The Big Scare: Is my daughter a wingnut?
“Do you want to go to the beach?”
“No.”
“Do you want to go to the zoo?”
“No.”
“Do you want to go to the aquarium?”
“No.”
This is a typical conversation between my daughter and me these days, and it’s not just limited to offers of big excursions. It happens when we discuss the possibility of doing anything other than viewing High School Musical 2 for the 943rd time. And as a woman who once practiced kissing techniques using a Shaun Cassidy album cover, I totally get it. Zac Efron is so fine that even a newt could recognize the hypnotizing hum of his sky-blue eyes. And there’s always the possibility that he and Vanessa Hudgens will finally get that uninterrupted kiss. A glass tank full of shimmering sardines has nothing on that.
Still.
Any opportunity I offer my child—from walking the dog to taking piano lessons to learning about tsunamis through wild bathtub splashing (who wouldn’t want to do that?!?)—is met with a definitive oh-hell-to-the-N-O! It’s unbearably frustrating to be on the receiving end of such assholery. It’s like a never-ending tap dance: See me over here? (Rhythm roll.) I’m trying to entertain you! (Shuffle-ball-step.) Trying to make your life fabulous! (Windmill arms, jazz hands. Big! Smile!)
Response from my child: No.
It makes me want to punch myself in the face while wearing the jagged, over-priced, purple quartz ring I was forced to purchase at Hunt & Gather after it broke when Ruby dropped it on the floor—after already having been reprimanded (twice) for dropping other breakables on the floor. Mark my words: I’m going to give her that ring on her wedding day.
Worse, though, than the self-face-punching frustration is the gut-punching thought I had in recognizing this pattern of now-predictable negative responses: Is my daughter a Republican?
Oh, how the head spins. I nearly had to lie down after typing that. That my child should grow up to be a Republican is my third worst nightmare. (The second is that she would also be an evangelical golfer, but I’m going to stay positive.)
When I first voiced this concern to my husband, he brushed me off. “Don’t ever say that!” he said. That I should accuse our Pride and Joy of such an ugly thing made him angry, which is totally understandable. The possibility makes me angry, too. For six years, we’ve worked hard to raise a good, solid liberal who can one day hold her own against the 19—or is it 20 now?— children that have been delivered into the world through Michelle Duggar’s Slip ’N Slide vagina.
We own a hybrid. We recycle and eat organic. We clean trash off the streets in our neighborhood several times a year and donate to the less fortunate. We practice throwing peace signs at aggressive drivers with ugly bumper stickers. We have naked time. We listen to Michael Franti.
Despite all these efforts, the growing evidence is disturbing.
Our child is selfish. And greedy. And she doesn’t like to share. That is, unless we have something she wants, and then, of course, we’re expected to share. No discussion, no meeting half way. She balks at reasonable concessions and then goes nuclear, taking what she wants as we’re still trying to figure out a compromise. This, because getting what she wants is in her best self-interest and long-term goals, everyone else be damned.
She is—and it pains me to admit it—a hypocrite.
To make matters worse, she comes in a mesmerizing package filled with promise. With giant brown eyes, dimples and a gap-toothed smile, she can wrinkle her forehead and present herself in a seemingly genuine and well-intentioned manner. The kid can placate a gullible crowd with a determined, passionate and convincing argument, even though—upon closer consideration—it lacks rationale and is filled with holes and, yes, sometimes a few fibs. She’s so good that we, too, are susceptible to her sideways, circular, grammatically challenged fast-talk. Thanks to a few well-played hugs and kisses, cuddles and compliments (“Mama, your eyes look so pretty today!”), she tends to get most of what she wants, often at our expense.
Horrified by this set of circumstances, Sam and I put Ruby on the couch the other day and forced her to watch Inside Job, followed by Sicko and two episodes of The Rachel Maddow Show. We then offered a comprehensive lecture about the dangers of global warming; the constitutionally protected right of American women to have access to safe abortions; why gay marriage, prostitution and pot should all be legal; and how it’s totally normal that a shirtless Zac Efron makes her blush.
After she passed a short quiz and went to bed, we turned to the child-development literature where we learned that Ruby is right on track with respect to age-appropriate behavior. Not only is she behaving exactly as she’s supposed to be, but she’s also still ripe for the imprinting of our atheistic, heathen-based, live-and-let-live belief system. She is not (thank every pagan God) a Republican. She’s just acting like one.
Did I mention we forgot to light our Menorah on day one? It’s because we were so busy…
Our neighbors down the block have had their tree up since before Thanksgiving, and a house just a few steps from there has had lights twisted through their porch hand railing since 1274 AD. Ruby knows this habit of displaying holiday accoutrements of any kind, outside of the month in which the holiday they celebrate takes place, is against my by-laws. She therefore screams as we drive down the street, “A CHRIS! MUS! TREE!?! IT’S NOT CHRISMUS YET, STINKY!” Someday, she’ll swear like I do—something more like, “IT’S! NOT! FUCKING! CHRISTMAS! YET! DIPSHITS!”—and I will applaud her. It’s comforting to know my neurosis is being successfully embedded.
So patiently did my child wait through that long last week of November—excited and yet, forlorn that other people were breaking the rules and she couldn’t—that we broke down and went for the gold last night, on December 1st, about two weeks before we normally procure our Noble Fir (and, as it happens this year, on the first day of Hannukah, which consequently took a back seat for these Jews. Or perhaps I should say, “Jews”.)
To set the mood, I put on a little Sufjan Stevens holiday music, Ruby had some hot spiced cider, Sam and I enjoyed hot toddys and then we went to work. I always seem to forget during the other 11 months of the year, that putting up a tree is a lot of work. And with a five-year-old assistant, things tend to be a little skeewompus: Beads don’t gently droop like dew drops, but strangle like string around a brisket; many branches remain empty, while others bend with the weight of six precariously hung ornaments; and all 40 candy canes are positioned within arms reach of a 47-inch person. This type of disorganization drives me batty, as I like my tree to be Just. So. But dang if it doesn’t look pretty when I’ve taken out my contacts.
Thank the sweet baby Jesus that this only happens once a year. And believe me when I say, come New Years Day? That thing will be naked and curbside while our neighbors cling to their decorations through Valentines Day.
Semantics
Wednesday’s homework assignment:
ADOPT A TREE! At school, we have adopted a tree to observe through the seasons. You can do the same with a tree in your neighborhood. A good tree to choose is one that you can easily visit. Maybe there is a tree that you walk by every day. Get to know your tree. What shape is it? Feel its bark Can you reach around the tree? Look at its leaves. Does anything fall from your tree? Are there any clues that any animals life in or visit your tree? A piece of yarn or string can mark a twig on your tree, so you can look for any changes that happen to the twig in the winter, spring, summer, or fall. Enjoy your tree; no other tree is exactly like it.
The thing is, my daughter’s class is not adopting a tree, the Sigma Pi fraternity did not adopt a highway and pet-lovers around the country are not adopting animals. You can choose a tree, sponsor a highway, and rescue a dog from the pound. But adoption is the serious process by which families are formed, creating a bond that is the very same—though so many can’t seem to fathom it—as a biological connection. Adoption has nothing to do with a certificate given when you purchase a doll at FAO Schwartz and it has nothing to do with group visits to the perennial around the corner.
The insistent co-opting and trivializing of the terms “adopt” and “adoption” is insulting to families touched by adoption and, more particularly, is confusing to young adoptees. And their friends, too: Just try explaining to an inquisitive 5-year old why your skin doesn’t match your child’s skin and then tell them they’re going to adopt a Ficus.
I am disappointed in the language of this particular homework assignment and want to say something to the administrators, but I really do not want to be That Mom. I’m going to think on it for a spell. In the meantime, please excuse me while I go water my kid.
I got this one
Ruby had only been in kindergarten one week when the father of one of her classmates approached me and said, apropos of nothing, “My wife said she’d be happy to braid your daughter’s hair any time.” Though we get comments like this quite frequently, it wasn’t something I’d anticipated and for a second, I stood there saying nothing. I looked at the guy and looked at Ruby and then back at the guy again before saying, “I usually do her hair myself, but I’ll keep that in mind.” I also tacked on a polite “thank you” since I chose to believe he was being friendly and not judgmental.
It happened again the following week when a Black woman passing us in the grocery store, paused to comment on how beautiful Ruby is. She went on her way but moments later I felt a tap on my shoulder.
“Excuse me? Are you ‘mom’?” she asked. Forgiveable but still, grrrrrr.
“Yes…” I said.
She reached out her arm and handed me a business card. “I’m a hair stylist and you should bring her into the salon.” What proceeded from there was an all-too familiar conversation in which I politely entertained invasive questions about whether Ruby’s ever had her hair done and whether she’s tender-headed and how I’m doing “a good job” but I really need to be doing her hair every day/every other day/every three days and blah-dee-blah. I listened and nodded and smiled and said oh and I see and huh, while I palmed the business card that would be sitting at the bottom of the recycling bin in the cupboard below my kitchen sink in about 15-minutes. Incidentally: Ruby’s hair looked pretty damned good that night.
As proud as I am of my ability to do my child’s hair, there have been times when I’ve needed a little break and have sought out people to help me. And so it is that I’ve brought Ruby to several salons over the years—salons that have come to my attention in much the same way as both of these scenarios—and here is the (possibly controversial) thing I’ve learned at the expense of my child’s trust: As well intentioned as they may be, just because a person is Black does not mean they know how to do hair. No sirree, it does not.
One woman, Agnes, didn’t comb Ruby’s hair at all and would yank her fingers through it as she braided it. The end result was stunning but the process was so painful that Ruby and I had emotionally draining battles each time we went back. Candace, on the other hand, combed the hell out of Ruby’s hair with a giant claw-like contraption affixed to the end of a hair dryer that she’d pull through Ruby’s hair, section by section, from root to end. It made the braiding bearable but getting to that point was excruciating for my daughter; I could barely sick around to watch the histrionics as she screamed for me to take her away from there. And as much as I asked Candace to not braid my girl’s hair too tight—concerned as I was about breaking it or causing her hairline to recede—Ruby ended up with tiny white pustules at the base of her neck that itched and required an astringent for healing.
And then there was Sheá, who spent nearly two hours with a rusted hot comb, straightening Ruby’s unwashed, uncombed hair as Ruby wept and wriggled and writhed. Sheá was only half way finished when she took a Very Important and Very Long Phone Call. With her internet service provider. Ruby dried her tears and we waited for forty minutes before I finally pulled her out of the chair and marched her out the door, her hair going every which way, promising on my life that I would never, ever, ever, EVER, ever bring her back to that evil woman again. Ruby still talks about it every time someone offers to do her hair.
So it is against this backdrop—as I begrudgingly watch my girl gravitate toward Barbie and Hannah Montana and every White heroine with flowing, straight hair—that I patiently do the very best I can in the most gentle way I know how, trying to teach her, despite the few negative experiences, how amazing and special her hair is.
What–exactly WHAT?!?–have I been doing?
Oh, this poor little languishing blog. Every time I think I might have some time to write, be it something Momentously Important to the Survival of Humanity or the teensiest of posts, I am yanked in another direction. And (sheesh this is boring, stop me now!) the worst thing about not sitting down to write—besides not sitting down to write—is that not doing so breeds a stupefying lack of inspiration and even more refined methods of avoiding putting my ass in this chair. The less frequently I type, the more terrifying the blank screen and blinking cursor.
It is true, however, that there is a lot going on in Belferland, a lot that isn’t diaper changes and feedings, but is almost equally as interesting. Silly me: I was under the impression that having a child in grade school would free up some time, but it turns out the exact opposite is true. And just when there are additional demands on my time, I’ve been trying to juggle…some other stuff I can’t really go into now. Anyway, in the midst of doing a bunch of distracting, borderline-procrastinatory stuff, I up and launched a new blog. Because…you know…the upkeep of this one is going so swimmingly. Besides, when the work piles up on my plate, I tend to prioritize pedicures and baking.
So if you have a sec, go check out my latest venture, the Sartorialini. She is open for comments.
Bye-bye, little one: An argument in favor of the kindergartener
It’s official. Last Tuesday—after I helped thread her arms through the stiff straps of a backpack covered in more pink and white butterflies than were flitting around in my stomach—I walked my daughter one block down the street for her first day of kindergarten and, in doing so, became a cog in the busted-up, broke-down, rusted-out, caving-in jalopy known as the San Diego Unified School District. But this column isn’t about SDUSD, a bottomless well of editorial fodder; there will be plenty of time for my commentary on that hot mess over the next 13 years.
No, this is about Holy shit! I’m not the parent of a toddler anymore!
You know the first thing I did after leaving La Princesse at class that morning was to b-line for a cocktail. I wanted to bring a flask in my purse and take a nice, big draw from it just as I stepped off school property, but I really have made an effort to leave high school behind me. It would be a bummer to get blacklisted from my kid’s new school for drinking on campus. On Day One. I’d rather earn my banishment with some caustic columns.
Of course, I was a little misty as I watched my child’s giant backpack walk away from me toward her new classroom, the whole of her eclipsed except for two long, skinny legs in laceless, pink-sequined Chuck Taylors and a perfectly round Afro-puff topping it all off. It was downright cartoony, and I hummed “School House Rock” on my way to meet my Maker’s Mark, thinking of how far I’d come.
Oh, the memories: There was the time Ruby smeared poop on my face. And the incessant late-night wailing that forced Sam and me into garage exile for the better part of a year. Or the meltdown at the pumpkin patch— man, that was an illusion killer. In an act of self-preservation, I pretended I didn’t know her and just let her sob and leak snot on herself in the dirt amid hay bales and ponies, while all the other families sipped cider and took photos for their scrapbooks and happily picked out their gourds and corncobs and whatnot.
Those miserable days have receded sufficiently and are now humorous anecdotes I offer in conversations with new parents to explicitly convey that they are not alone, and to subliminally convey the fact that they are completely fucked. To this day, whenever I see disheveled parents maneuvering diaper bags and strollers and Snack Traps while hunched over trying to prevent their new crawler from tumbling head first into a menacing pile of fire ants, my first thought is always: Better them than me.
Babies might smell good, but let’s be honest: They mostly suck.
Having a 5-year-old is much more palatable. For one thing, they don’t pee and poop in their pants anymore. That’s a big bonus. Sure, there’s the occasional oops-I-waited-too-long leak that they neglect to mention and which you only find out about when you pick up their inside-out heap of clothes they left on the bathroom floor. FYI: Unexpectedly wet kiddie undies evoke the same kind of reaction as walking into an unseen spider web.
And as long as I’m talking bodily functions, being summoned to the bathroom to verify that, Yes, honey, you’re right. That is diarrhea, is only better than a diaper trauma by a number of degrees. But it is, unarguably, better.
Another plus is communication. When a baby doesn’t care for her food, she spits it out like an oscillating lawn sprinkler, and suddenly you’re washing walls while contemplating taking lovers, Seasonale and a secret apartment in Crown Point (a small dream, yes, but it makes visitation easier than an apartment in Positano). By contrast, a 5-year-old will keep the grilled onion on her protruding tongue, contort her face like Popeye and flail her hands in the air next to her head until you remove the offending bit with your napkin. After a long sip of water from her glass (no more sippie cups!), she’ll look directly at you and say, “What the hell, Mama? I said ‘No onions!’”
Getting dressed is so much more pleasant with a 5-year-old around: Not only can she dress herself, but she can also create ensembles. She has a will and is going to exert it. Giving in to her proclivity for pairing autumn-hued plaids with pastel stripes and primary polka dots, often layered and topped with a pink gingham belt and/or a tulle skirt, beats the hell out of onesies and baby-jeans with those maddeningly miniscule crotch snaps.
I stay out of the fashion choices in my home now and only venture into jacket-battle on truly cold days. And I do insist on underwear beneath skirts if we’re going to be leaving the house. I’m a stickler on that point. You never know when you might be exiting a limousine to the flashing bulbs of paparazzi. You never know when you might suffer that accidental leak.
The best thing, though, about a kindergartener, is that they can make you proud in deeply meaningful ways that can’t be dismissed as gas (a first smile is still charming) or natural progression (first words, first steps, first haircuts, first skull-shaped self-inking stamp pressed repeatedly along every wall in the house at a 36-inch height). A toddler is the drunken friend whom you must prevent from dying; a 5-year-old is the pragmatic one who hears “No” and offers 17 plausible ways the answer should be “Yes.”
“What do you call the person that’s in charge of the school?” Ruby asked her dad during curriculum night while she and three of her new friends were pretending to play classroom. The role of “teacher” had been delegated and Ruby was unsatisfied as “pupil.”
“You mean the principal?” Sam asked. “Yeah,” Ruby said. She skipped back to where her friends were playing. “OK,” she said to them, “I’m the principal.”
Au revoir to those bruising toddler years. And bottoms up to the brutality ahead.
(As published today in San Diego Citybeat.)
Le Sigh, Le Boo Hoo, Le Don’t Grow Up, S’il vous plait
Ruby had her orientation last Friday. We visited her new classroom, met her new teacher and some of her new friends. She was one cool cucumber. ,I on the other hand, was not. Sam told me as we walked down the street toward her school, to pull it together at least while she’s around. Then he went for the jugular: “Don’t be my mom.” (Hey, Marsha! 
) Suffice it to say, I wore my very big, very dark sunglasses, which I will be wearing again on Tuesday. Ruby was none the wiser.
I’m a writer, but I cannot formulate the words right now. So photos will have to do for the moment….
Transitions
Ruby’s outfits have been spectacular lately. This is one she wore during her last week of preschool:
The leg warmers slay me. Especially on a day that saw temperatures stretch into the 90s.
One of my apprehensions about kindergarten—and grade school in general—is that she will begin to lose her creativity and decide she wants to be like all the other kids. I have come to love her mix-and-match choices and the conviction behind each ensemble. I hope she holds out on conformity.
She’s growing up. I want her to grow up…it’s what she’s supposed to do.
But man, I don’t want her to grow up.
Clarification
ME: Honey, do you know why all the sales people kept telling you how pretty your eyes were today?
RUBY: Because I have brown skin and they don’t think brown skin is very good.
ME: Well (crap), no. (Think quick.) That’s not why. (Address it or not to address it, that is the question.) I mean (always address it), it’s true: There are people in this world who don’t think that brown skin is as good as pink skin. And they’re wrong about that. They’re what we call “ignorant”.
RUBY: And I just walk away from them!
ME: That’s right. You just walk away with your shoulders back and your head held high. You do not listen to them. You do not let their words get inside your heart.
RUBY: No!
ME: But those sales people who told you your eyes were beautiful? Remember them?
RUBY: Yeah.
ME: Yes?
RUBY: Yes.
ME: Well, they told you your eyes were beautiful because they are.
Three weeks and counting
My big almost-kindergartener.
Who’s buying me the first cocktail?