Value wIT

'width=100,height=100,scrollbars=no,resizable=no,toolbar=no,directories=no,location=no,menubar=no,status=no,left=0,top=0'); return false" href="http://valuewit.typepad.com/.shared/image.html?/photos/uncategorized/412d705230446475617935695178646b67100x10.jpg">title="412d705230446475617935695178646b67100x10" src="http://www.valuewit.com/images/412d705230446475617935695178646b67100x10.jpg" style="margin: 0px 5px 5px 0px; float: left;" />Raising Baby Animals

It’s creepy to me how humans often drop all pretenses of culture and refinement and fall back into old brain patterns of animal behavior.  This morning I dropped my son at a preschool class where he plays on gymnastics equipment, swims and is read to every Monday, Wednesday and Friday. At drop-off I witnessed a scene that was reminiscent of a film I once saw in Animal Behavior Class 101 about birds fighting over a mate.

One of the little girls in the class, a 4-year old, is particularly cute and winsome in a way that you know will translate into adulthood. It is clear to me based on my vast collection of experiences with girls just like little Kaela as how she will turn out.  Already, at age four, she has accepted society’s cues on how a girl should behave:  she coyly wears clothes that have ruffle hearts on the hip pockets and t-shirts that say things like “Sugar Added” or “Boy Crazy” or “Hottie”. She’s a cute kid, and I’m sure she is really a decent, well-meaning child, but her mother clearly finds it necessary to sexualize her, which makes me try to shield my children from Kaela and dodge questions like, “Can Kaela come home with us to play?” 

The mother also fixes Kaela's hair in ponytails that are too high and that make her look like a vacuous ninny.  Poor Kaela has already affected the look of “I’m easy.  I haven’t a thought in my head, and if want to take my clothes off, fine. I have no needs and exist only to please you.”  If I were a stronger person, I would not run away from Kaela but invite her over – to what end, though? My son might see her half a dozen more times outside of this preschool before they both go to different schools, and any extra involvement with Kaela and her family would run the risk of Kaela's family influencing my children rather than the reverse.

At drop-off this morning Kaela sidles-up to my son and bats her lashes at him while demurely lowering her chin and using one finger to touch my son’s shirt in a “want-a-lap-dance” way. Clearly, I have been spending too much time arming my daughter with ways to be a strong, confident girl who is not exploited by society and not enough time teaching my son how to appreciate (ahem, prefer) these types of girls.  These thoughts must have been percolating in my mind, but at the time I think I was just staring open-mouthed at what was happening.  Another little boy pushed himself between Kaela and my son and kissed Kaela on the cheek and handed her a block.  I swear it was like watching an animal behavior film: female bird shows her body as reproductive incubator, male bird brings feather for nest.

What if my poor son is like his father who married the first girl he saw, and subsequently got divorced? (Why did you marry her? She brought a cake to my door.)  I must begin spending more time educating my son. Of course, all the time spent working on my daughter might have backfired.  I most certainly do not want my daughter to dress suggestively, but it would be nice if she wore something other than boy soccer clothes and identified with the girls in her class instead of only the boys.  Clearly, my daughter is living in “no-man’s land” (no pun intended) because she refuses to be a part of the Kissy Girl Club, which is apparently comprised of a group of kindergarten girls who chase boys and try to kiss them. My daughter hangs with the boys who run from the Kissy Girls and seems to get along well within the boy circle, but girls need to have girl friends – you can’t have sleepovers with boys. However, one of the Kissy Girls beat my sweet girl’s bare leg with the heel of a patent leather Mary Jane shoe until my daughter’s leg bled.  I was outraged, and sad too.

You don’t want your child to bleed at the hands of a pink-skirted Tonya Harding on the playground.  I can only deduce that the little girl’s non-evolved old brain took control and forced her to remove her shoe and literally beat her competition.  Tonya’s old brain saw my daughter as an obstacle between herself and the boys. At some point you can’t interfere with nature, but aren’t you obligated to use your brain and pull society up a notch?  I’ll explain to young Tonya Harding that instead of beating your competition with a shoe that if she wants to play with the boys, just ask.  No chase and run away – join the basketball game or give the boys a part in your game.  As for dear Kaela I am instructing my son not to open the door if Kaela shows up with a cake.

My daughter is missing one of the biggest days of Kindergarten because I gave her too much independence too soon. Obviously, she is not mature enough to choose her own clothes. At the Episcopal school where she attends Kindergarten the class has spent an entire week “In the Woods”. It’s an annual event where five-year olds have an outside classroom and participate in science and art projects. A week of catching tadpoles and chasing frogs is paradise, especially for my outdoor oriented girl. However, my child is not attending the last day today – the big day where the parents come for a hot dog lunch.

The reason that she is not going “In the Woods” and is instead going “In her Room” is because she could not get dressed this morning. For the past four days she has worn a soccer uniform to school. One of the days it was filthy because she had perspired in it for over an hour at the soccer game the night before. This morning the weather dropped 30 degrees from yesterday, and I issued the edict: no shorts or short-sleeves and no soccer uniform. My daughter's answer to my decree involved screaming, kicking, crying, shouting, throwing and general statements about hating me.

Trying to be a good, progressive and understanding mother, I did not punish my child for expressing her sadness at not being able to wear shorts. I considered a different approach of letting her experience the natural consequences of wearing shorts on a cold day, but I decided that I didn’t want to deal with my natural consequences which would have been the teacher calling me to bring warm clothes or scolding me for dressing my child inappropriately. So, I patiently waited for her to make a good decision, all the while bristling at her Tasmanian Devil tantrum.

As she shrieked statements of hating about me and threw books in her room, my pressing instinct was to open her door and give her a good spanking, but I analyzed my need and decided I was uncomfortable with the negativity but that it was her anger and she should be allowed to express it. I waited downstairs with her brother. Time is ticking. School is starting. Her brother can’t be late because of her problem. What to do?

Even though it was risky – like trying to help a mad cat out of a box -- one last time I tried to help her. She agreed to put on pants and wear a jacket. We get into the car and head to the school.

At the gentle school where the world revolves around the children, the kind teacher comes to the car to retrieve my son and take him to the playground. What’s so difficult about getting out of the car, taking a teacher’s hand and going to a playground? I’ll be damned if he didn’t throw a fit and twist and kick when the teacher tried to get him out. Monkey see. Monkey do.

My patience ran out. I have such little patience anyway, and I had mustered it all together earlier and now it was gone. The devil jumped into my throat and began a growl that heightened into a tirade. I am positive the nice people at the church school heard me expressing my anger (in a healthy way) and were immediately on the phone to the Child Protective Services.

I try to regain my composure and drive down the street where I was to drop my daughter “In the Woods”. We drive to the drop-off location, and I look in the backseat and notice my daughter's hair is wild and knotted like a animal that might live in the woods. What really catches my eye is that she is wearing that *&#*@$#! soccer jersey. With out a doubt, a clear statement had been made that she was not to wear soccer clothes and she patently disobeyed me.

“What’s the big deal?” you say. Clothes are clothes. To an extent, clothes are clothes, but for the past four days my five-year old has dressed like a thug. The long, big soccer shorts that go to her knees are reminiscent of gang clothes. The baseball cap that she wears is put on backward – again, like a gang member. Maybe it means nothing, but when she’s a member of the Crips or Bloods and guns down an innocent person, will I say, “Oh, she’s just expressing her anger?”

The coddling and mollification of children has run amuck. Do we have to please them at all costs? Yesterday I fulfilled my required parental duty by volunteering one day (does anybody work?) to help with the children’s “In the Woods” experience. “Mrs. X, Anne Elise needs to be pushed on the swing,” Rawlston firmly tells me in the same tone in which he must speak to his maid. I jump to my assigned duty, which is “swing pushing” and watch as three mothers form the outfield for a baseball game and two mothers help with pastel drawing.

Why can’t kids swing by themselves, or have another kid push them? It’s weird for a parent to be involved in this part of play, especially when you have been given swing instructions to push gently because the children swing at different levels. Don’t push one too high because another might not be able to do it. While I tenderly push the swing, I am forced to drum-up conversation like, “How’s your mother? Fine. Do you like playing outside? Yes. When I was a kid (boring story inserted here). Mrs. X, stop me, please. I want to get off.”

Well, stop me, too. I want to get off, too. We’re raising a crop of ninnies who can’t get dressed, can’t get out the car, can’t swing by themselves, can’t play a game by themselves, and I don’t want to be a part of it. Yesterday I watched a kid cry, convulsively, for fifteen minutes because he couldn’t be first in line for the bathroom. Do we have to be gentle and explain, “Saddler, you can’t always be first. Some boys have to pee more than other boys. I know you feel let down, and I’m sorry you are having this hurt. Next time you will get to go first in line. Think about how that will feel. Let me see a smile. I can’t stand to see you so sad.” My inclination is to give Saddler a thump on the head and tell him he is acting like a baby, and either he can stop crying or next time he will be in the back of the line again.

Is this too harsh? It may be, but in my house children have to go to school, wear appropriate clothes, eat what is served them, wait their turn, play with other children, say thank you, look people in the eye, respect their parents and TRY, for goodness sakes, TRY. No pansy’s. No baby’s. No special cases—just self-reliant children raised by common sense. The alternative is sitting in one’s room the entire day.

The mystery of the soccer clothes has been solved! (Read Soccer Uniform to get caught up.) You might remember my daughter, the adorable kindergartener with a closet full of beautiful dresses that she will not wear. Instead, her outfit of choice includes long gang-looking soccer shorts and baseball caps worn backward. Last week, no matter what, I could not get the shorts off her body and it was driving me crazy; so, I took the soccer shorts and all the athletic paraphernalia away and put it into a bag in my closet. These special athletic clothes could only be worn for playing, practicing or games. After a few days, my conscience got the best of me, and I had a heartfelt conversation with my daughter in which I assured her that no matter what she wore, I loved her and respected her choices and individuality. If she felt most comfortable wearing clothes that looked best with a big gold medallion accessory, then that was fine with me. To my utter shock, she says, “Great. I am so happy. Now, I can look like Mr. X again!” Mr. X is her kindergarten teacher, a man in his early 50’s.

Don’t misunderstand, Mr. X is a fine individual and a fabulous teacher. Obviously, he is a great and effective teacher, as my child admires him to the extent she wants to immolate his style. However, my cute, sweet little girl looks better, in my opinion, in a dress than she does in man-clothes. Mr. X isn’t a petite man either, and his shorts are not small. My daughter sees the size of his shorts and despite proportion, she wants shorts that are the same size as Mr. X's shorts.

Last night we were going to a party where the big shorts outfit would not have been the best choice. I mentioned the situation to my daughter and told her that she should wear something appropriate. Her solution was a nice tweed, pleated skirt accompanied by a ragged swim team t-shirt and thick, bright-blue soccer socks that had been neatly rolled down from the knee to the ankle and were as wide as saucers around her ankles. I gently suggested that the sports clothes were not appropriate and that she might try again.

She twisted and growled as if to indicate a fit might be coming on. I steeled myself to ignore her negative response and went into my office where I pretended to work and ignore the fact that we were going to be late. Finally, she comes in wearing the same skirt, but this time she had chosen a white t-shirt and white socks. Fine. It was fine. It was not an ultra cute outfit from her closet, but it was not offensive -- just plain, neat and the right size. Happy with the fact that she had complied with what must seem to her to be bizarre and random guidelines for dressing, she exclaimed in a relieved and pround tone, “It’s a-plo-pli-ate! I’m a-plo-pli-ate.”

Great, I think. I have driven out everything that my daughter that is special and creative. I’ve crushed her spirit. Now, her dress style is limited to white shirts and socks. Good job, mom.