Sugar, and spice, and everything nice

The thing is, I don't want my daughter to think she can't also be made of snails and puppy dog tails. I don't want her to think she is most valuable (and powerful) for how she looks in lingerie.

This weekend we went to see a kid-circus open house. It was awesome. So many of the things I'd hope for in an environment for A: kids from 6 to 16 years old, in mostly unisex costumes that were neither too tight nor too gendered, kids doing what they could do but without big tears or worries on their faces if they made a mistake, boys and girls holding hands or bodies in a non-sexual way, not worried about touching. A chance to use one's body, to enjoy movement and skill.

Of course, one the way there, we had to pass an advertisement for women's underwear - "Why is that woman naked, mama?" It was the first time she has noticed that kind of ad for its strangeness. Nakedness is usually reserved for home, for the pool locker room, for quick changes at the beach. And I wasn't sure what to tell her. "Yeah, that women sure looks cold." Or my usual, clumsy fallback: "They are trying to sell underwear." Great, so we establish that is an advertisement (whatever that means to my 3 year old), but what about why a naked woman sells that. Because there is an element of seduction in every underwear ad I've seen - I have yet to see normal women's bodies in normal underwear in full color, large poster format. I swear I'm getting t-shirt post-it notes made up (and maybe sandwiches, too, because most of these ladies are looking not just cold but like they could use a meal) to stick up on posters like that.

I don't want my child to start learning, already, that women's bodies are for selling things.

On a related note, this morning we had a conversation about body hair, as we were all getting ready for the day. There were showers, and wiping of bums, and all sorts of naked in the process of 3 people getting dressed, and A noticed that we, her parents, had hair. Why did Papa have hair under his arms? Did Mama? Where else was there hair? Where did A have hair?

And it was yet another sweet/heartbreaking moment, as she took a good look all over herself and announced that she had hair on her arms and her legs. Statement of fact and nothing else. How lovely, how envious I am of that, and now how protective of her getting to look at herself and not make a value judgment.

My first instinct is to fiercely protect that for her. My second thought is to chuck my own razor this summer. Yikes - no shaved legs or armpits, although I may have to hold on to the shaved armpits, given the more "natural" deodorants I've been sticking with lately. But the rest? How else am I going to stop her (okay, at least slow her down) from shaving her legs at age 10, like I did, to get rid of those fine white hairs? How else can I mount the assault on her thinking of her body for how it looks instead of how it feels? And how can I try to calm my inner fears if I stop shaving this summer? What does it mean to be a women with hair on her body? (This woman gives a very powerful answer to that question). And then I got to this artist's website, where she had asked women to stop shaving, plucking and generally de-hairing their faces and took photos, and it has had the effect of a spring breeze, or a 10-minute meditative sit. Oh, the places (the conversational places) we could go, if only people looked more like themselves instead of each other. The shades of grey (those books just kind of messed up that phrase for the rest of us) we could explore, and find comfort in. The subtle and complex, instead of photoshopped and self-doubting.

There sure is a lot of walking-the-walk in parenting. I never thought it would be such a daily dose of reinterpreting our cultural norms. I like it, I'm just surprised at the intellectual work that goes into having a 3 year old for me. I find it refreshing. Just like this font.

Saying sorry

My kid is crying. Not screaming. But crying pretty loud. It has been a few rounds of asking her to do things and her ignoring me, and continuing to play to stay in the bath, or, or, or. One of those evenings when nothing I say is listened to. When she screams my name from the bathroom instead of saying the "I'm sorry mama" I've asked for. I'm the only parent on duty tonight, and I get that she's tired and that I'm tired, but I'm not finding my way out of it right now.

I haven't gotten and "I'm sorry", a "please" or a "thank you" for most of the afternoon. There have been loud protestations of "I get all the dessert! Not you get any! Or I won't eat any!" There have been ice creams and trips to the park to play in the sun and special dinner pies from the English pie lady. There has been a lot. And not enough.

And how to teach a child, and only child (is this the problem? probably not all of it), to share instead of throwing a fit when she can't have all the dessert on the table? Or to say she's sorry? Or to say please or thank you? Does it come later than 3 1/2 years old? Does all of it come later?

Because it isn't coming tonight. I'm close to crying myself. As soon as I engage again, she starts playing or not listening. And I don't think this is all conscious on her part - or at least it isn't meant to piss me off more, it just does. But I have no idea to get an I'm sorry.

Even though I give them - if I've hurt her feelings, if I've yelled, if I've hurt her by accident while I'm stopping her from hitting me during a tantrum. I say "sorry." I want her to hear it, to know that it is important to say, to learn it, to remember being told her feelings matter.

And I guess that is what this is about at some level. My feelings not mattering.

Yes, I go to a dark little place where I'm the kid again, and again, my feelings don't matter enough for some adult in my life to say and actual "sorry" that ends there and not a "sorry, but...". Or someone who can't say "I love you." And although my husband is great with the "I love you"'s, he's still learning to say "sorry" as well.

It is now 8:15pm and A is asleep, and it took some 5 minutes after the one book we had time for, after she gave me a big hug and a kiss on the chin, after I told her that a big hug and a kiss on the chin could be our special secret code for "I'm sorry", after she told me she didn't say she was sorry because sometimes she is shy, after she told me she said "enschuldigung" to a baby the other day for squeezing her hand too tight, after we talked about if she says "sorry" to any of her friends ever, after I talked about how sorry can mean "I wish I could take it back" or "I didn't mean to hurt you" or "I want things to be ok between us again."

After we both calmed down and sat on the bed, after I raised my voice and told her that if she can't say she's sorry to friends she's not going to have any (yes, I know, I'm sort of dying a bit inside to see myself write that right now), after I raised my voice and said something like "Why can't you say I'm sorry? Why can't you just say it?!"

I'm going to have to apologize for that last part tomorrow morning.

(Before you unfriend me, or decide I am scum or some such thing, I did actually have the presence of mind to tell her that it is wonderful she is learning to apologize to her friends and other kids and she will have friends. I know that one was a mistake to say in the first place.)

Can't be a manager and a mentor to the same person.

A while ago I wrote a post about this dilemma in academia - that professors are supposed to be both managers (getting projects done on time, papers published, grant proposals submitted, fitting postdoc candidates recruited) at the same time as being mentors (encouraging a person to really think about what they want to do with their career, and academia may not be it) to the same people. Which I think is a huge problem.

And I'm not the only one. So many graduate students and postdocs run into trouble with this - the judge and the cheerleader are wrapped up in one person, so of course there will be problems. There is no way for the judge to stay home when she or he goes to be the cheerleader at a student presentation. There may well come a time when that professor has to write recommendation letters for two people from her or his group, for the same position, and will be asked to compare them. How can you possibly be this person, the letter writer, and say "no one is judging you" to a student giving a talk in a journal club or seminar? It isn't possible to not form an opinion. Of course that talk impact how that student will be evaluated some day.

No wonder students don't speak up at journal clubs. More on that later. A lot later. Like, "I'm looking into it research-wise" later.

But the same holds for parents, I think. And I finally made that connection this weekend.

Because, see, we have one child. And that may be where it ends, like it or not. I may never have another. And part of coming to terms with an only child is my confusion about how to teach her to share and play with others. I often find myself stuck between letting her win, take many turns in a row, draw on my drawing, take my food, etc., and asking her to be considerate, holding out until I get a turn, too, etc. And although I think at some level a parent can be both mostly the giver but also ask for consideration, I realized this weekend that I can't be both her sibling/friend and her parent.

I am the parent. That will never change. She'll have to learn more about sharing toys and turns from friends who get grumpy when she doesn't. I can't play that role for her because it will start edging into my parental role - which is also nurturer.

Now, I don't mean to say that I'm not going to get grumpy myself when she keeps kicking me in the ribs when I've asked her not to. And I've already decided that I may not be able to stop the boogie-licking, but I don't have to stay in the room watching it like some horror film I didn't mean to buy tickets so. But I do mean that when we play, I don't have to push so much for equality. I'm not her equal, I'm her parent. I have significant power over her emotional landscape, and that needs to be taken into account when I play with her.

So, I'll let her draw on my drawing, and eat all the last bites of my dessert. She still has to ask about looking in my purse, but if she want to build a puzzle halfway and then chuck that badboy across the floor, I'm not going to stop playing with her. Probably not even when she does it to my puzzle.

I may just not play as long. Because, after all, I'm also an only child, and we don't stand for that kind of thing.

Writing just to write

We live in a new apartment now. In a different part of the city.

All three humans in the house have strep throat, although if the medical forums are to be believed (and, really, they never are), the dog could easily be carrying it, too. Pacifiers, sippy cups and toothbrushes will be discarded and replaced on Monday, when I should also finally be not contagious.

All three humans in the house have spent a LOT of time in said house these last 4 days.

We've done an awful lot of hanging around, random art projects, building with A's new cardboard blocks that my mom brought over for her, bathing, taking medicine, running out of things to do, and going to sleep and starting all over again in the morning. Voluntary quarantine gets old. Then again, losing friend with kids because we went out and had playdates anyway, would be worse, so we chose the former.

You'd think, with life being this slow, I'd be writing all the time. But I'm not. I'm also not reading, or ever in the mood to watch a movie after A goes to sleep. I may have gotten on this kick when my mom and I started packing up the old apartment and there was no time for anything. I've been mentally stimulated to my limit a lot, and imaginary-decorating a new apartment in my head ranks right up there. I downloaded the new issue of Oprah and couldn't do more than look at the shopping pages. I could hardly read the half page little snippets of interesting people and their interesting lives. The book section didn't even merit a stop to read titles. Too overwhelming.

But I've also done a lot of hanging out with my daughter these last 5 days, and that has been a good thing. We are both sick and slower. And I'm getting to practice just being around. And letting go - she was back in diapers for a few days - and I did my best to just let that go.

That's about all I've got right now. I thought I should write something before I just stopped blogging altogether.

Exercises in calming-the-f*()&$#-down

My daughter's daycare is celebrating Swiss Mardi Gras this week. So the plan, as approved by the little one, was to dress like a snowman today. As an homage, I expect, to her favorite (and, really, only) cartoon, the British Snowman, and Snowman and the Snow Dog.

Saturday we found some black felt for buttons and last night M found some short sticks to be her hands for the initial reveal at school. You know that, after 5 minutes, the face make-up will be smeared, the sticks will have to go away lest a mini spiderman, or baby crocodile get their eyes poked out, and the hat and scarf will be in a puddle on the floor. But that's okay. That is why we take photos before leaving the house.

I'm so zen about it, eh? What calm, and ease. Had she said she wanted to wear the puffy vest inside out so the animals were showing instead of the snowman-perfect white, I would have said "Fine." Had she not wanted a hat, she would have hear "Sure, little one."

And had you been at our house last night you would have seen me trying to convince her of all sorts of things that this costume absolutely had to include, because I had yet to realize this wasn't about me. It wasn't about putting together the perfect costume. It wasn't about me getting really creative (partially to get back for all those fall-carved-radishes that blew mine away in November) and making the cutest snowman. It wasn't about my voice expressing hurt feelings because she didn't want to go along with what I wanted for her costume. 

Well, let's just say that after an initial 10 minutes, it was no longer about that. But it took a lot of stuffing my comments back into my mouth, consciously, to let it go.

And M read her a story about a little bear who doesn't want to wear the costume his Mami made him for Fasnacht. And he doesn't end up wearing it. I probably should have read that story with her, too.

Come this morning, and she's actually pretty excited to get ready. One good thing - the costume involves face paint, which is always a bit hit with kids her age. And new or old clothing she hasn't worn in a while. And white shoes to go to school instead of usual boots. And the fluffy vest is on, white side out. And the mask with carrot. And the hat and even Papa's red scarf.

Ladies and gentlemen, I give you, the littlest snowman.