Category: Lancient History

Explaining the Strange Behavior, Howling Sea Lane, Inside Lane, Lancient History

…but Bad Girls Go Everywhere

the outside lane

Suddenly, my child who was wearing a 4T, this time last year, is fitting well into a child’s size medium t-shirt.  This time last year, he wore an extra-small, and that was roomy.  This time last year, he was still wearing some of his old 3T shorts without issue.  Those toddler days are long gone.  By the time the school year rolls around, he’s going to be 6 feet tall!  And speaking of school…

Today, I read something that amounted to this:  Boys are better at solving problems/taking on learning challenges than girls because boys are encouraged to “try” whereas girls are encouraged to “be”.  That is, girls more often receive encouragement and praise for innate qualities (like prettiness, or goodness, or sweetness), whereas boys more often receive encouragement and praise for qualities that require practice and learning (like thinking, or physical activity).  While the crux of my personal experience does not support the article, that has a lot to do with having had a largely non-coed education.

Until 7th grade, I was either in all-girls school, or my classes were segregated by gender.  Through 5th grade, the boys and girls at my school were taught in separate classrooms.  We might have passed each other in the hallways, but the only time we mixed were for field trips or the class play.  Thus and so, I never experienced the grade school phenomenon of being treated differently because of my gender.  If there was competition to be had it was strictly based on ability, or potential ability.

Then again, I wasn’t a “good” girl in school.  I was a talker, and a balker, and a doodler, daydreamer, eyeball roller.  I wasn’t praised for my goodness because it just didn’t exist.  I wasn’t praised at school for prettiness–there were plenty of prettier girls in my grade anyway.  I wasn’t praised at school for sweetness.  Quite the contrary. 

When I received praise at school, it was for completing tasks ahead of expectation, for excelling at writing or singing, or for giving it my all even when success wasn’t an option (that was phys ed, and that’s pretty much what one of my phys ed teachers wrote in a grade school yearbook!)  But my school and my class were filled with extraordinary girls.

Sarah was an accomplished dancer by the time we were 3rd graders.  Lena could draw with amazing talent.  Helen was on her way to Junior Wimbledon.  Danielle was a violin virtuoso.  Laurel, a few grades ahead, hadn’t even started dancing before 7th grade, and ended up a principle dancer in a ballet company.  My classmates were all girls who did things.  And, I really can’t remember any of my teachers, though 6th grade, who gave us kudos for being quiet*, or nice, or anything other than for being the type of students they thought we should be.

I went to mixed schools for 7th and 8th grades, and 11th and 12th grades.  I think I had been well enough insulated from gender discrimination that when it happened, I didn’t recognize it for what it was.  When I was passed over, or ignored in favor of boys (and I was), I figured it was because I hadn’t asserted myself well enough, or proved myself–that just made me go into overdrive in the classroom. 

Then, I had teachers in those grades tell me to be more ladylike.  Teachers in those grades suggested that I was way too assertive, and two of them (both male coaches, one in 7th and one in 11th grade, who were teaching regular classes) told me that I needed to dial it back a notch because I was making a few of the boys feel bad (and in one case it led to a period in the gym, allowing the students to make grade points with free throws, and the coach asking me how it felt to be bad at something.  ???  Yeah, my mother had a field day with that one.  –Fortunately, I’d already had 6 years of knowing I was pathetic at sports to support me.)  I wasn’t the smartest girl, but I was apparently the most obnoxious! 

I never felt bad when I wasn’t the prettiest or the sweetest.  I knew I wasn’t the prettiest!  Or the sweetest.  I was horrified, though, when I felt I wasn’t smart enough, or able enough.  And I was mystified when my ability was confused with my lack of adorability, and I was penalized for not being a darling.

I had the great fortune to be educated by strong women, and educated to be a strong woman.  It wasn’t until I was in public school that the question of whether or not I would be a “good” woman came into play.

“Good” women, like the Proverbs 31 woman, literally do it all while their husbands reap all the benefit of praise at the city gates.  And “good” women smile beatifically at the fact that their husband is considered rich for their woman’s work.  I can’t even type that without my right eyebrow inching higher and my nostrils flaring.  BS!  I’ll do it all, but ain’t nobody gonna take the credit for it but me!

And if I’m working as hard as that Proverbs 31 woman?  My husband better be busting his chops, too.  Hanging around at the city wall telling his friends how great my garden grows won’t cut it.  I expect an equal partner, who is just as willing to weed and rake as I am**.

I will never be a “good” girl, and I’m proud of that.  Pretty fades into oblivion.  Sweet is overrated.  Praise your girls for being great thinkers, great problem solvers, great challenge over-comers, for having good reasoning abilities, and common sense, AND for being pretty, and kind to others, and respectful, and considerate, AND for being true to themselves, and pursuing their dreams, and for striving to get what they want for themselves–if it’s reaching for the next A, or the newest Barbie–encourage them to dream, then put legs to those dreams and run toward them.  They’ll learn to run fast enough that the naysayers and sexist twerps will just be a blur in their peripheral vision.

*By quiet, I mean unassuming.  We were encouraged to be assertive, and even a little aggressive.  Field Hockey was a big deal, after all.

**And I have that equal partner.  I am extremely fortunate.

Explaining the Strange Behavior, Family, Howling Sea Lane, Inside Lane, Lancient History, relationships

Dress Boxes in my Mind

the outside lane

One of the things I like about Thor’s pediatrician is that before she does any part of an examination that requires touching below the belt, she says to him, “Thor, I am about to examine your privates.  It is okay for me to examine them because I am your doctor, and because your mother is in the room with me.  If anyone else asks to look at, or touch your privates, you tell them no, and you tell your mom and dad.  These are your private areas, and no other grown-up should ever ask to look at, or touch them.  And no other grown-up should ever ask you to look at, or touch their privates.  Okay?”  And then she does the exam, and as she completes it, she reiterates that it was okay because it was for his health and because I was there to make sure he was protected, and that no other grown ups should be putting their hands on him. 

I like that because the first time it happened, he was barely five, in kindergarten, and it gave me an excellent lead in to having deeper discussions with him.  “Remember when Dr. H said…”  And it helped me give him gentle information to protect himself at an age when he could completely understand the concept.  No longer a baby in diapers, or a toddler/pre-schooler in a daycare setting where I trusted the staff, he was on his own as a child in a school full of people I didn’t know, in bathrooms alone, going on field trips with strange adults, and in classes with children who may have already been hurt by someone else.

A recent event made me question whether or not I had given Thor enough information, so I struck up a conversation with him that started with, “Remember when Dr. H said…” and wrapped up with, “Do you know that sometimes other children might ask to look at, or touch your privates?  And that it is okay and good to say no to them, too?”  He was quiet for too long, and gave me side-eye from the passenger seat.

“Yes,” he finally said.

“Has that ever happened to you?” I asked, glad for the years of acting that kept my voice light.

He considered, again for too long.  “No.”

“Has another child asked you to look at, or touch him or her?”

And, bingo.  Yes, that had happened as recently as I thought it might have.  He was stoic about it.  Said that it had made him feel a little funny and he thought it was weird, but he said no because–gross.  I agreed.  Ew!  Germs!  We laughed.

Then, we talked about how some kids are curious and don’t have the same idea of privacy, and that doesn’t make them bad kids, but those are still his private areas, and not for anyone else to fool around with.  And, I told him if he ever felt worried or afraid to say no, he could use me as an out, and say that his mother told him he wasn’t allowed to do x, y, or z because it was germy–and we both laughed again. Ew!  Germs!  I try to keep it light.  Those little shoulders are too small for it to be heavy.

I was younger than Thor the first time I was bad-touched.  I remember it like this:  I was wearing my new underwear and a man’s voice told me to take off my panties.  I was confused and embarrassed.  I climbed into a dress box, pulled the lid over top of me, and shut myself in to hide.  Once I was in the dress box, the man insisted I take off my panties.  I was afraid to take them off, but I peeled them back to let him look.  It happened three times, then he told me what a bad, dirty girl I was–that seemed like a horrible trick to play for my cooperation.  If I told, everyone would know I was bad and dirty.  And then he went away, and I got out of the box.

It’s a memory I didn’t talk about openly until last year because it has never made sense to me, and because I had an extreme sense of shame attached to it.  From that day, I thought I was a dirty, bad girl, and I was obsessed with nudity–something else I kept a secret.  I thought that the incident was proof that something was wrong with me, and throughout my childhood, I honestly believed I had been visited by The Devil because I was so evil. 

As a grown-up, I understand disassociation, and I understand that when a child can’t make sense of a traumatic situation, they might build a situation that does make sense–I couldn’t tell you who the man was, or what the man looked like.  I couldn’t tell you who the voice belonged to.  I could just tell you exactly where I was, exactly what I was wearing, exactly how my hair was styled, exactly what he said to me, and how the dress box seemed to appear out of nowhere.  In my case, what made sense to me was hiding in a dress box from Kirvin’s–a store that was a thousand miles away. 

Because of that, and subsequent abuse by a babysitter–something else I didn’t really talk openly of until last year–I have no idea what is normal childhood curiousity, versus traumatized child curiousity.  It is very important to me that Thor never feel ashamed of his body, or ashamed of having natural curiousity about his, or other people’s bodies.  It is important to me that he never feel dirty or bad.

It is also very important to me that Thor understands healthy boundaries, that he knows it is okay to wonder and be curious, but not okay to ask for access to anyone else’s bits.  It is okay to ask questions–it’s great to ask questions!  But you need to ask the right people.  I want bodies to be as normal and casual as hair.  We’ve all got it, but we all style it a little differently, and it’s only okay to touch it, sniff it, or ask questions about it in certain situations.

Exploration of self and sexuality is part of life, even way before we attach any notions of desire to it.  I just don’t want Thor to be in positions where someone else, more precocious and more prepared, pushes him off cliffs he’s not yet ready to dive.  I don’t want any dress boxes in his head.

Lancient History

Where the Wild Things Aren’t

the outside lane

I remember the first time I read Where the Wild Things Are. I was given it in tandem with Where the Sidewalk Ends and both of those books had a great impact on my early literary development.  The one because I had never seen a book that so clearly depicted my own imaginary travels, the other because I felt like I had found a friend.  Sendak and Silverstein, Lewis and L’Engle, Blume and Danziger were the six authors I loved most until–Eh, I still love them most, I’ve just also added Dean and Robbins, Rowling and (most recently) Collins to the list.

I have always liked authors who made me think, who inspired me to dream, or who made me laugh.  I like the ones who do all three best (so Silverstein, L’Engle, Dean, and Robbins come out ahead).

I was twelve years old, and having surgery on my foot the day I found out C.S. Lewis was long dead.  It was December of 1983, and I was reading The Silver Chair for comfort while Dr. P cut away at my toes, and when he asked me about it, I said that I had read all the Chronicles of Narnia and couldn’t wait for Lewis to write more books. 

Dr. P told me that Lewis had died on the same day as President Kennedy, and went on to tell me more about Lewis’ life and death.  I didn’t hear a word of it.  I can remember how pale I felt.  As pale as Peter Pevensie’s voice sounded in Prince Caspian.

I still get the same feeling each time I lose one of my authors.  The same feeling I had when I lost Jim Henson.  The same feeling I had last week when I lost Adam Yauch.  It is a personal sense of loss.

I heard this interview with Maurice Sendak replayed, in late June of last year.  I was on my way to my very first therapy appointment, and it was a serendipitous thing.

My deepest condolences to every Wild Thing who ever roared.

Explaining the Strange Behavior, Family, Lancient History

Too Hot

the outside lane

One of my strongest recollections from childhood is of being overly hot.  It seemed like I was always hot.  Of course, what I am remembering is the heat in Granny’s house through humid, Alabama summers.  I am remembering how hot it was in her unairconditioned kitchen, and how she would stand over her stove sweating as she fried cornbread and pork chops in cups of Crisco, and cooked canned green beans to limp deaths.  It must have been ninety degrees in that kitchen, or more.

Most of my memories of Granny come with a sheen of perspiration across her upper lip.  It was hot.  I think she was only pretending to hate for me to slip ice cubes down the back of her pants.

Hot inside, we would go outside into the domain of the mosquito.  Since mosquitoes love nothing so much as a nip of me, I would be generously hosed down with OFF! bug spray, until I was tacky with the stuff, making the dirt from the mostly sand and soil yard cling to me–and forget trying to wipe the dirt off.  That just made bug spray mud.  

Granny’s porch wasn’t much cooler than the house, but at least sometimes the air would stir, or you could get up a bit of a breeze on the porch glider.

There was a window unit in my dad’s old bedroom, and Granny would turn that on for me, but I would still end up so hot that my sweat would stick me to the topside of the goldenrod, polyester bedspread.  It did help me develop the skill of being very, very still. 

See, in order to get full benefit of that window unit, I had to perch on the edge of the double bed on my knees, stretching my torso and neck up so that I could catch the cold air on my face.  Move an inch back or down and it would just blow the top of my scalp.  Move a fraction of an inch forward and I was in the floor.  Stillness.  Zen.  But not quiet.  I could medidate to the sound of a window unit air conditioner like most people can medidate to the sound of a brook.

I was thinking about that last night, lying awake under the ceiling fan, just a little bit too warm.  Texas is hotter than Alabama, but lacks the wet, wool blanket of humidity I grew up in.  And thank goodness.  I hate being hot.

Advice, Explaining the Strange Behavior, hair, Howling Sea Lane, Lancient History, Thor

Bad Hair and Carrots of Shame

the outside lane

I do things for this child…

Tonight, I found myself apportioning 10 raisins a piece for 21 children before questioning whether or not that was in fact the instruction given by Thor’s teacher, who had asked for 10 pieces of each of 10 snacks she had listed on a quest to have fun working with the kids on counting to a hundred.  Brain-tired, I shoved a handful of raisins in my mouth and mulled.  Or chewed.  Whichever.

There was a tradition in the Sophomore year of my high school, for upper-classes to take on girls as Little Sisters.  We, the younger ones, were doled out at random to the older girls.  One of the bonding exercises was for the Big Sister to dress the Little Sister up in hideous nerd gear and parade them around all day.  It just so happened that I was growing out what amounted to be Annie Lennox’s haircut as that day rolled around, and I had clipped my shaggy bangs back from my forehead with a baby clip.  This was prior to the 90s, when baby clips became fashionable, lest you think to yourself, “I’ll bet that looked cute.”

I was standing in the school bathroom with my Big Sister, who was so not into me.  She had two Little Sisters, and had known one of them–the cool one, whose mother didn’t make her wear her skirt at LITERAL TEA LENGTH–from birth, and was just not up to having a dorky hanger-on.  Another Big Sister walked into the bathroom, took one look at me–not even having put on a single bit of nerd gear yet, just me and my baby clip, bare face, and tea-length skirt–and cried, “Oomeegeeeesh!  Her hair is so NERDEEEEEEEE!  OMIGOOOOOOOOOOOD!  AWESOME!!  BWAHAHAHAH!!11!!!!1!!!”  Yes, I could hear the 1s within her exclamation points.

There was this moment when my eyes met my Big Sister’s in the reflection of the mirror, and what I saw was her total revulsion, disappointment, and embarrassment at having to deal with me at all.  We both knew I had shown up looking like that.  She already knew I looked like a dork.  I was just finding out.

It was one of those John Hughes moments, and should have been followed up with Jake Ryan calling to take me to the prom–that’s how meaningful it was.  It was also a defining moment for me.  I smiled at my Big Sister, turned to the other girl and grinned as widely as I could and I said, “I know!  Ohmigod!  I look like such a nerd!  Like, I need a pocket protector, or, like some horn-rimmed glasses!  She’s done it perfectly!”

My Big Sister was visibly relieved, and I think that’s what embarrassed me the most.  I ended up with a beat-up cowboy hat made of straw, and a half-hearted makeup job, and I spent the rest of the day trying not to cry.

The next day, I wore my baby clip again as inoculation against the way I had felt.  That was my way back then.  If something I really liked turned out badly, I tried it again a) just to see if maybe I had played it to the wrong audience and a change of “venue” might help the problem, b) to show the people who made me feel bad that I didn’t give a rat’s rump what they thought, c) to pick at the scab because I was a bit of a masochist.

Thanksgiving, this year, was the first time I had been able to attend one of Thor’s class parties.  It was a Thanksgiving Feast buffet.  I volunteered to bring carrots, enough to serve 5 classes of 1st Graders, plus teachers, plus any parents who were attending.  I thought I was the only person bringing carrots.  I had also been advised that serving dishes would be provided.  So, I showed up with 3 large bags of baby carrots, and a large bag of carrot chips–for variety.  Some other mothers had also provided carrots, so by the time I arrived, my offering was overkill.

I got busy with helping and didn’t pay any attention to my carrots, and didn’t even see them again until I was in the teachers’ breakroom washing the dishes we had used for the buffet.  Another mom–this gorgeous, Charlie’s Angels looking mom, who is incredibly nice, and helpful–came in with my carrots and offered them to the teachers since we’d had overflow.  The teachers–y’all–the teachers sneered.  I was shocked.

I stood there washing my dishes, trying not to make eye contact with Gorgeous Mom, who knew the origin of the veggies, and who had extracted herself from the teachers’ conversation immediately.  That conversation among four, elementary school teachers went like this:

“I can’t believe how lazy some people are.  You don’t have time to even put the food on a tray?”

“Right?!  I would never show up with something that was so obviously from the grocery store.  You can’t make something at home?  You’re that busy?  Huh.”

“Homemade is always the best.  You know some people will just take the stuff they buy at the grocery store and put it on a platter?  That’s so rude.  I wouldn’t even take that to a friend’s party.  What do people think of you if you do that?”

“That you’re lazy!  And you don’t care.  And look–she didn’t even take them out of the bags.”

It went on.  And on.  And on.

I stood there, washing and drying, listening to these women talk about how rude, and tacky, and lazy, and disgusting I was for having brought food to the school, which I had purchased at Kroger, and left in bags so that they could be used as needed and otherwise shared if there were leftovers.  I had purposefully bought more than I thought was absolutely necessary, and I had thought people might like some fresh veg.  Uh…rude, tacky, lazy, and disgusting.

I was fifteen again.  Standing in that bathroom, eyes locked on [redacted]’s, knowing I had fallen short.  Only, instead of being hurt, I was pissed the feck off.  Who were these harpies?  Seriously?  Rude, tacky, lazy, and disgusting?  No, honey.  Rude is me saying I’ll bring food and then backing out without telling you.  Tacky is only bringing enoug’h for my child’s class and no one else, knowing it is a feast for all the classes.  Lazy is not bothering at all because some other mother will do it.  Disgusting is me spitting on the carrots before sharing them with you.

I seriously considered telling them they were talking about me, but I chose not to.  I was so taken aback, and disbelieving that by the time I had decided what I wanted to say, Gorgeous Mom had steered their conversation to kinder, gentler topics.  It seemed a moot point.  Besides, I could have outed myself, then the likeliest thing would be that they would tell the rest of the teachers that Thor’s Mom was rude, tacky, lazy, disgusting, and uber-confrontational.  For the child’s reputation, I swallowed my bile.

Tonight, I started working on those raisins and had such performance anxiety, I cannot tell you.  My packets weren’t pretty enough.  The Saran Wrap press-n-seal was too sticky.  There was no uniformity.  No aesthetic.  I started to panic.  Would Thor’s teacher think I was rude, tacky, lazy, or disgusting?  Was I even doing it right in the first place?  I had 10 packs of 10 ready to go.  I needed 11 more.  Or was I just supposed to send in 210 raisins by themselves?  Did there have to be 10 even for each child, or should I send one of those big boxes of raisins and let the teacher distribute at will?  OH MY GOD!  BABY CLIPS AND CARROTS!

So, I ate them.

I’ll work on it again tomorrow, after getting some clarification from Thor’s teacher, and having lived down my goofy hair and party tray shame through exhibitionism.

The moral of the story is: Be careful when you mock.  You may be mocking the person standing to your left.

 

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