I cleaned my daughter Zoe's room today. This is noteworthy because I had previously told her I was not going to do this. She has a terrible habit of making messes and then expecting me to clean them. I figured that at nine and one-half years old, she can clean her own messes. It became a battle of wills. You already know who won.
So I spent a long time in there today, organizing and reorganizing and piling and sorting and tossing and yelling for more Diet Pepsis. I drank several Diet Pepsis. I enjoy the Diet Pepsis...... Anyway, I digress. It was a long day. And I had a lot of time to think. So I thought I'd share some of those thoughts, because there is a possibility that they are deep or poignant or some such thing. Doubtful, but hope springs eternal.
1) If there is such a thing as a show called "Pre-Teen Hoarders," or if anyone wants to develop one, give me a call. I've got your pilot episode living in my house.
2) My daughter is very creative. I mean, I've known this, but her belongings really tell the tale. For one thing, her artwork is EVERYWHERE. Drawings, paintings, sketches, craft projects....I established a drawer just to hold such items. Because they were literally strewn all over her room. Being prolific AND lazy is a bad combination. Another thing I've noticed about Zoe is that she repurposes almost all of her toys. A crossbar from a doll swing becomes a fishing pole. Plastic dishes and an upside-down tote become an air hockey table. This used to drive me NUTS. Especially when her modifications required scotch-taping stuff to other stuff. (Because STICKY.) But nowadays, I'm pretty chill with Zoe's creations. It shows she thinks outside the box. Which is good because the box is crammed full of her crap....
3) Apparently, my sideways parenting skillz have not warped my daughter too badly. I have had the potential to screw her up royally, but she seems to be pretty level-headed. This, after SO many mistakes I have made on her behalf. When her older brother Andrew decided to be born with a penis (you had ONE job, Andrew!) I had pretty much given up on having a daughter. After all, we had the two children we'd planned on, and neither of them had the forethought to be born with a vagina. So, I resigned myself to a life of Bob The Builder and Hot Wheels. That's cool. Nothing wrong with boys. Boys are great. Yup. LOVE my boys.
But of course life has a way of bitch-slapping you while laughing at your presumption that YOU get to make the plans. And along came Zoe. Suddenly, I had the daughter I never thought I'd have. And even though I do not agree with categorizing kids by gender and I specifically don't agree with "girl colors" and "girl toys".....somehow Zoe ended up with a metric shit ton of pink stuff - dolls, stuffed animals, tea sets, dress up shoes, tiaras. Oh, speaking of tiaras, my daughter also came to possess a LOT of princess stuff....mostly Disney princess stuff. Oh, the sparkly fluff! Oh, the glittery glamour!! And let me tell you, these ladies are on EVERYTHING - posters, coloring books, furniture, clothing, dishes, and toys, toys, toys.
Which brings me to another parenting mistake I made - living vicariously through my daughter. You see, when I was a young lass, I had a handful of 11.5" fashion dolls...but no actual Barbies. My cousin LaDawna had Barbies. My best friend Laurrie had Barbies. I had no Barbies. So guess what I started buying for Zoe the minute she was old enough to focus her little eyes? Yup. She got them for birthdays and Christmas and Easter and sometimes just because. By the time I stopped to think about what I was doing, she had well over a dozen. This made me feel guilty. So then I started buying her the Disney Princess dolls. Technically, they are not Barbies. Shut up.
ANYWAY, the moral of the story is, that despite the fact I surrounded my young, impressionable daughter with so much horrible stereotypical "girly girl" imagery, Zoe is pretty well balanced. She has her own sense of style (think "Blossom" meets Molly Ringwald's character from "Pretty in Pink"), she knows that girls have power and brains and are NOT required to wear mini skirts while they walk their dogs, and she can hold her own against her brothers in a foot race or a game of "Mario Kart." Somehow, even though I did everything wrong, she is not a pampered princess with poor body image. Go figure.
4) My little girl is growing up. Today, while I was putting My Little Ponies in one pile and Barbie shoes in another, I realized that it won't be long before these things are set aside for less childish pursuits. She will be ten in September, and while we have always tried to keep our kids kids for as long as they will stay that way, she can't be our "Little One" forever. How long until she doesn't want to play with toys or finger paint or watch "My Little Pony" DVDs over and over until the theme song makes me want to kill somebody Manchurian Candidate-style? How long until she tells me that her posters need to come down, her toys need to be packed away, her Disney CDs need to be replaced with music sung by people with piercings and questionable hygiene? Maybe it's because she's our youngest, or maybe it's because she's our only girl, or MAYBE it's because life is cruel and evil and a cold-hearted bitch, but it just seems like it's happening too fast. I kept running into clothes that she has outgrown or toys that she hasn't played with in years and when did all of this happen? What the hell?? Life, you suck.
5) There really is no five. I just had to quit focusing on the sad stuff.
So Zoe's room is livable once again, although it really needs a good PURGING, of closets and storage totes and everything. This will be a good project for the summer. Then we can have a yard sale and I can watch other people's children plunk down tooth-fairy quarters so they can walk away owning pieces of my children's childhood. Which is totally fine. Because I can take those quarters to the liquor store. And that, my friends, is called "parenting."
Saturday, March 1, 2014
Tuesday, December 24, 2013
One Christmas Eve....
Being a parent at Christmastime creates a multitude of emotions which must keep therapists across the globe busy until sometime around Easter. Some of us have wonderful childhood holiday memories which we feel inclined to replicate for our replicants. Others of us have not-so-super memories which we work to NOT repeat, under any circumstances. Often, the sights and smells and sounds of the season can bring back all of the wonder and the magic that we felt as wee little folk. And most of us are still terrified of mall Santas. I think that's only natural. They are creepy as hell.
As I type this, I am sitting next to our HUGE Christmas tree, which is currently taking up a quarter of our living room. It is covered in various ornaments which we have collected over the years - many of them have a story or come from a place which we love. A few are leftovers from my husband's childhood tree. There are none from mine. Under the tree sits a labor of love undertaken by said husband and myself - various brightly-wrapped gifts adorned with ribbons and bows, which we toiled to perfect until 1 AM this morning. Before the wrapping came the shopping. Before the shopping came the list-making. Our children had ideas and dreams and plans regarding these presents. They were confident that they could ask for something and they would get it. This is a thing which boggles my mind, how sure they are that their wants will be taken care of. It makes me happy, yet terrifies me at the same time. How much we have the option to make them happy....and how easily we could crush their optimism. I want them to have the good memories. I want that more than I can communicate.
I don't know how much I've shared about my own childhood - it wasn't horrific or anything, it's nothing I'm ashamed of, but I did grow up in poverty, so my memories are all colored with things which I *hope* my children will never have to experience. While my mother did a fine job of making this time of year magical for me - she really did, I have SO many happy, bubbly feelings associated with Christmas - there was always the ever-present knowledge that money was an "issue." Add to that my parents love of alcohol AND my father's dislike for Christmas, and you can see why my love of the season was surrounded by a bit of a minefield. I've always been an optimist to the point of being ridiculous, however, and this served me well.
I told you all of that to tell you this: A very specific memory of one Christmas Eve which I take out and examine when I wonder if I'm losing track of the season, or if such a thing as Christmas magic truly exists. It was 1981 and it had been a very difficult year for us as a family, financially...really in all ways. Over the summer we had moved into a small rental house which, in hindsight, was little more than a shack. It was old and drafty and tiny but it was home to me, and I vowed to make the best of it. As winter approached, however, it became clear that things were more dreary than I had suspected. We had very little money. We had no vehicle. And my eleven-year-old heart broke as it was made evident we would have no Christmas tree. No pretty twinkling lights, no glittery ornaments. I tried to keep the spirit of the season alive by singing carols and decorating with what we had. Then, Christmas Eve dawned.
There was a knock on the door. Was it friendly neighbors, aware of our plight and determined to make Christmas special for us? No, it was a deputy from the Fire Marshall's office. He was dropping by to let us know that the house we were in had been condemned and was not suitable for dwelling. We had one week to vacate. Then he left. Merry Christmas. And it was done. I was pretty sure that even my Little Mary Sunshine attitude couldn't survive this level of doom and gloom. I'd had it. I was broken. In tears, I ran to my room (really a walled-in porch) and threw myself on my bed. I heard my father leave shorty thereafter. It was really cold out, and since we had no car I hadn't a clue where he could be headed. Knowing him, maybe to a bar. I cried some more. Everything seemed dark and bleak and it just hurt.
Sometime later, as afternoon was bleeding into evening, my father returned, his nose bright red from the cold and his fingers painfully frozen. And behind him he was dragging a Christmas tree. He had wandered around town until he found a tree lot willing to sell him a tree for only $5. Seeing as how it was Christmas Eve, there was a great air of urgency to get the ornaments out and our tree decorated before nightfall. It was small - we stood it on a side table - but to me it was the most beautiful tree in the entire world. And that will forever be the most magical Christmas Eve of my life.
I wish this could be a "happily ever after" story, but life progressed and life often does - we did find an apartment to move into within the week, we did continue on as a family, dysfunctional but always trying. I only had ten more Christmases with my dad, some were better than others, others were worse than some. But no matter what came, I always had that memory of him dragging that tree behind him, a small gesture to make a sad little girl smile on a not so merry Christmas Eve. Thanks, Dad. It worked.
As I type this, I am sitting next to our HUGE Christmas tree, which is currently taking up a quarter of our living room. It is covered in various ornaments which we have collected over the years - many of them have a story or come from a place which we love. A few are leftovers from my husband's childhood tree. There are none from mine. Under the tree sits a labor of love undertaken by said husband and myself - various brightly-wrapped gifts adorned with ribbons and bows, which we toiled to perfect until 1 AM this morning. Before the wrapping came the shopping. Before the shopping came the list-making. Our children had ideas and dreams and plans regarding these presents. They were confident that they could ask for something and they would get it. This is a thing which boggles my mind, how sure they are that their wants will be taken care of. It makes me happy, yet terrifies me at the same time. How much we have the option to make them happy....and how easily we could crush their optimism. I want them to have the good memories. I want that more than I can communicate.
I don't know how much I've shared about my own childhood - it wasn't horrific or anything, it's nothing I'm ashamed of, but I did grow up in poverty, so my memories are all colored with things which I *hope* my children will never have to experience. While my mother did a fine job of making this time of year magical for me - she really did, I have SO many happy, bubbly feelings associated with Christmas - there was always the ever-present knowledge that money was an "issue." Add to that my parents love of alcohol AND my father's dislike for Christmas, and you can see why my love of the season was surrounded by a bit of a minefield. I've always been an optimist to the point of being ridiculous, however, and this served me well.
I told you all of that to tell you this: A very specific memory of one Christmas Eve which I take out and examine when I wonder if I'm losing track of the season, or if such a thing as Christmas magic truly exists. It was 1981 and it had been a very difficult year for us as a family, financially...really in all ways. Over the summer we had moved into a small rental house which, in hindsight, was little more than a shack. It was old and drafty and tiny but it was home to me, and I vowed to make the best of it. As winter approached, however, it became clear that things were more dreary than I had suspected. We had very little money. We had no vehicle. And my eleven-year-old heart broke as it was made evident we would have no Christmas tree. No pretty twinkling lights, no glittery ornaments. I tried to keep the spirit of the season alive by singing carols and decorating with what we had. Then, Christmas Eve dawned.
There was a knock on the door. Was it friendly neighbors, aware of our plight and determined to make Christmas special for us? No, it was a deputy from the Fire Marshall's office. He was dropping by to let us know that the house we were in had been condemned and was not suitable for dwelling. We had one week to vacate. Then he left. Merry Christmas. And it was done. I was pretty sure that even my Little Mary Sunshine attitude couldn't survive this level of doom and gloom. I'd had it. I was broken. In tears, I ran to my room (really a walled-in porch) and threw myself on my bed. I heard my father leave shorty thereafter. It was really cold out, and since we had no car I hadn't a clue where he could be headed. Knowing him, maybe to a bar. I cried some more. Everything seemed dark and bleak and it just hurt.
Sometime later, as afternoon was bleeding into evening, my father returned, his nose bright red from the cold and his fingers painfully frozen. And behind him he was dragging a Christmas tree. He had wandered around town until he found a tree lot willing to sell him a tree for only $5. Seeing as how it was Christmas Eve, there was a great air of urgency to get the ornaments out and our tree decorated before nightfall. It was small - we stood it on a side table - but to me it was the most beautiful tree in the entire world. And that will forever be the most magical Christmas Eve of my life.
I wish this could be a "happily ever after" story, but life progressed and life often does - we did find an apartment to move into within the week, we did continue on as a family, dysfunctional but always trying. I only had ten more Christmases with my dad, some were better than others, others were worse than some. But no matter what came, I always had that memory of him dragging that tree behind him, a small gesture to make a sad little girl smile on a not so merry Christmas Eve. Thanks, Dad. It worked.
Saturday, November 30, 2013
Yesterday I had one of those parenting moments. The ones which, as they happen, you know are *significant* and *important* and would definitely make the final cut if this were an A&E reality show. My 9-yr-old daughter and I were walking through a supermarket parking lot when she noticed the hood ornament of a rather fancy car. "Look, Mom....it's a peace sign!" she announced excitedly, because as we all know peace signs are super-cool-awesome. I glanced up, and the weight of the moment settled on my shoulders. My mind screamed "LIFE LESSON!! DON'T SCREW THIS UP!!!" Geez, no pressure, Mind.
"No, Zoe" I replied, "that's actually a Mercedes symbol. They are there to announce that this car is expensive and fancy and cost a lot a money. They are all about status..." I glanced down at Zoe's open, curious face, "which is something we don't care about." I delivered this last part casually, but the message was certainly there. BAM! I followed it up with "Peace symbols are much more important. They mean love and acceptance and have nothing to do with money." We continued on, the subject changing as subjects are wont to do, but I was still feeling pretty smug. "I nailed that bit of parental wisdom!" I thought. My mind gave me a mental high-five, and my ego grew three sizes that day. It's wonderful to be wonderful! Until...
It occurred to me that words don't mean much. I mean, they DO, they say what we need to say (Thanks, John Mayer) but we all know that kids learn more from our actions than our words. Tell you kids not to smoke, but do it with a cigarette hanging from your lips and the message may get lost somewhere. Tell your kids money isn't important, but then bow down to the alter of the Gods of Fortune and once again your words lose their power. So now it was time for some self-reflection.
It's true that in our home, we don't pay much attention to "status" The home itself is proof of that. Small, old, and not revamped since the 1970s (wood paneling and shag carpet, anyone?) it will never grace the pages of "House Beautiful." We were able to buy it for a very reasonable price when we were just starting out. Most, if not all, of our contemporaries have moved on from their "starter homes" into larger, newer, more impressive houses. We have not. And it's not because we couldn't have done so....it's just that the sacrifices we'd have made just didn't seem worth it. In order to afford the steep house payment a newer house would bring, both my husband and I would have to work full-time, which would mean that my career as a teaching assistant would be a thing of the past. Now, my husband is a VERY hard worker, he is an amazing provider and his paychecks ARE our livelihood. I am also a hard worker, but my hours are limited and my paychecks aren't that stellar. I have worked in other jobs, I do well in other jobs...but I LOVE what I do. Like honestly love it. And I'm really good at it. Not to mention that over the years, I've been able to be home with the kids on weekends, holidays, summers...... This is a luxury which I've never taken for granted. I couldn't ask for a better situation. So living in a craptastic little house seems like a pretty fair trade.
But let's say, by some strange chain of events, we WERE able to swing a newer, bigger house. Obviously we would need newer, nicer furniture to go in said house. What we own is primarily hand-me-downs, gifts, or are items made outright by my husband's own two hands. We would also need new appliances, as we replace ours only as needed, and they don't exactly "match." Oh, and we'd need some sort of decor as well. We don't have that.....unless "family photos meets kids' artwork" is a thing. The list goes on. We'd need new towels, new bedding ( Hell, new BEDS) new new new NEW!! Would it ever end?
Oh, and once we had the shiny new home, wouldn't our shabby vehicles look awful parked in the driveway? My husband owns a 1986 Toyota pickup which he rebuilt himself from the frame up. I drive a 2001 Chevy Venture Van with a ding in the door and speakers which vibrate when I play my music loud enough for my liking. But both vehicles work, and we haven't had a car payment in five years. Would it be worth it to take on extra hours away from the family in order to swing a new car or two?
For the sake of argument, say we somehow managed the big house and the fancy furnishings and a newer car.....Would we be happier? Would we somehow be "better?" Would we even still be "us?" Now, I'm not being judgmental of anyone who has bigger/nicer/better things, and I'm not saying that such people made bad or wrong choices to have such things. They are the fruits of hard work and I have nothing but respect for that. I'm just saying, that in OUR set of circumstances, it couldn't happen without a lot changes which I'm not sure I'm willing to make. To me, it isn't worth it.
Do I sometimes wish we had a bigger house? Only always. Heck, even just having more than one bathroom would be glorious. Am I ever envious of others? Yes, again, pretty much always. I do appreciate nice things, and I love beauty, and really REALLY want a second bathroom. (Have I mentioned that one already?) But I am content with what we have. Our house keeps us warm, and dry, and we've made some really good memories here. I'd be hard pressed to walk away even if I could.
So, maybe we DON'T just talk the talk of the "money doesn't matter" set, maybe we are setting an example for our kids that shows that it's okay to WANT more, as long as you recognize that you don't NEED more. I'll be happy if any part of that seeps into their consciousness. I think they'll be happier for it. But, like most parents, I do want to see my kids' lives be richer and fuller than my own.....so I hope to God they never EVER settle for just one bathroom. Seriously.
"No, Zoe" I replied, "that's actually a Mercedes symbol. They are there to announce that this car is expensive and fancy and cost a lot a money. They are all about status..." I glanced down at Zoe's open, curious face, "which is something we don't care about." I delivered this last part casually, but the message was certainly there. BAM! I followed it up with "Peace symbols are much more important. They mean love and acceptance and have nothing to do with money." We continued on, the subject changing as subjects are wont to do, but I was still feeling pretty smug. "I nailed that bit of parental wisdom!" I thought. My mind gave me a mental high-five, and my ego grew three sizes that day. It's wonderful to be wonderful! Until...
It occurred to me that words don't mean much. I mean, they DO, they say what we need to say (Thanks, John Mayer) but we all know that kids learn more from our actions than our words. Tell you kids not to smoke, but do it with a cigarette hanging from your lips and the message may get lost somewhere. Tell your kids money isn't important, but then bow down to the alter of the Gods of Fortune and once again your words lose their power. So now it was time for some self-reflection.
It's true that in our home, we don't pay much attention to "status" The home itself is proof of that. Small, old, and not revamped since the 1970s (wood paneling and shag carpet, anyone?) it will never grace the pages of "House Beautiful." We were able to buy it for a very reasonable price when we were just starting out. Most, if not all, of our contemporaries have moved on from their "starter homes" into larger, newer, more impressive houses. We have not. And it's not because we couldn't have done so....it's just that the sacrifices we'd have made just didn't seem worth it. In order to afford the steep house payment a newer house would bring, both my husband and I would have to work full-time, which would mean that my career as a teaching assistant would be a thing of the past. Now, my husband is a VERY hard worker, he is an amazing provider and his paychecks ARE our livelihood. I am also a hard worker, but my hours are limited and my paychecks aren't that stellar. I have worked in other jobs, I do well in other jobs...but I LOVE what I do. Like honestly love it. And I'm really good at it. Not to mention that over the years, I've been able to be home with the kids on weekends, holidays, summers...... This is a luxury which I've never taken for granted. I couldn't ask for a better situation. So living in a craptastic little house seems like a pretty fair trade.
But let's say, by some strange chain of events, we WERE able to swing a newer, bigger house. Obviously we would need newer, nicer furniture to go in said house. What we own is primarily hand-me-downs, gifts, or are items made outright by my husband's own two hands. We would also need new appliances, as we replace ours only as needed, and they don't exactly "match." Oh, and we'd need some sort of decor as well. We don't have that.....unless "family photos meets kids' artwork" is a thing. The list goes on. We'd need new towels, new bedding ( Hell, new BEDS) new new new NEW!! Would it ever end?
Oh, and once we had the shiny new home, wouldn't our shabby vehicles look awful parked in the driveway? My husband owns a 1986 Toyota pickup which he rebuilt himself from the frame up. I drive a 2001 Chevy Venture Van with a ding in the door and speakers which vibrate when I play my music loud enough for my liking. But both vehicles work, and we haven't had a car payment in five years. Would it be worth it to take on extra hours away from the family in order to swing a new car or two?
For the sake of argument, say we somehow managed the big house and the fancy furnishings and a newer car.....Would we be happier? Would we somehow be "better?" Would we even still be "us?" Now, I'm not being judgmental of anyone who has bigger/nicer/better things, and I'm not saying that such people made bad or wrong choices to have such things. They are the fruits of hard work and I have nothing but respect for that. I'm just saying, that in OUR set of circumstances, it couldn't happen without a lot changes which I'm not sure I'm willing to make. To me, it isn't worth it.
Do I sometimes wish we had a bigger house? Only always. Heck, even just having more than one bathroom would be glorious. Am I ever envious of others? Yes, again, pretty much always. I do appreciate nice things, and I love beauty, and really REALLY want a second bathroom. (Have I mentioned that one already?) But I am content with what we have. Our house keeps us warm, and dry, and we've made some really good memories here. I'd be hard pressed to walk away even if I could.
So, maybe we DON'T just talk the talk of the "money doesn't matter" set, maybe we are setting an example for our kids that shows that it's okay to WANT more, as long as you recognize that you don't NEED more. I'll be happy if any part of that seeps into their consciousness. I think they'll be happier for it. But, like most parents, I do want to see my kids' lives be richer and fuller than my own.....so I hope to God they never EVER settle for just one bathroom. Seriously.
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