - while able to stand alone as a piece of art - seemed to be missing something in my eyes. There was more to this story, I knew. Much, much more. I found it all in the book. It is beautiful in the most painful way possible. The author was able, in my estimation, to craft a story about the utter isolation and exploitation that occurs as we walk the line between child and adult. Plus, it is a vampire story. Which kicks it up a notch in my eyes.
2. Post apocalyptic Graphic Novels : The Walking Dead , Fell, Desolation Jones , The Watchmen, Area 51, Wasteland , Y: The Last Man , American Virgin , 30 Days of Night ( and it's successors) and just starting Preacher.
Most of my non-school reading time has been consumed with the graphic novel/comic genre. I like well crafted stories, with mythological and sociological contexts. I like smart shit. The Walking Dead is by far one of the most gripping series I have had the pleasure to actually FOLLOW. All right - yeah. Its a zombie apocalypse story. But so much more. It takes elements of the evolution of the zombie story genre ( Nods to Romero, I am Legend, and 28 weeks later) and makes a story of who we are, how we must evolve and survive in the midst of the failure of trusted institutions. Wasteland is another that I have deeply enjoyed and is evolving.
The others are series which completed before I discovered them, or ones which fade in and out of existence given the author/artist ability to find time for them ( I am talking to YOU Fell and Desolation Jones)
3. The True Blood Books.
Cheesy, yep. Kind of smutty sex books with vampires and werewolves? Yep. But a smart commentary on social, gendered, sexual orientation and class divisions. Actually, Yes. And Super easy to read.
Movies/TV:
First, a disclaimer. Dawn is a wicked movie snob. She goes for "foreign" films. She LIKES subtitles. The more subtitles, the better, in fact. This has driven Terrance to no longer view films with her, as she has tricked him into 3 hour Mandarin movies. While Terrance is in the living room enjoying "The Transporter 3", Dawn is pondering the depth of human experience in the bedroom with the texture and reality of Korean film.
Actually not really. Dawn has been seriously grooving on the J-Horror and K-Horror genres. Being a pretentious snob, I refuse to see American remakes of films. The grudge? No, thanks, I'll take Ju-on.
Here they are:
"Let the Right one In" - see book description. In swedish. Fan-fucking-tastic.
"The Host" - Korean. Currently winning awards. View of the US and manipulation of information through Korean eyes. Parental love and devotion.
"Hansel and Gretel" -Korean. My current fave. May have knocked out "Let the right one" in as my favorite. Dark Fairy Tales are my love.
"El Orfanato" - Spanish - Another dark fairy tale derivative. REALLY very good.
"Infection" - Japanese. This one stayed with me. Actually kept me awake.
"Reincarnation" - Japanese - also very, very good. Shades of "The Shining" but in a context of Buddhist mythology.
"Audition" - Japanese. Slow. Slow. Slow. Good, as a cultural touchstone, but a bit gratuitous.
"Tale of Two Sisters" - Korean. Remade as "The uninvited" in the US - this movie kicks ass
"Memories of Murder" - Korean. An excellent example of the changing of a culture as viewed through the detectives in a serial murder case.
"Antarctic Journal" - Korean. Watched it last night. I really loved this one. Didn't get super reviews, but I found it very textual - very rich.
"Suicide Circle" - Japanese. This one was hard to watch. There is a great many things that I didn't quite understand, as I am not Japanese. There are still things that I am puzzling out about the story.
"Premonition" - Japanese - another good story about life choices and where we end up.
"One Missed Call" -Japanese. This was the only one that I was thinking "Save me from this muddled mess". I am hoping that "Pulse" will be better. I get the whole "Connection and lack thereof through a digital society" storyline but Lord.
"The Eye" - Chinese/Thai. Don't bother with what, by all accounts, is a Terrible remake with Jessica Alba. This was an incredibly well done movie - not graphic at all, but scary. You should also know a little something about Death traditions in Asian cultures, or many of the inferences won't make any sense.
There are other ones in my queue - "Pulse", "Phone", "Spider Forest", "Inner senses", "Cello" - The "Oldboy/Mr Vengence/Sympathy for Lady/Mr Vengence", "Silk", 13 Beloved", Paradise Murdered", "Death Bell", "Rahtree, Flower of the Night", "The Quiet Family" and "Marebito".
So - If any of you had delusions that I wasn't a super geek girl, I think I have effectively dashed these. Either that, or you inexplicably love me all the more.
Well - actually, maybe you are. If that is the case, feel free to email me and I would happily drag you into the bizarre academic world that one portion of my brain now habitually inhabits. Seriously. I can now talk your face off regarding the concept of the "bricoleur" and it's place in both teacher education AND qualitative research AND how I am planning to weave this into a paper I will be writing for my first major research conference paper presentation as first author.
Nope. Not dragging you into that room. In fact, lets lock that door for the moment and put the key in this drawer.
About a month or two ago, I realized that my pleasure reading - my pleasure watching had dwindled down to nothing. This, by historical measures, does not bode well. My mind must engage on a variety of levels and when it strips away anything that I feel as "pleasurable" to only "work" or "distraction from work" there are bad things on the horizon. Possible relapses into places of coal darkness and thick mud sludge.
This time, I caught myself before submerging too deep. I made lists. This is my first line defense to feeling overwhelmed - making lists of things that I should do. Things that I feel like I need to get done to feel like I am accomplishing something. Things that I know would make me happy. Reading and Watching Movies/Shows are some of those things.
So first up: The books and graphic novels/comics:
1. Let the Right One In by John Ajvide Linddqvist (book)
To tell you that this book has stayed with me in a viscerally way would be underestimating the power of this text. I had seen the movie first, and the movie - while able to stand alone as a piece of art - seemed to be missing something in my eyes. There was more to this story, I knew. Much, much more. I found it all in the book. It is beautiful in the most painful way possible. The author was able, in my estimation, to craft a story about the utter isolation and exploitation that occurs as we walk the line between child and adult. Plus, it is a vampire story. Which kicks it up a notch in my eyes.
2. Post apocalyptic Graphic Novels : The Walking Dead , Fell, Desolation Jones , The Watchmen, Area 51, Wasteland , Y: The Last Man , American Virgin , 30 Days of Night ( and it's successors) and just starting Preacher.
Most of my non-school reading time has been consumed with the graphic novel/comic genre. I like well crafted stories, with mythological and sociological contexts. I like smart shit. The Walking Dead is by far one of the most gripping series I have had the pleasure to actually FOLLOW. All right - yeah. Its a zombie apocalypse story. But so much more. It takes elements of the evolution of the zombie story genre ( Nods to Romero, I am Legend, and 28 weeks later) and makes a story of who we are, how we must evolve and survive in the midst of the failure of trusted institutions. Wasteland is another that I have deeply enjoyed and is evolving.
The others are series which completed before I discovered them, or ones which fade in and out of existence given the author/artist ability to find time for them ( I am talking to YOU Fell and Desolation Jones)
3. The True Blood Books.
Cheesy, yep. Kind of smutty sex books with vampires and werewolves? Yep. But a smart commentary on social, gendered, sexual orientation and class divisions. Actually, Yes. And Super easy to read.
Movies/TV:
First, a disclaimer. Dawn is a wicked movie snob. She goes for "foreign" films. She LIKES subtitles. The more subtitles, the better, in fact. This has driven Terrance to no longer view films with her, as she has tricked him into 3 hour Mandarin movies. While Terrance is in the living room enjoying "The Transporter 3", Dawn is pondering the depth of human experience in the bedroom with the texture and reality of Korean film.
Actually not really. Dawn has been seriously grooving on the J-Horror and K-Horror genres. Being a pretentious snob, I refuse to see American remakes of films. The grudge? No, thanks, I'll take Ju-on.
Here they are:
"Let the Right one In" - see book description. In swedish. Fan-fucking-tastic.
"The Host" - Korean. Currently winning awards. View of the US and manipulation of information through Korean eyes. Parental love and devotion.
"Hansel and Gretel" -Korean. My current fave. May have knocked out "Let the right one" in as my favorite. Dark Fairy Tales are my love.
"El Orfanato" - Spanish - Another dark fairy tale derivative. REALLY very good.
"Infection" - Japanese. This one stayed with me. Actually kept me awake.
"Reincarnation" - Japanese - also very, very good. Shades of "The Shining" but in a context of Buddhist mythology.
"Audition" - Japanese. Slow. Slow. Slow. Good, as a cultural touchstone, but a bit gratuitous.
"Tale of Two Sisters" - Korean. Remade as "The uninvited" in the US - this movie kicks ass
"Memories of Murder" - Korean. An excellent example of the changing of a culture as viewed through the detectives in a serial murder case.
"Antarctic Journal" - Korean. Watched it last night. I really loved this one. Didn't get super reviews, but I found it very textual - very rich.
"Suicide Circle" - Japanese. This one was hard to watch. There is a great many things that I didn't quite understand, as I am not Japanese. There are still things that I am puzzling out about the story.
"Premonition" - Japanese - another good story about life choices and where we end up.
"One Missed Call" -Japanese. This was the only one that I was thinking "Save me from this muddled mess". I am hoping that "Pulse" will be better. I get the whole "Connection and lack thereof through a digital society" storyline but Lord.
"The Eye" - Chinese/Thai. Don't bother with what, by all accounts, is a Terrible remake with Jessica Alba. This was an incredibly well done movie - not graphic at all, but scary. You should also know a little something about Death traditions in Asian cultures, or many of the inferences won't make any sense.
There are other ones in my queue - "Pulse", "Phone", "Spider Forest", "Inner senses", "Cello" - The "Oldboy/Mr Vengence/Sympathy for Lady/Mr Vengence", "Silk", 13 Beloved", Paradise Murdered", "Death Bell", "Rahtree, Flower of the Night", "The Quiet Family" and "Marebito".
So - If any of you had delusions that I wasn't a super geek girl, I think I have effectively dashed these. Either that, or you inexplicably love me all the more.
Not Yet a Woman
Sunday, March 15, 2009
Yes, I think you all saw where this was going, right?
The discovery of armpit hair in the dressing room of the clothing store...which led to the discussion of her breasts..and lack thereof, and the beginnings of, too. Which led to Emily's knowledge sharing of the stages of breast development.
While I sat there somewhat slackjawed taking this information in. Not actually taking it "in" so much. I was forcing the information to bounce off of me like I was wearing one of those Bio-Hazard suits and Emily was showering me with Teen Ebola.
In my mind, I was running in a circle, flapping my hands and screaming in a pitch heard only by raptors. You know where I'd leapt, right? Periods. Menstruation. Aunt Flo ...which led to the possibility that my baby could have a baby....and then to sexual knowledge and activity and the hows of the possibility of my baby having a baby....which led to the picture in my brain - searing indelibly - of my daughter as a real sexual being doing the things which could lead her to having a baby - which is worse than the horrifying picture in my brain of my own parents as sexual beings which made it's debut when I was 13 and realized that my newly pregnant mother must have had S-E-X.
Now this is the sound I associate with this ball of hellish knowledge:
AAAAAAAAAIIIIIIIIIIIEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE!
(which, FYI, is also the sound of the person falling from a great height in any comic/graphic novel)
But my perdition had only just begun, friends and neighbors.
When we got home, Emily dragged out her "Your Body and You" book and chose passages for me to read aloud to her. Fair enough. I can read out loud. No problemo. If there is one thing I CAN do - it is research information and read it aloud. I got that skill down pat. Cripes, it forms one of the tenets of my chosen profession, and we all know that when I revert to Professional Dawn, I do ok.
After reading, she lay in bed next to me. Thinking.
I lay in bed next to her, pointedly NOT thinking.
So while You all see this coming, I did not. Well, thats Not Entirely True. The possibility existed - but the vault of my mind had locked down and the lasers and guard dogs had deployed.
"Mom - Do you think I have any hair on my labia?"
Kill. Me. Now. Seriously. Kill me now.
I've been puked on, shit on, had an Infant Emily shove her toe up my nose, laid in rabbit piss because I was too tired to change the sheets until the morning. In the interest of Too Much Information, I even once slid a clove of garlic up my hoo-ha in an effort to kill a yeast infection without having to buy medication.
But this? No. I can't.
"Mom - can you check for me?"
I stare at her, my eyebrows knit together in consternation. She stares back at me, her face open and curious.
For her, in the past ten years, I have looked at everything. I have wiped her ass, I have washed vomit from her. I have looked at cuts and scabs and bloody gum holes. I have pulled teeth and trimmed toenails. I have applied ointments and balms to every orifice she has. I have pulled things from her nose. And suddenly I get squeamish? WTF?
Not bothering to wait for any answer from me, Emily runs over to turn on the overhead bedroom light, whipped off her undies and lay on my bed expectantly. I approach this body I know so intimately, so thoroughly, so completely with total and overwhelming fear. This body - an extension of me for the past ten years - has changed into something foreign and off limits to me in the span of three hours with the discovery of a handful of fuzzy armpit hairs.
I gather every tenet of empowering my daughter to love her body that I have ever pondered. I gather every bit of knowledge of how to raise a woman with good self esteem who loves her femininity and sexuality. I know that having open, trusting relationships and discussions with the adults in a young womans life set these foundations. I force myself to smoothe over my face, which is flashing through variations of shame, horror and panic.
I lean over her.
And confirm the transfiguation of my baby into the pupal stage of womanhood.
The discovery of armpit hair in the dressing room of the clothing store...which led to the discussion of her breasts..and lack thereof, and the beginnings of, too. Which led to Emily's knowledge sharing of the stages of breast development.
While I sat there somewhat slackjawed taking this information in. Not actually taking it "in" so much. I was forcing the information to bounce off of me like I was wearing one of those Bio-Hazard suits and Emily was showering me with Teen Ebola.
In my mind, I was running in a circle, flapping my hands and screaming in a pitch heard only by raptors. You know where I'd leapt, right? Periods. Menstruation. Aunt Flo ...which led to the possibility that my baby could have a baby....and then to sexual knowledge and activity and the hows of the possibility of my baby having a baby....which led to the picture in my brain - searing indelibly - of my daughter as a real sexual being doing the things which could lead her to having a baby - which is worse than the horrifying picture in my brain of my own parents as sexual beings which made it's debut when I was 13 and realized that my newly pregnant mother must have had S-E-X.
Now this is the sound I associate with this ball of hellish knowledge:
AAAAAAAAAIIIIIIIIIIIEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE!
(which, FYI, is also the sound of the person falling from a great height in any comic/graphic novel)
But my perdition had only just begun, friends and neighbors.
When we got home, Emily dragged out her "Your Body and You" book and chose passages for me to read aloud to her. Fair enough. I can read out loud. No problemo. If there is one thing I CAN do - it is research information and read it aloud. I got that skill down pat. Cripes, it forms one of the tenets of my chosen profession, and we all know that when I revert to Professional Dawn, I do ok.
After reading, she lay in bed next to me. Thinking.
I lay in bed next to her, pointedly NOT thinking.
So while You all see this coming, I did not. Well, thats Not Entirely True. The possibility existed - but the vault of my mind had locked down and the lasers and guard dogs had deployed.
"Mom - Do you think I have any hair on my labia?"
Kill. Me. Now. Seriously. Kill me now.
I've been puked on, shit on, had an Infant Emily shove her toe up my nose, laid in rabbit piss because I was too tired to change the sheets until the morning. In the interest of Too Much Information, I even once slid a clove of garlic up my hoo-ha in an effort to kill a yeast infection without having to buy medication.
But this? No. I can't.
"Mom - can you check for me?"
I stare at her, my eyebrows knit together in consternation. She stares back at me, her face open and curious.
For her, in the past ten years, I have looked at everything. I have wiped her ass, I have washed vomit from her. I have looked at cuts and scabs and bloody gum holes. I have pulled teeth and trimmed toenails. I have applied ointments and balms to every orifice she has. I have pulled things from her nose. And suddenly I get squeamish? WTF?
Not bothering to wait for any answer from me, Emily runs over to turn on the overhead bedroom light, whipped off her undies and lay on my bed expectantly. I approach this body I know so intimately, so thoroughly, so completely with total and overwhelming fear. This body - an extension of me for the past ten years - has changed into something foreign and off limits to me in the span of three hours with the discovery of a handful of fuzzy armpit hairs.
I gather every tenet of empowering my daughter to love her body that I have ever pondered. I gather every bit of knowledge of how to raise a woman with good self esteem who loves her femininity and sexuality. I know that having open, trusting relationships and discussions with the adults in a young womans life set these foundations. I force myself to smoothe over my face, which is flashing through variations of shame, horror and panic.
I lean over her.
And confirm the transfiguation of my baby into the pupal stage of womanhood.
Still a Girl
Thursday, March 12, 2009
Emily smells a bit like peaches when she sleeps.
I'm not sure why, but I woke at 3 a.m. with this thought at the forefront of my consciousness. And Emily in bed with me.
I could tell you it is because it was an especially windy night tonight and that on windy nights she sleeps in bed with me, but that wouldn't be true. She crawls in bed with me most nights. Usually between 1 and 2, when I am firmly asleep. If Terrance is in the bed ( which is about a 50-50 proposition), he will get up and wander into the other room. Most nights, I sleep the sleep of the dead. My daughter and husband are the migratory birds of our home, floating from bed to bed, while I am the Crow - One nest, thank you very much.
But that isn't what this is about. Em's sleep, or lack thereof, has been discussed ad nausuem.
No friends. What has me pacing the house, engendering strange looks from cat and rabbit as I wander from room to room, you think?
When my daughter was handed to me at 4:22 am on May 21st 1998, I did not realize I would struggle so hard to separate my SELF from her. I did not realize that her infancy and toddlerhood would be filled with my own attempts to find the "Before" Dawn. Sure, I was aware that I had just joined the line of countless women who gestate and birth babies...but so what. It is how we promulgate the species.
What I didn't quite get was that I had brought another woman into the world.
Woman. Those creatures of whom I belonged and yet, didn't quite understand. Their reindeer games freaked me out a bit, to be honest and my femininity ( or lack of) has been a tightrope I have walked with occasional success and some spectacular fails.
In each life stage with Em, I have tried hard to keep my eye on the ball. The here and now. What do you need Now and how can I get it to you. One day completed, the next one on deck. Weaning? Check. Baby food to solids? Check. Toilet skills? Check. Wean off binky? Check ( but Jesus, just barely). Ability to dress herself and do basic grooming? Check. Off the Kindergarten? Loss of first Tooth? Questions about sex and reproduction? Telling her about death? Breaking the news of me being Santa, and the Tooth Fairy AND the Easter Bunny? Navigating shitty little mean girls in school?
Yep. Did it. Sometimes better than others, but hey. A little car puking has to be expected now and again.
This weekend we began shopping for bathing suits for her. Anyone who has shopped with an almost-eleven-year-old could tell you - Ugh. I mean, I am NOT forking out 40 bucks for a bathing suit she will shred in half a season..or outgrow. And then there is the "appropriate" factor. My god. Look at some of those hoochie suits. Hell No, my kid is not wearing those. Plus, the evidence points to Em being built alot like me and while I wouldn't say I am fat...I am a brick house. Boobs...and Ass. It takes time to find a suit that fully covers her bootylicious self.
So there we were - in the store dressing room trying on a wide variety of styles and sizes. The first five rejected, I was bringing in the next round when she said this:
"Mom - I have some hairs growing under my arms!"
I looked at her, standing in the dressing room in her panties - smooshed next to the mirror staring at her smooth and hairless arm pit.
"No you don't. Let me see." I leaned in. Staring. Humph. As I thought. Nothing.
"There isn't any hair!", I said confidently holding out the next bathing suit.
"No, there IS ", she said emphatically, "Look - right HERE!" Pointing to a tiny speck of skin under her arm, I leaned in to examine again. Where there were three distinct hairs.
"Oh. You're right", I said and sat down on the dressing room floor.
I was shattered. My mind was completely empty. I held up the next bathing suit for trying on. She wiggled into it and preened in front of the mirror.
She had - for the first time in her life - rendered me completely speechless.
I'm not sure why, but I woke at 3 a.m. with this thought at the forefront of my consciousness. And Emily in bed with me.
I could tell you it is because it was an especially windy night tonight and that on windy nights she sleeps in bed with me, but that wouldn't be true. She crawls in bed with me most nights. Usually between 1 and 2, when I am firmly asleep. If Terrance is in the bed ( which is about a 50-50 proposition), he will get up and wander into the other room. Most nights, I sleep the sleep of the dead. My daughter and husband are the migratory birds of our home, floating from bed to bed, while I am the Crow - One nest, thank you very much.
But that isn't what this is about. Em's sleep, or lack thereof, has been discussed ad nausuem.
No friends. What has me pacing the house, engendering strange looks from cat and rabbit as I wander from room to room, you think?
When my daughter was handed to me at 4:22 am on May 21st 1998, I did not realize I would struggle so hard to separate my SELF from her. I did not realize that her infancy and toddlerhood would be filled with my own attempts to find the "Before" Dawn. Sure, I was aware that I had just joined the line of countless women who gestate and birth babies...but so what. It is how we promulgate the species.
What I didn't quite get was that I had brought another woman into the world.
Woman. Those creatures of whom I belonged and yet, didn't quite understand. Their reindeer games freaked me out a bit, to be honest and my femininity ( or lack of) has been a tightrope I have walked with occasional success and some spectacular fails.
In each life stage with Em, I have tried hard to keep my eye on the ball. The here and now. What do you need Now and how can I get it to you. One day completed, the next one on deck. Weaning? Check. Baby food to solids? Check. Toilet skills? Check. Wean off binky? Check ( but Jesus, just barely). Ability to dress herself and do basic grooming? Check. Off the Kindergarten? Loss of first Tooth? Questions about sex and reproduction? Telling her about death? Breaking the news of me being Santa, and the Tooth Fairy AND the Easter Bunny? Navigating shitty little mean girls in school?
Yep. Did it. Sometimes better than others, but hey. A little car puking has to be expected now and again.
This weekend we began shopping for bathing suits for her. Anyone who has shopped with an almost-eleven-year-old could tell you - Ugh. I mean, I am NOT forking out 40 bucks for a bathing suit she will shred in half a season..or outgrow. And then there is the "appropriate" factor. My god. Look at some of those hoochie suits. Hell No, my kid is not wearing those. Plus, the evidence points to Em being built alot like me and while I wouldn't say I am fat...I am a brick house. Boobs...and Ass. It takes time to find a suit that fully covers her bootylicious self.
So there we were - in the store dressing room trying on a wide variety of styles and sizes. The first five rejected, I was bringing in the next round when she said this:
"Mom - I have some hairs growing under my arms!"
I looked at her, standing in the dressing room in her panties - smooshed next to the mirror staring at her smooth and hairless arm pit.
"No you don't. Let me see." I leaned in. Staring. Humph. As I thought. Nothing.
"There isn't any hair!", I said confidently holding out the next bathing suit.
"No, there IS ", she said emphatically, "Look - right HERE!" Pointing to a tiny speck of skin under her arm, I leaned in to examine again. Where there were three distinct hairs.
"Oh. You're right", I said and sat down on the dressing room floor.
I was shattered. My mind was completely empty. I held up the next bathing suit for trying on. She wiggled into it and preened in front of the mirror.
She had - for the first time in her life - rendered me completely speechless.
Layers
Saturday, February 28, 2009
It goes without saying that I am still sorting through my mind after the death of my grandmother two weeks ago.
My utter fear in going back to the place of my birth was all consuming. I stopped sleeping from the moment I knew I was going to have to go back. Of course, I could have chosen to not go, and I would be lying if I said that I did not seriously consider fleeing into those options. In the best scenerio, I would face this with my brother at my side. He and I could walk through that gauntlet again - not unlike the same way we had done as children. Dawn and Donnie. I did not want my husband. And I did not want my daughter anywhere near the Ohio valley. I wanted my brother.
Life, however, does not exist to conform to my mental scenarios. My brother is a brand new father of a baby boy who looks shockingly like him. He is learning about the making of a family with his wife - and that this making of a family involves hard, exhausting work FAR past the labor and delivery episode. In fact, I told Donnie that I might kill him if he left his breastfeeding wife for five days.
My next choice was my sister. My sister - Jessie. Nearly 14 years younger than me, it has only been in the last year that I have considered her. That sounds as awful, I think, as it should. At first I blamed the age gap. I went to college when she went to kindergarten. Later, I fell victim to my mothers ability to infuriate me with my sisters status as the only child left at home. I would get incredibly angry at what I inferred was special and different treatment of my sister. Trips to Europe? Ski Lessons? What the fuck?
My Achilles heel was my idea that I should be the most special, most beloved, most cherished. Me. If I didn't get it - whatever I perceived to be favoritism or special treatment, than I was going to be dammed if she was going to get it. I am not proud of this character trait of mine, and am still unraveling the tendrils of this poisonous vine. What I allowed this to do was to completely separate me from my sister. My assistant in this was my mother, who would fan the flames by telling me things that she knew would anger me - pushing me further back into my corner. I would never hear anything directly from my sister...but from my mother, interpreting Jessie's actions and experiences through her filter to me. When Jessie turned down a full scholarship to Bard nine years ago to live at home and attend the local state college, I was livid. Livid from afar. "Push her out!" I practically screamed from New Hampshire. "Why are you allowing this? Why do you baby her?"
What I didn't know was the price my sister would pay for staying. The price she HAD been paying for being the only female rival in the house.
It was this only past August that I finally got a clue as to that price. My sisters breakdown was fairly complete with the requisite accidental on purpose suicide attempt. Which my mother attempted to keep from me - by not calling to tell me it had happened. Although I was only 5 hours away from her...and My mother was 11 hours away. And when I did track my mother down...she tried to pretend it hadn't happened. Then she blamed my aunt for calling me. When I asked what the plan was going to be for Jessie's aftercare, she was vague. "You girls - you're both so willful. I think Jessie is going to go back to work today...She is upstairs sleeping right now...."
I decided to drive down. I wanted to try to convince my sister to come back to Montreal with me. To heal. To be quiet. To be away from everything. I did not trust my mother to be a parent to my sister. I told my mother that Jessie was NOT going to go into work that day - that I was coming to her house. That I was on my way.
I think we all know that this trip went down in flames, as it was clearly destined to from the beginning.
Driving back from that shit storm, I weighed everything I knew about my mother. Everything I knew about my sister. My final words had been with my sister at the front door.
"Please", I pleaded..."Come with me. It isn't good for you here. Come stay with me..."
But she wouldn't. Mom would be infuriated if she went with me, and she couldn't take the punishment that would be meted out after the fact. I knew the punishment, and while 38 year old Me could say that Mom really couldn't do anything....to my 25 year old sister, it felt very different.
I've tried to stay connected with Jessie. I call and leave messages on her phone. She never returns my calls. I tell her on the voice messages that I love her. That I blame myself for not being more involved. For allowing myself to be manipulated by my mother. For leaving her defenseless for the past 20 years.
I finally heard from her the day my grandmother died. We made tentative plans to travel to the funeral together. I offerred to arrange the car - or flight - or however we got there. She said she would call me after she got out of class to finalize plans. Then she didn't call back. Ever.
Was I angry? No, not really. Profoundly frightened at having to face all this alone, but not angry. Disappointed that my awkward and inept attempts to build a rickety bridge over 20 years of quicksand that is my relationship with my sister were going nowhere, Yes. But not angry.
I booked the tickets that night. I was going alone.
My utter fear in going back to the place of my birth was all consuming. I stopped sleeping from the moment I knew I was going to have to go back. Of course, I could have chosen to not go, and I would be lying if I said that I did not seriously consider fleeing into those options. In the best scenerio, I would face this with my brother at my side. He and I could walk through that gauntlet again - not unlike the same way we had done as children. Dawn and Donnie. I did not want my husband. And I did not want my daughter anywhere near the Ohio valley. I wanted my brother.
Life, however, does not exist to conform to my mental scenarios. My brother is a brand new father of a baby boy who looks shockingly like him. He is learning about the making of a family with his wife - and that this making of a family involves hard, exhausting work FAR past the labor and delivery episode. In fact, I told Donnie that I might kill him if he left his breastfeeding wife for five days.
My next choice was my sister. My sister - Jessie. Nearly 14 years younger than me, it has only been in the last year that I have considered her. That sounds as awful, I think, as it should. At first I blamed the age gap. I went to college when she went to kindergarten. Later, I fell victim to my mothers ability to infuriate me with my sisters status as the only child left at home. I would get incredibly angry at what I inferred was special and different treatment of my sister. Trips to Europe? Ski Lessons? What the fuck?
My Achilles heel was my idea that I should be the most special, most beloved, most cherished. Me. If I didn't get it - whatever I perceived to be favoritism or special treatment, than I was going to be dammed if she was going to get it. I am not proud of this character trait of mine, and am still unraveling the tendrils of this poisonous vine. What I allowed this to do was to completely separate me from my sister. My assistant in this was my mother, who would fan the flames by telling me things that she knew would anger me - pushing me further back into my corner. I would never hear anything directly from my sister...but from my mother, interpreting Jessie's actions and experiences through her filter to me. When Jessie turned down a full scholarship to Bard nine years ago to live at home and attend the local state college, I was livid. Livid from afar. "Push her out!" I practically screamed from New Hampshire. "Why are you allowing this? Why do you baby her?"
What I didn't know was the price my sister would pay for staying. The price she HAD been paying for being the only female rival in the house.
It was this only past August that I finally got a clue as to that price. My sisters breakdown was fairly complete with the requisite accidental on purpose suicide attempt. Which my mother attempted to keep from me - by not calling to tell me it had happened. Although I was only 5 hours away from her...and My mother was 11 hours away. And when I did track my mother down...she tried to pretend it hadn't happened. Then she blamed my aunt for calling me. When I asked what the plan was going to be for Jessie's aftercare, she was vague. "You girls - you're both so willful. I think Jessie is going to go back to work today...She is upstairs sleeping right now...."
I decided to drive down. I wanted to try to convince my sister to come back to Montreal with me. To heal. To be quiet. To be away from everything. I did not trust my mother to be a parent to my sister. I told my mother that Jessie was NOT going to go into work that day - that I was coming to her house. That I was on my way.
I think we all know that this trip went down in flames, as it was clearly destined to from the beginning.
Driving back from that shit storm, I weighed everything I knew about my mother. Everything I knew about my sister. My final words had been with my sister at the front door.
"Please", I pleaded..."Come with me. It isn't good for you here. Come stay with me..."
But she wouldn't. Mom would be infuriated if she went with me, and she couldn't take the punishment that would be meted out after the fact. I knew the punishment, and while 38 year old Me could say that Mom really couldn't do anything....to my 25 year old sister, it felt very different.
I've tried to stay connected with Jessie. I call and leave messages on her phone. She never returns my calls. I tell her on the voice messages that I love her. That I blame myself for not being more involved. For allowing myself to be manipulated by my mother. For leaving her defenseless for the past 20 years.
I finally heard from her the day my grandmother died. We made tentative plans to travel to the funeral together. I offerred to arrange the car - or flight - or however we got there. She said she would call me after she got out of class to finalize plans. Then she didn't call back. Ever.
Was I angry? No, not really. Profoundly frightened at having to face all this alone, but not angry. Disappointed that my awkward and inept attempts to build a rickety bridge over 20 years of quicksand that is my relationship with my sister were going nowhere, Yes. But not angry.
I booked the tickets that night. I was going alone.
Unnamed Parent? May I have a word?
Monday, February 23, 2009
Two weeks ago my ten year old daughter walked into my room and said this:
"Is it true that Obama wants to kill babies living in pregnant womens bodies?"
Oh my head.
Deploying my oldest teacher technique, I responded with a question:
"What do you mean? I am not sure I understand your question."
What unfolded was an explanation offered to my daughter by a classmate of the politics of abortion, through a lens of a pro-life religious viewpoint.
Emily is an ardent supporter of President Obama. As expatriate Americans, her father and I both voted for him, and she loves the story of his parenthood which seems so familiar to her. She, too, is a biracial child, "just like the President".
This conversation occurred after Emily was talking about how much she LIKED the new President of the United States. Her peer retorted, with all the self confidence of a ten year old repeating information heard from her parent, that Emily's new hero was, in essence, a baby killer.
Because a shot of tequila was not at hand, I had to take only a deep breath and try to sort out the basic information on the tricky and personal topic of the right to choose whether or not a woman carries a fetus to term that I wanted to convey.
"You and Daddy chose to have me...", Emily offerred.
"Yes, love. Daddy and I planned to have a baby and then we found out we were having you - and we were very happy. But some people aren't ready to have a baby when they find out they are pregnant. So they have a choice whether or not to continue being pregnant. President Obama believes that people should be able to continue to have that choice - he doesn't want to take babies from Mom's who are wanting to be pregnant - he wants to make sure that the law says that people can make that choice for themselves, if they need to. Just like Mommy and Daddy think that you can't tell people who they can love, and who they can't love - we don't believe that you can tell someone that they have to have a baby if they have personal reasons for not wanting to have a baby."
I paused. I held my breath. This conversation could really tumble out of the realms of what I was already unprepared to discuss. Topics like birth control, sexuality, religion were flashing like neon signs in front of my eyes. Em has a very basic and unembellished idea of how babies are made....but it is a concept that she understands in a very non technical way. I was not ready nor eager to increase her knowledge of this topic either.
She digested this all quietly. I followed with my standard, "Do you have any other questions about what I said?"
In my head, I was strangling the mother who I knew had started this little interlude. I wanted to rake her over the coals - not for her personal viewpoint with which I disagreed, but for her decision to drag our ten year old daughters into this discussion. Her decision to make statements to HER daughter was now leaking into my bedroom forcing me to discuss issues of sexuality and contraception and the politics of pregnancy.
Emily is far more practical. "Can I tell Unnamed Child that she is wrong?"
I hesitate. "Well, perhaps you can tell her that you don't believe that her information is entirely accurate."
So unnamed Mother...Did you feel my laser beam eyes in your skull last night at the school concert? Because they were trained on you, I assure you.
"Is it true that Obama wants to kill babies living in pregnant womens bodies?"
Oh my head.
Deploying my oldest teacher technique, I responded with a question:
"What do you mean? I am not sure I understand your question."
What unfolded was an explanation offered to my daughter by a classmate of the politics of abortion, through a lens of a pro-life religious viewpoint.
Emily is an ardent supporter of President Obama. As expatriate Americans, her father and I both voted for him, and she loves the story of his parenthood which seems so familiar to her. She, too, is a biracial child, "just like the President".
This conversation occurred after Emily was talking about how much she LIKED the new President of the United States. Her peer retorted, with all the self confidence of a ten year old repeating information heard from her parent, that Emily's new hero was, in essence, a baby killer.
Because a shot of tequila was not at hand, I had to take only a deep breath and try to sort out the basic information on the tricky and personal topic of the right to choose whether or not a woman carries a fetus to term that I wanted to convey.
"You and Daddy chose to have me...", Emily offerred.
"Yes, love. Daddy and I planned to have a baby and then we found out we were having you - and we were very happy. But some people aren't ready to have a baby when they find out they are pregnant. So they have a choice whether or not to continue being pregnant. President Obama believes that people should be able to continue to have that choice - he doesn't want to take babies from Mom's who are wanting to be pregnant - he wants to make sure that the law says that people can make that choice for themselves, if they need to. Just like Mommy and Daddy think that you can't tell people who they can love, and who they can't love - we don't believe that you can tell someone that they have to have a baby if they have personal reasons for not wanting to have a baby."
I paused. I held my breath. This conversation could really tumble out of the realms of what I was already unprepared to discuss. Topics like birth control, sexuality, religion were flashing like neon signs in front of my eyes. Em has a very basic and unembellished idea of how babies are made....but it is a concept that she understands in a very non technical way. I was not ready nor eager to increase her knowledge of this topic either.
She digested this all quietly. I followed with my standard, "Do you have any other questions about what I said?"
In my head, I was strangling the mother who I knew had started this little interlude. I wanted to rake her over the coals - not for her personal viewpoint with which I disagreed, but for her decision to drag our ten year old daughters into this discussion. Her decision to make statements to HER daughter was now leaking into my bedroom forcing me to discuss issues of sexuality and contraception and the politics of pregnancy.
Emily is far more practical. "Can I tell Unnamed Child that she is wrong?"
I hesitate. "Well, perhaps you can tell her that you don't believe that her information is entirely accurate."
So unnamed Mother...Did you feel my laser beam eyes in your skull last night at the school concert? Because they were trained on you, I assure you.
Homeward Bound
Monday, February 16, 2009
As I have written before, my family is complicated.
No different, I suppose, than anyone else - old hurts and memories, resentments and things said and unsaid layered like shale.
I'd not spoken to my mother since August of last year. When she called me a pretentious snob. And uninvited me from her house. I, in turn, told her that she wasn't a very good mother. To me, my brother or my sister.
When she called and left a voicemail on our home phone on the 8th saying my grandmother was dying I was, well.....skeptical. My mother has been known to exaggerate things, spin some events to her benefit making her appear MORE - hurt, damaged, sad, or whatever emotion she is going for. I guard myself against her descriptions, holding out for the kernel of truth in whatever story I am hearing.
I emailed my Aunt to assess the accuracy of the description. According to my mother, she and my Aunt were taking turns providing care to my grandmother who was in hospice at my Aunts house in West Virginia.
The idea of my mother AND Aunt living in the same house for any length of time was enough to make my alarm bells go off. The sisters have had a real love hate relationship over the years, sometimes going for YEARS without speaking. If there is one thing you can give my family - we know how to hold a helluva grudge. Last I knew, the relationship tipped towards the "not entirely warm" scale so the news that they were living and caring for my grandmother in tandem was shocking.
But yes. My grandmother had been deteriorating for the past year, her memory fading and her heart beginning to fail. My aunt had taken her into her home after her release from the hospital. My grandfather having broken his leg in the spring, was in their home being cared for by my uncle.
Nonetheless, the email announcing my grandmothers death last Tuesday was shocking.
The implications were even more shocking. I would have to go back to the Ohio Valley. I would have to see my mother. I would have to see my grandmothers body. I would have to see my fragile grandfather, and my aging uncles. I would be in the very places I had successfully avoided for the past 25 years, resisting all invitations for family reunions and the deaths of my other set of grandparents. I would have to drive by the very house in which I was sure my father was living.
My roots were reaching out to strangle me.
No different, I suppose, than anyone else - old hurts and memories, resentments and things said and unsaid layered like shale.
I'd not spoken to my mother since August of last year. When she called me a pretentious snob. And uninvited me from her house. I, in turn, told her that she wasn't a very good mother. To me, my brother or my sister.
When she called and left a voicemail on our home phone on the 8th saying my grandmother was dying I was, well.....skeptical. My mother has been known to exaggerate things, spin some events to her benefit making her appear MORE - hurt, damaged, sad, or whatever emotion she is going for. I guard myself against her descriptions, holding out for the kernel of truth in whatever story I am hearing.
I emailed my Aunt to assess the accuracy of the description. According to my mother, she and my Aunt were taking turns providing care to my grandmother who was in hospice at my Aunts house in West Virginia.
The idea of my mother AND Aunt living in the same house for any length of time was enough to make my alarm bells go off. The sisters have had a real love hate relationship over the years, sometimes going for YEARS without speaking. If there is one thing you can give my family - we know how to hold a helluva grudge. Last I knew, the relationship tipped towards the "not entirely warm" scale so the news that they were living and caring for my grandmother in tandem was shocking.
But yes. My grandmother had been deteriorating for the past year, her memory fading and her heart beginning to fail. My aunt had taken her into her home after her release from the hospital. My grandfather having broken his leg in the spring, was in their home being cared for by my uncle.
Nonetheless, the email announcing my grandmothers death last Tuesday was shocking.
The implications were even more shocking. I would have to go back to the Ohio Valley. I would have to see my mother. I would have to see my grandmothers body. I would have to see my fragile grandfather, and my aging uncles. I would be in the very places I had successfully avoided for the past 25 years, resisting all invitations for family reunions and the deaths of my other set of grandparents. I would have to drive by the very house in which I was sure my father was living.
My roots were reaching out to strangle me.
Killing me softly
Thursday, February 05, 2009
This morning was business as usual.
Running around - telling Em to put on her socks...did she brush her teeth? PLEASE put on her socks - stop looking at the television and PUT ON HER SOCKS!!!
In the midst of my stream of exhortations regarding her socks, she stopped looking at the television long enough to stare at me.
"I don't want to look at your naked butt", she said to me.
"Then don't sit your ass in my room while I get dressed!" and for emphasis I did a little booty wiggle and bounce.
Now,back in the day, this move brought all the boys to the yard, as my milkshake was something to behold.
Today? I get this:
"When you dance, your bum looks like two chicken nuggets."
Running around - telling Em to put on her socks...did she brush her teeth? PLEASE put on her socks - stop looking at the television and PUT ON HER SOCKS!!!
In the midst of my stream of exhortations regarding her socks, she stopped looking at the television long enough to stare at me.
"I don't want to look at your naked butt", she said to me.
"Then don't sit your ass in my room while I get dressed!" and for emphasis I did a little booty wiggle and bounce.
Now,back in the day, this move brought all the boys to the yard, as my milkshake was something to behold.
Today? I get this:
"When you dance, your bum looks like two chicken nuggets."
To be or not to be Biracial
Wednesday, January 28, 2009
I am white. I've never been confused by this - never doubted my ultimate whiteness. [In fact, my husband frequently points out how very white I am - in a whole host of ways] A heritage of nearly all Eastern European people, sprinkled with a Native American about three generations ago insured that I am as non-specific White American as one can get.
Terrance is Black. Like most Black American families, he can claim heritage from nearly every race. His paternal grandfather Josef was Creole/Cajun - very light skinned with a white grandfather. His paternal grandmother, Queenie, was a very dark skinned woman from Alabama. Terrance's Mom is fairly light skinned, and from the pictures I have seen of Her mother - so was she. The members of his side of the family vary from being as dark as Queenie, to as light(or lighter) than my daughter.
Terrance and I knew when I was pregnant that our baby could have skin as dark as his - or skin as light as mine. You just had to wait and see.
Emily is, undoubtedly, light skinned. She has a lovely caramel tone to her skin, which darkens to golden in the summer. Her hair is more like mine than her fathers, and it too gets golden in the summer time.
When Em was an infant when her father was not at my side, little elderly ladies might gently probe as to whether or not my child was "Italian" or "French" - which I came to understand was their way of trying to figure out why this baby was obviously duskier than her mother. I tried to be patient with them - usually finally stating that her father is black before they dug themselves deeper into any cultural stereotypical hole.
Usually that - plus the sight of my liberal white, breastfeeding nipple coming out of said babies mouth - was enough to stop the conversation.
Terrance has always been unequivocal. Emily is Black. I too have understood that in American society, Emily is and remains Black. For the purposes of teaching her how to defend herself and maneuver in our society, she must think of herself as a Black woman.
That has not stopped me from referring to her as bi-racial too. In fact, it is a term that Emily also uses when asked by her classmates what she "is". Now that we are in Montreal there are so many more variations on the racial and cultural theme that Emily is more often than not told that she ISN'T black by her peers. She assures them that she is - she has a black dad and a white mom - that she is bi-racial.
Poking around the internet, I found this article at Jack and Jill Politics. I deeply understand the point of the writer of this blog article. The idea that it makes some of the American populace/electorate more comfortable with President Obama to think of him...and his children as bi-racial is not shocking to me. The idea that the issue of skin color politics within the black and white communities are still alive and rearing it's misshapen head does not surprise me. I have been by my daughters side when an elderly friend in Detroit might comment on how "pretty" my child is...or what "good hair" she has.... Yes. These are the code words for "whiter" in these contexts and it needs to die out. The idea that a child or person is more attractive or able because of the pigmentation in their skin is something that lies in such a deep dark place in our collective American psyche that it will have to be physically exorcised out to fully uproot it.
But where does that leave my child? Where does that leave me, her white mother?
"I think “biracial” is being pushed around by white people to divorce their non-white offspring/non-white person they like from the “undesirable” minority group they came from."
Hey. I take issue with that.
My use of the word "biracial" comes from a place of trying to honor my side of the family, much like my decision to not take my husbands last name at marriage. To simply say that Emily is Black - end of story - effectively erases me - and all my heritage - from her persona. To say that her Educated Black father chose a White prize wife and therefore turned his back on his side of the family is equally inaccurate.
It is time for the discussion to move away from the Jungle Fever stereotypes of Black men and White women, just as much as it is time to move away from the Tyler Perry stereotypes of black families. Not because we don't acknowledge those pieces as authentic points of reference to " A not wholly accurate but still touching upon some pretty deeply held beliefs" - but because it is time to scrape all the pus out of this wound and let it scar over.
I call Emily bi-racial...because she IS and to deny one side of her heritage is as bad as pretending she isn't black.
How to make a toddler angry
This is the second part of that paper. I didn't connect these two articles until I was writing the part about playing the "Thats MY Mama!" game with my babies. Amazing, I know, when the connections seem ridiculously clear upon my re-thinking the two. What is here is truly my discovering the connections between the two - my thinking as writing. It is THIS that I love about writing and scholarly work. The THINKING. It does not come easily all the time, though, and I am relieved that the cogs of my brain seem to be getting enough grease right now. It feels good.
f you want to make a toddler angry fast, insist that his/her mother is not their mother but is, in fact, YOUR mother. Those are fighting words, partner. Some may say that the toddler does this due to egocentricism, but I prefer to believe that in that game you mess with the elements of that child's “Story”, which is part of their essence. If I played that game with a child, I always ended it by telling them that OF COURSE that was their Mommy – and not mine. I needed to reassure that I indeed would abide by their script in this, the most important of roles to them.
This leads to an interesting segueway – as it leads to a the second article I wandered into, “Mazes of Meaning: How a Child and Culture create each other” by Jean Briggs.
I found the title was wildly intriguing, as it forms a cornerstone of my dissertation inquiry. The idea that a child is created by a culture....and then moves into a larger social group in a classroom and recreates not only their personal culture, but must then blend that personal culture into a new group culture negotiated by all members of the classroom.
As I read the article, I was a bit troubled. The author describes her life among the Qipisa Inuit and while it started out promising with quotes such as:
The notion that meaning inheres in culture and that people receive it passively, as dough receives the cookie cutter, is rapidly being replaced by the idea that culture consists of ingredients, which people actively select, interpret, and use in various ways, as opportunities, capabilities, and experience allow. But it is not the individual that creates meanings, it is the individuals who do so.” (p 25)
YES! Now this is what I had been looking for! Briggs further sets the stage by describing the community and some of the communally held tenets regarding child rearing and education. How adults in this community use the asking of questions to their children as a means of communicating values and posing problems to be solved. “Well yes”, I thought, “who doesn't do this?”
It was the next paragraph that woke me up. For the questions posed in this community to their children were framed in dangerous and dramatic language. Briggs writes:
“In this way, adults create, or raise to conciousness, issues that the child will perceive to be of great consequence for his or her life: “Why don't you kill your baby brother?” “Why don't you die so I can have your nice new shirt?” “Your mother's going to die – look, she's cut her finger – do you want to come and live with me?”
I was a little disturbed. I mean who tells a three year old that their mother is going to die? Who suggests to a child that they kill their new brother or sister? How on earth is someone supposed to answer these questions?
However, as I continued to read, I began to understand that in this community, this is how children are prepped for life transitions. These questions which seemed unduly cruel to me were the tools by which this Inuit community helped it's individual children clarify issues of attachment, belonging and possession. The author writes that the adults in the community only enact this verbal dialogue with children until the children are old enough to know that the adults questioning are not to be taken seriously. These questions brought directly to the surface impulses and thoughts which could have long term consequences if not managed through the adult group members. Through this question and answer exchange, children can test responses, seek alliances from trusted adults and come to understand the pre-eminent role of their parent(s) as primary caregiver.
As I pondered on what a strange series of questions, and how these questions seemed a bit unreasonable and harsh...I flashed back to my own games with Toddlers.
All of the “No, thats mine” game, where I would pretend to put on someones coat or shoe – or take a bottle or binky away resulting in both hysterical delight and more than a bit of apprehension that I was going to take their belongings. The “That's my mommy, not yours” games. The “pretending to be asleep/dead and then jumping up game” or the “I'm going to eat your lunch” game.
I played the exact same games with the babies in my care as described by Briggs, albeit with different verbiage.
As I reflect, I had no concious knowledge of imparting cultural specific knowledge to those children – but I was. We played with their deepest fears – abandonment, loss of parent, loss of belongings, the role of their interdependence on adults for their sustenance and comfort. By co-creating these stories, each child and I would engage in a delicate dance among the real life monsters of a child world, the fear that lies just on the edge of security. However, while I always knew it was a game, I never gave thought to the idea that the child did not necessarily believe it was a game, but that these scenarios could be quite real. The edge of relief and panic would mix with laughter in each child as I would sit up from my feigned and exaggerated “death”. The laughter would become hysterical at times, for what I now realize may have been hysteria.
I was unknowingly scaffolding for these toddlers their entry into coping with fears that, left unaddressed, could compromise their ability to make important life transitions in not only their social capabilities but their cognitive development as well. I became another player in a social drama that seems to have it's roots in something much deeper than play between a child and adult.
f you want to make a toddler angry fast, insist that his/her mother is not their mother but is, in fact, YOUR mother. Those are fighting words, partner. Some may say that the toddler does this due to egocentricism, but I prefer to believe that in that game you mess with the elements of that child's “Story”, which is part of their essence. If I played that game with a child, I always ended it by telling them that OF COURSE that was their Mommy – and not mine. I needed to reassure that I indeed would abide by their script in this, the most important of roles to them.
This leads to an interesting segueway – as it leads to a the second article I wandered into, “Mazes of Meaning: How a Child and Culture create each other” by Jean Briggs.
I found the title was wildly intriguing, as it forms a cornerstone of my dissertation inquiry. The idea that a child is created by a culture....and then moves into a larger social group in a classroom and recreates not only their personal culture, but must then blend that personal culture into a new group culture negotiated by all members of the classroom.
As I read the article, I was a bit troubled. The author describes her life among the Qipisa Inuit and while it started out promising with quotes such as:
The notion that meaning inheres in culture and that people receive it passively, as dough receives the cookie cutter, is rapidly being replaced by the idea that culture consists of ingredients, which people actively select, interpret, and use in various ways, as opportunities, capabilities, and experience allow. But it is not the individual that creates meanings, it is the individuals who do so.” (p 25)
YES! Now this is what I had been looking for! Briggs further sets the stage by describing the community and some of the communally held tenets regarding child rearing and education. How adults in this community use the asking of questions to their children as a means of communicating values and posing problems to be solved. “Well yes”, I thought, “who doesn't do this?”
It was the next paragraph that woke me up. For the questions posed in this community to their children were framed in dangerous and dramatic language. Briggs writes:
“In this way, adults create, or raise to conciousness, issues that the child will perceive to be of great consequence for his or her life: “Why don't you kill your baby brother?” “Why don't you die so I can have your nice new shirt?” “Your mother's going to die – look, she's cut her finger – do you want to come and live with me?”
I was a little disturbed. I mean who tells a three year old that their mother is going to die? Who suggests to a child that they kill their new brother or sister? How on earth is someone supposed to answer these questions?
However, as I continued to read, I began to understand that in this community, this is how children are prepped for life transitions. These questions which seemed unduly cruel to me were the tools by which this Inuit community helped it's individual children clarify issues of attachment, belonging and possession. The author writes that the adults in the community only enact this verbal dialogue with children until the children are old enough to know that the adults questioning are not to be taken seriously. These questions brought directly to the surface impulses and thoughts which could have long term consequences if not managed through the adult group members. Through this question and answer exchange, children can test responses, seek alliances from trusted adults and come to understand the pre-eminent role of their parent(s) as primary caregiver.
As I pondered on what a strange series of questions, and how these questions seemed a bit unreasonable and harsh...I flashed back to my own games with Toddlers.
All of the “No, thats mine” game, where I would pretend to put on someones coat or shoe – or take a bottle or binky away resulting in both hysterical delight and more than a bit of apprehension that I was going to take their belongings. The “That's my mommy, not yours” games. The “pretending to be asleep/dead and then jumping up game” or the “I'm going to eat your lunch” game.
I played the exact same games with the babies in my care as described by Briggs, albeit with different verbiage.
As I reflect, I had no concious knowledge of imparting cultural specific knowledge to those children – but I was. We played with their deepest fears – abandonment, loss of parent, loss of belongings, the role of their interdependence on adults for their sustenance and comfort. By co-creating these stories, each child and I would engage in a delicate dance among the real life monsters of a child world, the fear that lies just on the edge of security. However, while I always knew it was a game, I never gave thought to the idea that the child did not necessarily believe it was a game, but that these scenarios could be quite real. The edge of relief and panic would mix with laughter in each child as I would sit up from my feigned and exaggerated “death”. The laughter would become hysterical at times, for what I now realize may have been hysteria.
I was unknowingly scaffolding for these toddlers their entry into coping with fears that, left unaddressed, could compromise their ability to make important life transitions in not only their social capabilities but their cognitive development as well. I became another player in a social drama that seems to have it's roots in something much deeper than play between a child and adult.
A story begins
Monday, January 26, 2009
Occasionally, I publish on this blog pieces of writing I may be doing in my "professional" life. As I inch my way towards my dissertation, I do these pieces to help myself clarify the story I am telling - for this is what it is, this dissertation. My narrative. The Emily in this story is 16 years old now, Hannah is 13, Shannon and Geoffrey are 12, and while I know they have no recollection of me or these incidents - I carry them within ME as part of my reflective teaching practice. They created Dawn - the teacher. And I am grateful.
I have been reading a lot of journal articles and other scholarly works in the past week, waiting for my ideas and opinions to congeal. I find myself still occasionally tongue tied by Vygotsky, then subsequently get annoyed at myself for this strange mental block I have developed.
I returned to my base. I began to read and re-read articles on children, rather than pure theory. One article would lead me to the next. If something of interest was cited in one, I would track down the source, download it and read the source material. “Scholarly” is what Teresa has called it, but for me it is following the leech field of ideas. I need to see where things came from so I can re-construct the ideas for myself. Only at this point can I integrate the new knowledge into my wider sphere of knowing. As ridiculous as this sounds, it is then that I can feel confident of having absorbed the knowledge – soaked it up in my brain like a sea sponge. I am happy when I am at this task, for there is nothing that I am so much as tenacious in task.
This last journey started with a chapter of a book, “The Origins of Storytelling” from The Stories Children Tell by Susan Engel. As I read this authors ideas around the way children come to acquire the ability to tell stories, I was drawn back to my days working with Infants and Toddlers. Yes, it was true that I spent a good deal of my days describing to the children in my care.
I would start off the day by setting the room up in order to entice the various individuals. I knew Geoffrey loved the pig puppet, so maybe I will hide it in the tunnel in order for him to find it...or Shannon loves the pictures of faces, maybe I will line them up next to the mirror in order for her to make faces AT the faces, and catch sight of herself doing this, which will lead to howls of laughter from her...or Hannah loves to race to the top of the climber and knock over the stacking cups I will have placed on top for her to decimate. With these memories came the knowledge of WHO each of these people were ( and most likely still are) as thinking, learning individuals. As a teacher, I understood that it was not merely the taking care of physical needs such as diapering and feeding and napping, but the language I supplied that helped these children make sense of the things they already knew.
It was Magda Gerber who I sincerely credit for my understanding of the role of my talk in the worlds of these babies. Magda did not like “chattering” adults who talked in baby talk to infants. She taught that you should be purposeful in your talking. Describe what the infant is seeing. Reflect the infants experience. Validate their feelings and frustrations at occasionally being limited by their bodies lack of coordination. But above all, be authentic. Infants know who the trustworthy and respectful adults are – they sense it like a beam of light coming out of our foreheads. They may be babies, but they aren't stupid.
I recall a day during my first year of teaching when I became aware of my use of language. Emily had a temperature and was clearly uncomfortable. As I watched her from my spot on the floor, I asked her if she needed me to take her temp. She glared back at me, assessing whether the comfort she could derive from holding and maybe some tylenol would outweigh the irritation of giving up what she was doing and having me take her temperature. Another parent was in the room, as we often had visitors during break and lunch times.
Emily looked at me again. I sat up, cross legged and waited. “Do you want your temperature taken, Emily? You don't look like you are very comfortable.”
In nearly all things, Magda Gerber teaches her students to seek the childs cooperation and consent. There are times to assert your adult need to care for them, but on the whole, we asked for participation in the care rather than assertion of adult might. When an infant knows that their caregiver respects their body, they trust that the things we ask – such as diapering, or napping, or temperature taking, springs from a sincere concern rather than a need to dominate and control.
Emily looked down to the object she was exploring. I offered, “We can save that for you if you are worried about losing it while I take your temperature...”. It was indeed what she was worried about, and she look relieved as she picked up the toy and brought it with her as she walked over to the couch. I got the thermometer and met her at the couch. Snuggled on my lap, with the toy safely next to us, I said “It's going to be cold at first – the temperature...”
I paused and then said “Actually what I meant to say was that the thermometer will be cold at first – and the thermometer is what I use to take your bodies temperature. You'll know it is done when you hear the beep beep beep.”
Emily leaned back into me and said “Beep”.
We both sat there, waiting for the tell tale beep of completion.
The other visiting mother sat watching me from the rocking chair. She began to laugh. “That was a lot of explanation for taking a temperature!”, she chortled.
“Was it? I was just correcting my mistake – that I use a thermometer to take her temperature, really I was just thinking aloud...”
It was the first time I recall being consciously aware that my language was being broadcast to the children for whom I cared.
In reflecting on this long ago incidence, I also believe that I was helping Emily, and all the other children I cared for over years, create their own narratives. My language, my interpretation of their body language, my teaching sign language to younger infants to help them verbalize their needs and wants, all these things added to narratives. I was telling them stories, and they were telling me stories.
In every classroom in which I taught, we had a wall of family and friends. On this wall were photos of important people in the lives of the children, as well as the copious photos I took of them at work and play. One little boy, Geoffrey, loved to flip over a plastic bucket in front of the wall and sit for many minutes every day – naming every one he knew on the wall. At eleven months, he would stretch out his index finger and say the name of the person ( or animal) as his finger reached the picture. Inevitably, some one, adult or peer, would join him at his perch. There is nothing as delightful as being reminded of the people you know and love.
It was this activity – and many others – that helped me learn that infants and toddlers are able to project outward and understand others stories. We all knew the same of Lauren's dog in her picture – Diva – and the names of Hannah's cats too. We understood that those people and pets belonged to that one child. We all understood the idea of “Mother” too – but understood that my mother was not your mother or her mother or his mother. Mother could be a term that meant similar – but completely different things.
I have been reading a lot of journal articles and other scholarly works in the past week, waiting for my ideas and opinions to congeal. I find myself still occasionally tongue tied by Vygotsky, then subsequently get annoyed at myself for this strange mental block I have developed.
I returned to my base. I began to read and re-read articles on children, rather than pure theory. One article would lead me to the next. If something of interest was cited in one, I would track down the source, download it and read the source material. “Scholarly” is what Teresa has called it, but for me it is following the leech field of ideas. I need to see where things came from so I can re-construct the ideas for myself. Only at this point can I integrate the new knowledge into my wider sphere of knowing. As ridiculous as this sounds, it is then that I can feel confident of having absorbed the knowledge – soaked it up in my brain like a sea sponge. I am happy when I am at this task, for there is nothing that I am so much as tenacious in task.
This last journey started with a chapter of a book, “The Origins of Storytelling” from The Stories Children Tell by Susan Engel. As I read this authors ideas around the way children come to acquire the ability to tell stories, I was drawn back to my days working with Infants and Toddlers. Yes, it was true that I spent a good deal of my days describing to the children in my care.
I would start off the day by setting the room up in order to entice the various individuals. I knew Geoffrey loved the pig puppet, so maybe I will hide it in the tunnel in order for him to find it...or Shannon loves the pictures of faces, maybe I will line them up next to the mirror in order for her to make faces AT the faces, and catch sight of herself doing this, which will lead to howls of laughter from her...or Hannah loves to race to the top of the climber and knock over the stacking cups I will have placed on top for her to decimate. With these memories came the knowledge of WHO each of these people were ( and most likely still are) as thinking, learning individuals. As a teacher, I understood that it was not merely the taking care of physical needs such as diapering and feeding and napping, but the language I supplied that helped these children make sense of the things they already knew.
It was Magda Gerber who I sincerely credit for my understanding of the role of my talk in the worlds of these babies. Magda did not like “chattering” adults who talked in baby talk to infants. She taught that you should be purposeful in your talking. Describe what the infant is seeing. Reflect the infants experience. Validate their feelings and frustrations at occasionally being limited by their bodies lack of coordination. But above all, be authentic. Infants know who the trustworthy and respectful adults are – they sense it like a beam of light coming out of our foreheads. They may be babies, but they aren't stupid.
I recall a day during my first year of teaching when I became aware of my use of language. Emily had a temperature and was clearly uncomfortable. As I watched her from my spot on the floor, I asked her if she needed me to take her temp. She glared back at me, assessing whether the comfort she could derive from holding and maybe some tylenol would outweigh the irritation of giving up what she was doing and having me take her temperature. Another parent was in the room, as we often had visitors during break and lunch times.
Emily looked at me again. I sat up, cross legged and waited. “Do you want your temperature taken, Emily? You don't look like you are very comfortable.”
In nearly all things, Magda Gerber teaches her students to seek the childs cooperation and consent. There are times to assert your adult need to care for them, but on the whole, we asked for participation in the care rather than assertion of adult might. When an infant knows that their caregiver respects their body, they trust that the things we ask – such as diapering, or napping, or temperature taking, springs from a sincere concern rather than a need to dominate and control.
Emily looked down to the object she was exploring. I offered, “We can save that for you if you are worried about losing it while I take your temperature...”. It was indeed what she was worried about, and she look relieved as she picked up the toy and brought it with her as she walked over to the couch. I got the thermometer and met her at the couch. Snuggled on my lap, with the toy safely next to us, I said “It's going to be cold at first – the temperature...”
I paused and then said “Actually what I meant to say was that the thermometer will be cold at first – and the thermometer is what I use to take your bodies temperature. You'll know it is done when you hear the beep beep beep.”
Emily leaned back into me and said “Beep”.
We both sat there, waiting for the tell tale beep of completion.
The other visiting mother sat watching me from the rocking chair. She began to laugh. “That was a lot of explanation for taking a temperature!”, she chortled.
“Was it? I was just correcting my mistake – that I use a thermometer to take her temperature, really I was just thinking aloud...”
It was the first time I recall being consciously aware that my language was being broadcast to the children for whom I cared.
In reflecting on this long ago incidence, I also believe that I was helping Emily, and all the other children I cared for over years, create their own narratives. My language, my interpretation of their body language, my teaching sign language to younger infants to help them verbalize their needs and wants, all these things added to narratives. I was telling them stories, and they were telling me stories.
In every classroom in which I taught, we had a wall of family and friends. On this wall were photos of important people in the lives of the children, as well as the copious photos I took of them at work and play. One little boy, Geoffrey, loved to flip over a plastic bucket in front of the wall and sit for many minutes every day – naming every one he knew on the wall. At eleven months, he would stretch out his index finger and say the name of the person ( or animal) as his finger reached the picture. Inevitably, some one, adult or peer, would join him at his perch. There is nothing as delightful as being reminded of the people you know and love.
It was this activity – and many others – that helped me learn that infants and toddlers are able to project outward and understand others stories. We all knew the same of Lauren's dog in her picture – Diva – and the names of Hannah's cats too. We understood that those people and pets belonged to that one child. We all understood the idea of “Mother” too – but understood that my mother was not your mother or her mother or his mother. Mother could be a term that meant similar – but completely different things.
Half Moon on Sunday
Wednesday, January 21, 2009
Emily and I were in Maine a few weeks ago for a dear friends birthday party.
We had a LOVELY time and did silly things - Like my serenade to her of the Billy Idol Classic "Eyes without a Face" - which makes even less sense NOW as I sing it to my eye rolling daughter in the passenger seat. Or my insistence that she absorb the important life lessons that Gloria Gaynor is speaking about in "I will Survive".
She served heroically as the co-pilot in our six hour journey.
However, she seriously earned her keep Sunday morning.
I was groggily waking up. Was I hung over? Bite your tongue. I had a bit of a sinus headache, thats all. And maybe some light frostbite on my feet during the running to and from the freezing cold ocean. I was also informed, in a disapproving tone eerily reminiscent to her father, that I had snored during the night.
I meandered down the stairs. Consumed Coffee and Water. Some food eventually. Wandered back up the stairs to prepare for the long journey home. Put on my blue jeans. Sat down. And heard an ungodly rip.
This rip was so loud and so long that both Emily and I stopped and stared at each other.
My hand slid down the back of my jeans. Emily craned her neck to peek at the damage.
Yep. I had one full ass check exposed. And not in that "You'll never know if you aren't looking" way - I mean One half of my bodacious booty was on full display.
Now, being Not-hung-over and feeling a bit Winter bloated is one thing. To have your Blue jeans give up the ghost in such a dramatic fashion is quite another.
"Change pants" Emily suggested.
"These were the only pair I brought", I said. At least that is what not-hung-over Dawn said. In reality, I guess I DID have some pajama bottoms in either Christmas Plaid OR Holiday Gnomes that I could have worn. But then I would have had to tell the other adults that my ass had just blown out my jeans. Which I didn't want to do - regardless of the 16 years we have collectively been friends.
"Give me your sweatshirt" were the next words I spoke to my still stunned looking child. I then proceeded to attempt to wrap the sweatshirt around my waist to hide my lone ass cheek.
We may now all pause for a hearty laugh.
What was I thinking? A ten year olds sweatshirt? Good Lord.
I sighed.
"Listen", I said. "Go down stairs and get me my cape - I'll wear the cape for the rest of the time and we'll drive to Old Navy and I will get a new pair of pants...but don't tell anyone why you are bringing me my cape upstairs...inside."
And that is how we proceeded. I wore the cape for the rest of the hour or so we were there - bringing things to and from the car. Once on the road, I had to stop and get gas, so my partially covered cheek froze as I stood at the pump - holding the cape down so as not to give the Maine gas station attendants more of a moon than needed.
We then drove to Old Navy - where I held the cape down over my backside while I bought XL yoga pants -which were ridiculously big - but having just blown out my blue jeans, I didn't think it was time to prove that my ass wasn't as big as my jeans had just led me to believe.
Once we were back on the road - and my right butt cheek no longer attempting to make new friends - Emily expressed her admiration for my ability to make plans and shop with exposed body parts.
"The trick is - Try to act normal - nobody really knows unless you tell them - and this is when it is good to be quirky - nobody questioned me wearing a cape in the house - See?"
Then she fell asleep - and I drove us home. In my definately not-hung-over state.
We had a LOVELY time and did silly things - Like my serenade to her of the Billy Idol Classic "Eyes without a Face" - which makes even less sense NOW as I sing it to my eye rolling daughter in the passenger seat. Or my insistence that she absorb the important life lessons that Gloria Gaynor is speaking about in "I will Survive".
She served heroically as the co-pilot in our six hour journey.
However, she seriously earned her keep Sunday morning.
I was groggily waking up. Was I hung over? Bite your tongue. I had a bit of a sinus headache, thats all. And maybe some light frostbite on my feet during the running to and from the freezing cold ocean. I was also informed, in a disapproving tone eerily reminiscent to her father, that I had snored during the night.
I meandered down the stairs. Consumed Coffee and Water. Some food eventually. Wandered back up the stairs to prepare for the long journey home. Put on my blue jeans. Sat down. And heard an ungodly rip.
This rip was so loud and so long that both Emily and I stopped and stared at each other.
My hand slid down the back of my jeans. Emily craned her neck to peek at the damage.
Yep. I had one full ass check exposed. And not in that "You'll never know if you aren't looking" way - I mean One half of my bodacious booty was on full display.
Now, being Not-hung-over and feeling a bit Winter bloated is one thing. To have your Blue jeans give up the ghost in such a dramatic fashion is quite another.
"Change pants" Emily suggested.
"These were the only pair I brought", I said. At least that is what not-hung-over Dawn said. In reality, I guess I DID have some pajama bottoms in either Christmas Plaid OR Holiday Gnomes that I could have worn. But then I would have had to tell the other adults that my ass had just blown out my jeans. Which I didn't want to do - regardless of the 16 years we have collectively been friends.
"Give me your sweatshirt" were the next words I spoke to my still stunned looking child. I then proceeded to attempt to wrap the sweatshirt around my waist to hide my lone ass cheek.
We may now all pause for a hearty laugh.
What was I thinking? A ten year olds sweatshirt? Good Lord.
I sighed.
"Listen", I said. "Go down stairs and get me my cape - I'll wear the cape for the rest of the time and we'll drive to Old Navy and I will get a new pair of pants...but don't tell anyone why you are bringing me my cape upstairs...inside."
And that is how we proceeded. I wore the cape for the rest of the hour or so we were there - bringing things to and from the car. Once on the road, I had to stop and get gas, so my partially covered cheek froze as I stood at the pump - holding the cape down so as not to give the Maine gas station attendants more of a moon than needed.
We then drove to Old Navy - where I held the cape down over my backside while I bought XL yoga pants -which were ridiculously big - but having just blown out my blue jeans, I didn't think it was time to prove that my ass wasn't as big as my jeans had just led me to believe.
Once we were back on the road - and my right butt cheek no longer attempting to make new friends - Emily expressed her admiration for my ability to make plans and shop with exposed body parts.
"The trick is - Try to act normal - nobody really knows unless you tell them - and this is when it is good to be quirky - nobody questioned me wearing a cape in the house - See?"
Then she fell asleep - and I drove us home. In my definately not-hung-over state.
Sleepless
Thursday, January 15, 2009
I had a bit of a panic attack yesterday. It was the first authentic one in a long time, and I am still in recovery mode ( as evidenced by the 3 a.m. blog posting).
If it is not yet obvious to the four of you who still hang around to read my ramblings, I am HARD on myself. Far harder - usually - than others. I am the person who hears "I was expecting you earlier" and it becomes a referendum on my chronic tardiness. Or "Hey, let's meet and discuss the project" which becomes "Hey - Come to my office and I will list all the ways you have personally disappointed me with your lack of dedication and progress on the research project."
Yeah. I know.
I take a small statement and extrapolate it out into the most terrible thing it COULD be, for which I then plan - because when you expect the worst you can't be shocked when it happens. At the very least, you will know you deserved it.
This lingering mental conversation is one that is very tough for me from which to break away. Often, the loop closes and I become a mental hamster - spinning faster and faster in my own internal dialogue - until I either burst into tears ( rare in public) or I run, run away and hide...then burst into tears in private...and hide some more in shame for the breakdown.
This is where I was this afternoon when I started to cry. Then ran out of work to my car -for the very shame of being human and feeling overwhelmed necessitated my leave taking. Which led to a frantic email to my supervisor as to why I was in the process of having a panic attack for not being good enough.
I sometimes joke that there are two distinct Dawns. Not in a "Hello meet my other personality" way, but more so in the way that I can hear the two distinct Dawns in tandem having a running dialogue about my choices. I call them "Emotional Dawn" and "Logical Dawn". Logical Dawn thinks Emotional Dawn is a bit weak, and Emotional Dawn thinks Logical Dawn is a bit anal and cold. In Freudian terms, we are talking pure id and super ego here. I just gave them names.
Balancing myself between the two extremes is occasionally very hard work, for when the balance shifts to one side...it inevitably swings back to the other - and rocks me both ways until I can regain control and shift it back into the middle of the fulcrum.
These are the nights I wake at 3 a.m. and write this all down.
If it is not yet obvious to the four of you who still hang around to read my ramblings, I am HARD on myself. Far harder - usually - than others. I am the person who hears "I was expecting you earlier" and it becomes a referendum on my chronic tardiness. Or "Hey, let's meet and discuss the project" which becomes "Hey - Come to my office and I will list all the ways you have personally disappointed me with your lack of dedication and progress on the research project."
Yeah. I know.
I take a small statement and extrapolate it out into the most terrible thing it COULD be, for which I then plan - because when you expect the worst you can't be shocked when it happens. At the very least, you will know you deserved it.
This lingering mental conversation is one that is very tough for me from which to break away. Often, the loop closes and I become a mental hamster - spinning faster and faster in my own internal dialogue - until I either burst into tears ( rare in public) or I run, run away and hide...then burst into tears in private...and hide some more in shame for the breakdown.
This is where I was this afternoon when I started to cry. Then ran out of work to my car -for the very shame of being human and feeling overwhelmed necessitated my leave taking. Which led to a frantic email to my supervisor as to why I was in the process of having a panic attack for not being good enough.
I sometimes joke that there are two distinct Dawns. Not in a "Hello meet my other personality" way, but more so in the way that I can hear the two distinct Dawns in tandem having a running dialogue about my choices. I call them "Emotional Dawn" and "Logical Dawn". Logical Dawn thinks Emotional Dawn is a bit weak, and Emotional Dawn thinks Logical Dawn is a bit anal and cold. In Freudian terms, we are talking pure id and super ego here. I just gave them names.
Balancing myself between the two extremes is occasionally very hard work, for when the balance shifts to one side...it inevitably swings back to the other - and rocks me both ways until I can regain control and shift it back into the middle of the fulcrum.
These are the nights I wake at 3 a.m. and write this all down.
Moody Beach
Tuesday, January 13, 2009
And this is what happens when you drink a very nice wine with a bunch of old friends:
You can't stop the music
Wednesday, January 07, 2009
One would think after hearing the soundtrack of all High School Musical - 1,2 and 3 - over and over again that I might know the words.
Alas, this is not true.
It is also not really true for my daughter who, nonetheless, belts them out at the top of her tuneless voice. Wii Sing it Mic in Hand. Screaming to cover up her lack of knowledge of the words or tune - and her impatience for reading the words on the screen. Words? Tune? The Sex Pistols didn't need these - why should she?
She often ends these song-massacre fests with,
"Thank you - I'll be here all week!"
And much like her obsession with the "Blues Big Musical" soundtrack at age 2 - I must simply wait it out.
Alas, this is not true.
It is also not really true for my daughter who, nonetheless, belts them out at the top of her tuneless voice. Wii Sing it Mic in Hand. Screaming to cover up her lack of knowledge of the words or tune - and her impatience for reading the words on the screen. Words? Tune? The Sex Pistols didn't need these - why should she?
She often ends these song-massacre fests with,
"Thank you - I'll be here all week!"
And much like her obsession with the "Blues Big Musical" soundtrack at age 2 - I must simply wait it out.
Its the Most wonderful day of the year!
Monday, January 05, 2009
And all you parents out there know what I am talking about -
Say it with me!
School is back in session!
Lord Baby Jeebus - that was one long ass vacation.
I was worried by this morning that Terrance and Emily might actually fall to the ground and begin to wrestle in earnest - That perhaps a thunderdome had been constructed in my living room and the cast of Mad Max was coming to cheer the two of them on.
Two go in - One comes out.
And Frankly, I think there is even money on both of them. Terrance may have bulk and muscle, but Em has whining and crying and the way she says "Daaaaaaaaadddddddddyyyyyy" which seems to make him move. Oh and any mention of her labia, cramps or breasts. That stops him dead in his tracks.
The first week can almost seem jolly and festive. Christmas is coming. Errands need to be done, packages wrapped. This year my "Mommy and Em" craft was fleece scarves and hats, so we needed to finish those gifts. Movies are an easy option for an afternoon activity and we are not completely sick of each other as a threesome.
But By Monday of this week - Whoo wee.
Here are some things Emily and I have argued about:
1. The type of multigrain bread I buy. She objects as it has "seeds and nuts and stuff". The grilled cheese I make on this bread is deemed unacceptable as the added nutritive value of the aforementioned seeds and nuts has canceled out by the buttery cheese.
2. Soup. How anyone can argue about soup is beyond me, but my kid can do it. Too salty. Not salty enough. Containing barley instead of rice. Too much broth. Too many vegetables. AAAAHHH. Its SOUP. JUST EAT IT......and NO WE ARE NOT ORDERING PIZZA!!!
3. Her hair.
NEVER ENDING ARGUMENT. I plan on laughing my ass off when she says something to me in the future about her daughter and combing her hair. If Terrance's button is "girly parts talk" then mine is definitely the whimpering about the combing. The whimpering that becomes full fledged Moaning and crying. Makes my armpits tingle and the cold sweat breaks out.
4. Making her bed.
Although I can SEE her bed. Although I know how to properly make a bed. Although at no time have my instructions to my daughter included "Please throw at the blankets at the foot of your bed and pretend you have made your bed"...this is what she does. When I point this out with this :"Please go back in your room and make your bed FOR REAL" she stomps - STOMPS back with the exhortation "WHAT?!" with her hands up in the air, waving them around, because apparently this looks fine to her.
5. The book report she was supposed to turn in this week.
You know - cause her weeks were so booked with complaining about my cooking, her hair and (not) making her bed she simply couldn't squeeze out the time to do the reading and writing for this one page book report.
and finally - the crowning king argument of the pst two weeks:
Television ( including Wii Sing it).
Seriously. By Thursday, I declared our house to be a Television free zone. For which she punished me mercilessly. But listen. I could not take one more second of Zack and Cody, or Hannah Montana or Raven or Anything. I just COULDN'T. I developed an actual physical reaction when I heard the voices- Seriously. I had to take rescue remedy at one point to keep me from completely losing my mind.
So after she went to school today, Terrance asked me what I was planning to do.
And I said - Nothing.
For real. I am doing nothing today, because the rest of the week is already booked and I need to day to myself.
Say it with me!
School is back in session!
Lord Baby Jeebus - that was one long ass vacation.
I was worried by this morning that Terrance and Emily might actually fall to the ground and begin to wrestle in earnest - That perhaps a thunderdome had been constructed in my living room and the cast of Mad Max was coming to cheer the two of them on.
Two go in - One comes out.
And Frankly, I think there is even money on both of them. Terrance may have bulk and muscle, but Em has whining and crying and the way she says "Daaaaaaaaadddddddddyyyyyy" which seems to make him move. Oh and any mention of her labia, cramps or breasts. That stops him dead in his tracks.
The first week can almost seem jolly and festive. Christmas is coming. Errands need to be done, packages wrapped. This year my "Mommy and Em" craft was fleece scarves and hats, so we needed to finish those gifts. Movies are an easy option for an afternoon activity and we are not completely sick of each other as a threesome.
But By Monday of this week - Whoo wee.
Here are some things Emily and I have argued about:
1. The type of multigrain bread I buy. She objects as it has "seeds and nuts and stuff". The grilled cheese I make on this bread is deemed unacceptable as the added nutritive value of the aforementioned seeds and nuts has canceled out by the buttery cheese.
2. Soup. How anyone can argue about soup is beyond me, but my kid can do it. Too salty. Not salty enough. Containing barley instead of rice. Too much broth. Too many vegetables. AAAAHHH. Its SOUP. JUST EAT IT......and NO WE ARE NOT ORDERING PIZZA!!!
3. Her hair.
NEVER ENDING ARGUMENT. I plan on laughing my ass off when she says something to me in the future about her daughter and combing her hair. If Terrance's button is "girly parts talk" then mine is definitely the whimpering about the combing. The whimpering that becomes full fledged Moaning and crying. Makes my armpits tingle and the cold sweat breaks out.
4. Making her bed.
Although I can SEE her bed. Although I know how to properly make a bed. Although at no time have my instructions to my daughter included "Please throw at the blankets at the foot of your bed and pretend you have made your bed"...this is what she does. When I point this out with this :"Please go back in your room and make your bed FOR REAL" she stomps - STOMPS back with the exhortation "WHAT?!" with her hands up in the air, waving them around, because apparently this looks fine to her.
5. The book report she was supposed to turn in this week.
You know - cause her weeks were so booked with complaining about my cooking, her hair and (not) making her bed she simply couldn't squeeze out the time to do the reading and writing for this one page book report.
and finally - the crowning king argument of the pst two weeks:
Television ( including Wii Sing it).
Seriously. By Thursday, I declared our house to be a Television free zone. For which she punished me mercilessly. But listen. I could not take one more second of Zack and Cody, or Hannah Montana or Raven or Anything. I just COULDN'T. I developed an actual physical reaction when I heard the voices- Seriously. I had to take rescue remedy at one point to keep me from completely losing my mind.
So after she went to school today, Terrance asked me what I was planning to do.
And I said - Nothing.
For real. I am doing nothing today, because the rest of the week is already booked and I need to day to myself.
Fallout
Tuesday, December 30, 2008
So far these are the discussions I have had to have with my daughter post visiting MY mother.
1. Suicide.
Apparently my mother shared that a "good friend" of hers committed suicide recently because she was depressed. Apparently this "good friend" was 16...and a neighbors child.
2. Online Dating
My mother shared her "profile" with my daughter. Including a picture of herself walking into a sunset. Emily reports that she also saw pictures of "the boys" that my mother is "good friends" with.
Oh. My. Head.
1. Suicide.
Apparently my mother shared that a "good friend" of hers committed suicide recently because she was depressed. Apparently this "good friend" was 16...and a neighbors child.
2. Online Dating
My mother shared her "profile" with my daughter. Including a picture of herself walking into a sunset. Emily reports that she also saw pictures of "the boys" that my mother is "good friends" with.
Oh. My. Head.
Temporary Lock
Saturday, December 27, 2008
I have turned my child over to my mother.
Well - I haven't - but Terrance arranged it. I am still not on speaking terms with Crazy D from the August outburst..but Terrance is a good person, and kind hearted towards my mother in a way that my brother and have exhausted.
I worry about Emily when she is away from me and more specifically with my mother. There have been visits with her grandmother in which her hair doesn't get brushed....and she hasn't been required to brush her teeth. And she has subsisted on Diet Coke.
Terrance used to think was full of shit when I would talk about the year I didn't brush my teeth, or my mothers attitude on meals and nutrition. I would call it my feral childhood, and Terrance would call bullshit for my exaggeration. In his mind, no adult could be so non-attentive to the children in the household.
So when I hand over my carefully observed only child to my mother, I worry.
It is a tough dichotomy - wanting your child to have a relationship with your parent that is not steeped in all the years of shit that you wade through...
Emily knows I am not talking with my mother, although she doesn't really know why. It is not her concern, and I have no need to poison a well that seems healthy. She sometimes asks and I explain that I love my mother....but I just can't talk with her for a while. Emily also knows that there is a baby boy soon to be born to my brother and his wife...and that my mother is not welcome. For my brother, he has had to shut that door - and BOLT it. I only put up a temporary latch, for I know that I will open the door again some day. I always do. I always have.
Well - I haven't - but Terrance arranged it. I am still not on speaking terms with Crazy D from the August outburst..but Terrance is a good person, and kind hearted towards my mother in a way that my brother and have exhausted.
I worry about Emily when she is away from me and more specifically with my mother. There have been visits with her grandmother in which her hair doesn't get brushed....and she hasn't been required to brush her teeth. And she has subsisted on Diet Coke.
Terrance used to think was full of shit when I would talk about the year I didn't brush my teeth, or my mothers attitude on meals and nutrition. I would call it my feral childhood, and Terrance would call bullshit for my exaggeration. In his mind, no adult could be so non-attentive to the children in the household.
So when I hand over my carefully observed only child to my mother, I worry.
It is a tough dichotomy - wanting your child to have a relationship with your parent that is not steeped in all the years of shit that you wade through...
Emily knows I am not talking with my mother, although she doesn't really know why. It is not her concern, and I have no need to poison a well that seems healthy. She sometimes asks and I explain that I love my mother....but I just can't talk with her for a while. Emily also knows that there is a baby boy soon to be born to my brother and his wife...and that my mother is not welcome. For my brother, he has had to shut that door - and BOLT it. I only put up a temporary latch, for I know that I will open the door again some day. I always do. I always have.
Just get through the day
Wednesday, December 24, 2008
By 11 this morning, I had already yelled, "EMILY! SHUT THE F**K UP!" at my beloved only offspring.
Yes, the sounds of profanity before noon must mean One thing!
It's Christmas Eve!
Combined with the imminent arrival of my period makes for a priceless personality combination in the Mother/Wife of the household.
About a half an hour later, she and I were entangled in a life and death struggle over the brushing of her hair.
I tried. I honestly tried to keep my cool with the usual whining and complaining. I was explaining that I was parting it into sections so I could comb out each section. Emily, if left to her own hair brushing devices, waves the brush in the general direction over the top layer of her hair. This leaves the undergrowth to resemble Mirkwood - filled with giant spiders and evil spirits.
It is into Mirkwood that I am forced to delve. I try to be gentle - holding the hank of hair in one hair to deflect some of the inevitable pulling on the roots. I remind her that I want to be done with this as quickly as she wants to have it done.
And after one too many whiny "oooooouuuuucccchhhhh - why can't you just be done?" Followed by "Why can't you just do it quick?".....
I snapped. I held the brush out and began to BRUSH. HARD. Her head began snapping back and forth as she cried louder. I yelled "SEE! THIS IS WHAT HAPPENS WHEN YOU DON'T BRUSH YOUR HAIR" and "THIS IS WHAT TO FEELS LIKE WHEN I AM NOT TRYING TO BE GENTLE!"
Not quite a metal hanger incident ala Joan Crawford....but bad enough.
She ran off to her bedroom - wailing - and slammed the door. I lay down on the bed and waited for my heart to stop pounding.
After ten minutes, I walked across the house and knocked on her door.
"Who is it", she called out.
"It's Your mother - may I come in?"
"Oh. Ok."
And the door opened and she stood there...tears still on her cheeks.
"I'd like to apologize and give you a hug", I said - stepping into the room
And she broke down. The tears of a little girl who needs to be consoled.
"That was MEAN", she murmured from my midsection.
"Yes it was and I was wrong to be mean. Can we try to be gentle with each other - I know you are excited about Christmas..."
"I AM excited. I can't help it."
"I know, sweetie. I love you."
Yes, the sounds of profanity before noon must mean One thing!
It's Christmas Eve!
Combined with the imminent arrival of my period makes for a priceless personality combination in the Mother/Wife of the household.
About a half an hour later, she and I were entangled in a life and death struggle over the brushing of her hair.
I tried. I honestly tried to keep my cool with the usual whining and complaining. I was explaining that I was parting it into sections so I could comb out each section. Emily, if left to her own hair brushing devices, waves the brush in the general direction over the top layer of her hair. This leaves the undergrowth to resemble Mirkwood - filled with giant spiders and evil spirits.
It is into Mirkwood that I am forced to delve. I try to be gentle - holding the hank of hair in one hair to deflect some of the inevitable pulling on the roots. I remind her that I want to be done with this as quickly as she wants to have it done.
And after one too many whiny "oooooouuuuucccchhhhh - why can't you just be done?" Followed by "Why can't you just do it quick?".....
I snapped. I held the brush out and began to BRUSH. HARD. Her head began snapping back and forth as she cried louder. I yelled "SEE! THIS IS WHAT HAPPENS WHEN YOU DON'T BRUSH YOUR HAIR" and "THIS IS WHAT TO FEELS LIKE WHEN I AM NOT TRYING TO BE GENTLE!"
Not quite a metal hanger incident ala Joan Crawford....but bad enough.
She ran off to her bedroom - wailing - and slammed the door. I lay down on the bed and waited for my heart to stop pounding.
After ten minutes, I walked across the house and knocked on her door.
"Who is it", she called out.
"It's Your mother - may I come in?"
"Oh. Ok."
And the door opened and she stood there...tears still on her cheeks.
"I'd like to apologize and give you a hug", I said - stepping into the room
And she broke down. The tears of a little girl who needs to be consoled.
"That was MEAN", she murmured from my midsection.
"Yes it was and I was wrong to be mean. Can we try to be gentle with each other - I know you are excited about Christmas..."
"I AM excited. I can't help it."
"I know, sweetie. I love you."
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