Wet Feet

When I was growing up in the 80's, we collected pennies for the starving children in Ethiopia. There were a whole genre of silly one-liner jokes about skinny Ethiopians. Yeah, Starving people. Hahahhaha. It became a discipline tool used liberally by my parents, which yielded much material in therapy when I was in my teens. Anyway.

As a parent, I've not hesitated to use the news of the world as a discipline maneuver. "you know, HONEY, there are children in the world who have NO TOYS." I say, when one gets upset that the other has a toy she wants (or NEEEEEEDS. whatever.) Usually, I reference China. or Darfur.

But lately I've been coming back to the needy people of my childhood: Ethiopians. Don't want your dinner? "well, should I sent it to the starving Ethioipians?" now I understand why my parents couched things the way way they did. It WORKS. They eat their dinner when I rattle on about who I could sent it to.

And god forbid in a few years that my children have the gall to say "life's not FAAAIIIIRRRR" when I dare to ground them for doing something idiotic. I'll show them something UNFAIR. Their punishment won't be staying in their suburban bedrooms with their computer and cell phone, their lesson will be learned in soup kitchens and womens' shelters. Their lessons will be learned in the real world, where they will learn that their lot is WAY MORE than FAIR.

Let's face it: my children are being raised in a privileged atmosphere. I may not be formally educated, but I am white and intelligent and I come from people who are intelligent educated and prosperous. I can do anything I want, my kids can have anything they want. In comparison to most of the world's population, my children have a golden ticket. I hope I can impress on them the weight of that privilege, and their debt to the rest of the world. I hope I impress on them their responsibility.

sometime in may, then

Chris at mombie tagged me with this meme on Mother's Day and I've been thinking about it ever since. Three things I'm proud of? Hmmm. Lately, I can rattle on forever about the things I fall short on, but think of three good things, without apologies, without qualifiers? Not so much.

But I realize there probably are three good things, and I just have to look for them, value myself, in order to see them. I'm not a bad mother, or at least not as bad as I think I am when I'm feeling depleted. So here goes:

1. I am not afraid to tackle big issues. When my grandfather died in January, I did not shy away from conversations about death. When Naomi notices that our two closest neighbors are gay couples (one male couple, one female couple), I explained that a lifetime partnership does not have to be a man and a woman, that love can thrive between all kinds of people. When we stroll our neighborhood and come upon the homeless and the crazy, I explain that we can be compassionate without being doormats, we can be friendly but perfunctory, that there are places we can give to that will make a difference for the disadvantaged in our society. Religious differences? Check. The importance of voting? Check. Within the Big Picture, I excel. It's the small stuff (y'know, the stuff that matters most to children, like routine and consistency) that I fall short.

2. My kids get good nutrition. I am proud that I am not the kind of mother that hides vegetables inside junk food. My kids eat their veggies. They also eat the sour jellybeans from Trader Joes on occasion, but not until after they've had their protein. Miriam doesn't understand the process yet but she will soon enough, because Naomi will actually ask for some protein in order to procure some "sours". Better yet, she'll eat the requisite portion of healthiness without complaint. I am proud that we don't keep cookies, soda, or dessert items around the house. My kids don't expect dessert after dinner. For them, sweets are a rare treat.

3. I balance (or I think a lot about how to balance) the line between teaching my kids how to deal with our  culture and protecting them from it. For example, princesses. Naomi adores princesses and by extension, brides, and anything that involves fancy dresses and simpering femininity. Because restricting her access will only trigger the dreaded forbidden fruit response, I let her have it but offer my commentary at every chance.  I think there's more value in teaching navigation rather than restricting access. Because if it isn't the disney princesses, it's going to be bratz dolls or the equivalent of hannah montana. The sooner they realize that all those images offer are empty promises, the better.

I'm not going to tag anyone, but I'll tell you that it would be good for you to take some time to think about your strengths as a mother. And it would be even better if you'd write  about it. Happy self-congratulating!

Sunny Pictures for a Rainy Friday

 It occurred to me that the last two picture posts I did were of Naomi or were Naomi related. So here are some pictures of Miriam. Fairness and all. I wouldn't want anyone to think I love one more than the other.

Differently, sure. But more or less? How can you quantify love that limitless?

At the same time, it's true that Miriam spends much more than her fair share of my patience. She's 2. She's always had that quality of being an adult in a new body, and at 2 that super-awareness leads to more fits of violent tantrum than the wise gazes that characterized her baby days.

And really, what a ferocious game-face. I'd stay out of her way if I were you.

5ive things for an Ending

1. A Jane Austen book. I've had my qualms with Jane Austen and I've also loved her like a hero. Thus, in these emotional times, having an Austen book is like curling up with a teddy bear and pulling a fluffy blanket over my head. I love her long sentences. From her I've learned the art of the comma.

This time, a hardback copy of Sense and Sensibility inexplicably came my way. It's never been one of my favorites and I haven't read it since high school. But I'm finding that on this reading I identify much more with the archetype of Restrained Elinor than the Passionate Marianne. Margaret, poor thing, is still an idiot. I don't think Jane was very fond of children.

2. A silly movie. Naomi happened to come across Stick It today. I love gymnastics and for a long moment in my adolescent my most fervent dream was to be a gymnast (I was impeded by a weird lack of the right kind of upper body strength and a leftover asymmetry in my legs from hip dysplasia. I think. It certainly wasn't from lack of practicing, because I had Debbie Gibson's Electric Youth and the soundtrack for the 1988 Olympics on constant play for my routines in the living room. I could bend my back like Kristie Phillips. No joke.) So I've been watching Stick It, and I love it. And it has absolutely no Associations.

3. Wine. Specifically, Hardy's Shiraz in a box. Because if you're gonna drink le crap, it should at least be environmentally friendly and cheap.

4. The ears of others. Rachael and Jul and Jo. Thank heaven for girlfriends. They've all heard my angst and joy during the (lovely, blissful, healing) eight months of this relationship, and when it ended, they all knew exactly why. So there was no explaining to do when I was laughing and crying at the same time. (To be honest, there is significantly more crying than laughing at this stage.)

5. A secure knowledge of how I am and what I can give. I still know that I am not cut out for long term monogamy. Or long term...anything. I am too distracted, too impulsive, and especially now after having been married, I have too many avenues to explore. I love him, I loved being with him, but I was asking him to put up with far too much of my shit. I can't help but give shit in this baggage strewn post-divorce landscape. A few years hence and things might have been different.