Finally, finally we've reached the end of the spring semester--but not without several weeks' worth of Senior Seminar presentations. We had the usual variety of topics, ranging from media law to Stephen King to Miss America. There were excellent presentations and not-so-excellent presentations and downright awful presentations. Our students run the gamut.
The presentation that's sticking with me today, perhaps because it was one of the last ones we heard, came from a student who had done a psychoanalytic treatment of James and the Giant Peach. His basic argument seemed to be that, after losing his biological mother, James seeks mothering from the peach because he doesn't get it from his aunts--and because he gets what he needs from the peach, he's able to grow and prosper in healthy ways. One of my colleagues challenged this reading by suggesting that James doesn't grow as the result of climbing into the "womb" of the giant peach--that by the end of the story he's still living in the desiccated carcass of his "mother," Norman Bates-style, without having grown up at all. Separating from your mother is, after all, a necessary part of healthy adult life. Our student wanted to argue that, since we don't see James as an adult, all we can know is that he's happy and healthy where we leave him, which seems like the point the story wants to make.
Another colleague, however, pointed out that this dynamic isn't particularly kind to the mother/peach; essentially, she's just expected to give and give until she's sucked dry, at which point she becomes something completely different--a domicile--but still defined by the needs of her "child." Can we really claim that James grows into a well-adjusted person if what he's learned is that it's okay to use others for your own purposes, without thinking about what's best for them? The student's response to this question suggested that the noblest thing a mother can do for her child is to sacrifice herself entirely, and there's nothing unkind about that--it's just what good mothers do, and it's how healthy adults are produced.
This student and I have been butting heads in a relatively benign way all semester in the Senior Seminar course, but it took a good measure of restraint for me not to point out the utter absurdity of that argument. It's not new, of course. There are plenty of people who agree with him. But if they're right, then why are mothers directed to put on their own oxygen masks, in the event of a plane crash, before helping their children do the same? Because the airlines know what everyone else should, by now: a mother can't be helpful to anyone if she's unconscious (or, in the case of the peach, sucked dry of her vital juices.) She has to put herself first, not last, to be of any use.
Becoming a mother was the most liberating thing that has happened to me in my life. By liberating, I certainly don't mean lacking constraints; motherhood is, if nothing else, a long process of learning to be constrained by the demands of others. But those demands are liberating in their own way.
For example: when my daughter was only a few months old, I took her for a walk in her carriage one afternoon. Within the first few moments of our walk, a huge dog was bounding across the park toward us, off leash. I didn't know what to do. Running, I thought, would only encourage a chase--so I just stood still, hoping he'd lose interest in us if I didn't encourage his attention.
Instead, almost immediately, the dog stuck his head down into the carriage. I didn't wait to see whether he was going to harm my baby; I didn't worry that he was going to whip around and bite my hand off. I grabbed him by the collar and lifted him off his front feet. By then his owner was running across the park toward us, yelling "It's okay! He won't hurt anybody! He's very friendly!" Still, I held on to the yelping dog until his owner arrived with his leash.
Even now, almost fifteen years later, I have no idea how I lifted that huge dog off his feet with one hand. But I know why I did it: becoming a mother had freed me of the fears that would have plagued me otherwise--fear of injury, fear of looking like a silly woman who's afraid of a friendly dog. I was the only person available to take charge of the situation, so I did.
In other words, I put myself first. I trusted my judgement and went into action on the basis of that judgement, without a second thought. If sacrifice is the act of being whatever our children determine they need, mothering is the act of deciding what's best for them, putting our judgement before theirs.
Children need whole, vibrant, thinking people in their lives. They need people to take charge when they're too young and small to do so themselves, but they also need people to offer guidance and sustenance when they're old enough to be more autonomous. The only way we'll have something to offer them at every point in their lives is to hold a part of ourselves in reserve at all times--to refuse to give our whole selves, ever.
I am nobody's peach. And I'm proud to say it.
Showing posts with label Parenting. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Parenting. Show all posts
Wednesday, April 29, 2009
Thursday, October 2, 2008
The Basic Thing
When my son was little, he used to ask me a baffling question: "What's the basic thing about X?" (For X, substitute anything you can think of: cheeseburgers, The Flintstones, going to the movies. I got all those questions and many, many more.) It's a harder question than you might imagine. I didn't realize this at first--I thought, well, the basic thing about a cheeseburger is the burger. But without the cheese, of course, it's just a burger. So perhaps the basic thing is cheese. But no. A slice of cheese alone does not a cheeseburger make.
I started thinking about this yesterday, when I started to write an essay on character that I was asked to contribute to Center, the literary magazine published by the graduate writing program at the University Of Missouri. But the more I've thought about it, the more I've realized how tricky it is to identify the basic thing about anything. For example, parenting.
Yesterday I was helping my son get ready for school when my husband pointed out that while I was away at Ragdale, our kids got themselves ready for school every single morning. I know they're completely capable of doing this--they're certainly old enough--but I've been in the habit of helping out since they were small people. So now I do it without even thinking about whether it's really necessary, or if it's of benefit to them.
My husband and I grew up in very different families. I had a hands-on stay at home mom and a working dad; my husband had two working parents and two much younger siblings that he was responsible for much of the time. I think he knew more about being a parent when he left home for college than I did when we had children of our own. Still, I have to question whether being a hands-off parent is the basic thing about good parenting. There were mornings while I was gone, I've heard, where my husband wound up driving the kids to school because they'd missed their bus. So what's more important: teaching them to take care of themselves, or teaching them that operating on a schedule is an important part of life? (I really don't want my kids to be like the students who wander into my classroom ten minutes late every day and fail to see why this is an issue.)
Ideally, of course, they'd learn both lessons. But if I have to choose between the two, I'm going to teach my kids that maintaining a schedule is a matter of respect. When my daughter called from the bus stop a few weeks ago to tell me she'd just realized that she forgot to put on makeup before she left the house, I told her she'd have to go to school as she was. I wouldn't agree to drive her to school after she'd come home and finished getting ready; that was something she had to learn to do in the time between waking up and leaving for the bus. When she did the same thing earlier this week, she didn't even bother to call home. She knew her main responsibility was getting herself to school on time, and that's what she did--even though it meant letting people see what she looks like without eyeliner.
Kids make mistakes, of course. When they miss the bus after school, very occasionally, I don't tell them to make the long walk home along a busy street; I go pick them up. But they're apologizing to me the minute they get in the car. They know they've messed up. They don't assume they're entitled to miss the bus once in awhile, that I should be available to pick them up. They respect the fact that I have a schedule, too, that I'm responsible for being other places and doing other things. But they also know that they will always come first, when they really need my help.
So maybe that's the basic thing about being a parent: making sure your children understand that they're always your first priority, that this is a privilege not all children share, and that they therefore shouldn't abuse that privilege arbitrarily. This is something we can help them understand by letting our kids know we have faith in their ability to be responsible for themselves--and providing backup when, inevitably, they fail. Or by making sure our kids show respect for others by being where they're supposed be, on time--and providing backup when, inevitably, they fall behind.
Well, look at that: providing backup. The basic thing.
I started thinking about this yesterday, when I started to write an essay on character that I was asked to contribute to Center, the literary magazine published by the graduate writing program at the University Of Missouri. But the more I've thought about it, the more I've realized how tricky it is to identify the basic thing about anything. For example, parenting.
Yesterday I was helping my son get ready for school when my husband pointed out that while I was away at Ragdale, our kids got themselves ready for school every single morning. I know they're completely capable of doing this--they're certainly old enough--but I've been in the habit of helping out since they were small people. So now I do it without even thinking about whether it's really necessary, or if it's of benefit to them.
My husband and I grew up in very different families. I had a hands-on stay at home mom and a working dad; my husband had two working parents and two much younger siblings that he was responsible for much of the time. I think he knew more about being a parent when he left home for college than I did when we had children of our own. Still, I have to question whether being a hands-off parent is the basic thing about good parenting. There were mornings while I was gone, I've heard, where my husband wound up driving the kids to school because they'd missed their bus. So what's more important: teaching them to take care of themselves, or teaching them that operating on a schedule is an important part of life? (I really don't want my kids to be like the students who wander into my classroom ten minutes late every day and fail to see why this is an issue.)
Ideally, of course, they'd learn both lessons. But if I have to choose between the two, I'm going to teach my kids that maintaining a schedule is a matter of respect. When my daughter called from the bus stop a few weeks ago to tell me she'd just realized that she forgot to put on makeup before she left the house, I told her she'd have to go to school as she was. I wouldn't agree to drive her to school after she'd come home and finished getting ready; that was something she had to learn to do in the time between waking up and leaving for the bus. When she did the same thing earlier this week, she didn't even bother to call home. She knew her main responsibility was getting herself to school on time, and that's what she did--even though it meant letting people see what she looks like without eyeliner.
Kids make mistakes, of course. When they miss the bus after school, very occasionally, I don't tell them to make the long walk home along a busy street; I go pick them up. But they're apologizing to me the minute they get in the car. They know they've messed up. They don't assume they're entitled to miss the bus once in awhile, that I should be available to pick them up. They respect the fact that I have a schedule, too, that I'm responsible for being other places and doing other things. But they also know that they will always come first, when they really need my help.
So maybe that's the basic thing about being a parent: making sure your children understand that they're always your first priority, that this is a privilege not all children share, and that they therefore shouldn't abuse that privilege arbitrarily. This is something we can help them understand by letting our kids know we have faith in their ability to be responsible for themselves--and providing backup when, inevitably, they fail. Or by making sure our kids show respect for others by being where they're supposed be, on time--and providing backup when, inevitably, they fall behind.
Well, look at that: providing backup. The basic thing.
Sunday, August 31, 2008
A heaping helping of hot coals for your head
Dear Volleyball Coach:
Over this past summer, my daughter decided to go out for the volleyball team at the middle school where you're on staff. I guess I assumed middle school sports still operated the way they did when I was a kid: if you wanted to be on the team, you showed up for practice every day.
Clearly, that's not the case. My daughter went to two days of three-hour practices after school, and then she showed up for the 9 a.m. Saturday morning practice session you'd scheduled. At some point along the way, she was told that 15 of the 45 girls who wanted to play volleyball for their school would be cut; there was "space enough" only for 30 girls, 15 each on the A and B teams.
Since she didn't play volleyball last year, my daughter knew she was one of the girls vulnerable to being cut from the roster. And, sure enough, when we went back to the school at noon on Saturday, we saw that her name wasn't on the list.
There are about a million things wrong with this scenario, but let's start with the "obesity epidemic" we hear about so often in the news. Every time this topic comes up, the focus goes straight to food. What are kids eating? What should they be eating instead? Perhaps we should ask why kids who want to be active at school are being denied that opportunity. Is it any wonder that young people develop a negative attitude about exercise when their earliest experiences with team sports lead to outright rejection?
I'm not going to argue that my daughter was the best volleyball player in the group. She wasn't. She knows that, and she admits it freely. But she wanted to get better--that's why she went out for the team. She hasn't participated in club volleyball or skills clinics because her interest in the sport just developed recently. The message you're sending to her is that if you aren't interested in sports from an early age, you might as well forget about getting active later in life. (And the idea that 13 is "later in life"? It's just absurd.)
And what about the girls whose parents can't afford club volleyball and skills clinics? I'm getting a much clearer picture of why obesity and poverty so often go hand in hand.
So when you say there just isn't "space" on the team for my daughter and 14 other girls, I'm guessing what you mean is that strong athletes would lose playing time if they had to accommodate less talented teammates. That, of course, would be a tragedy.
I understand that talented athletes can only improve their skills if they play against athletes at or above their own level. I'm not opposed to the idea of dividing the kids into A and B teams. But what about a C team, or even a D team? The band program provides you with an excellent model: no student is turned away, even if he or she isn't particularly talented. They're sorted into honors band, symphonic band, intermediate band--there's a place for everyone who wants to stay involved with music. Perhaps this is because music teachers understand the benefits to be gained from pursuing their discipline.
I hear many arguments in favor of school sports: they teach teamwork, cooperation, dedication, time management. I don't dispute that any of these things are true. But if you really believe these are important skills, I find it hard to understand why you'd turn away a third of the students interested in developing the very qualities you're so quick to defend.
My tax dollars are subsidizing the giant new high school football stadium that, I now understand, will benefit only a select few high school football players. My tax dollars are subsidizing your volleyball program, too--in spite of the fact that it's not available to my own kid. And while you may argue that this is always the case, that my tax dollars also subsidize the Talented and Gifted education that my daughter enjoys while others are turned away, let's keep in mind that everyone gets to take math. The fact that some students can't learn math at her pace doesn't lead to them being told "Sorry, there's no room for you in Algebra."
Luckily, I've taught my kids to be tough. When they face disappointment, I've taught them to shake it off and plan for the next challenge. Now it's up to me to do the same, to lead by example.
At church this morning, the reading from Romans indicated that I should retaliate with kindness when someone is unfair to me, that I shouldn't retaliate in kind but, instead, fight injustice with goodness--and that by doing so, I'll heap hot coals on the enemy's head. So instead of calling you first thing in the morning and telling you exactly what I think about your sports program--which, let's face it, would do no good anyway--I'm going to encourage my daughter not to give up on fitness. I'm going to encourage her to take care of her physical self as well as her spirit, to welcome and support everyone, no matter their failings. I'm going to teach her to destroy your power by exercising her own.
Game on, coach. This time, you are not going to win.
Over this past summer, my daughter decided to go out for the volleyball team at the middle school where you're on staff. I guess I assumed middle school sports still operated the way they did when I was a kid: if you wanted to be on the team, you showed up for practice every day.
Clearly, that's not the case. My daughter went to two days of three-hour practices after school, and then she showed up for the 9 a.m. Saturday morning practice session you'd scheduled. At some point along the way, she was told that 15 of the 45 girls who wanted to play volleyball for their school would be cut; there was "space enough" only for 30 girls, 15 each on the A and B teams.
Since she didn't play volleyball last year, my daughter knew she was one of the girls vulnerable to being cut from the roster. And, sure enough, when we went back to the school at noon on Saturday, we saw that her name wasn't on the list.
There are about a million things wrong with this scenario, but let's start with the "obesity epidemic" we hear about so often in the news. Every time this topic comes up, the focus goes straight to food. What are kids eating? What should they be eating instead? Perhaps we should ask why kids who want to be active at school are being denied that opportunity. Is it any wonder that young people develop a negative attitude about exercise when their earliest experiences with team sports lead to outright rejection?
I'm not going to argue that my daughter was the best volleyball player in the group. She wasn't. She knows that, and she admits it freely. But she wanted to get better--that's why she went out for the team. She hasn't participated in club volleyball or skills clinics because her interest in the sport just developed recently. The message you're sending to her is that if you aren't interested in sports from an early age, you might as well forget about getting active later in life. (And the idea that 13 is "later in life"? It's just absurd.)
And what about the girls whose parents can't afford club volleyball and skills clinics? I'm getting a much clearer picture of why obesity and poverty so often go hand in hand.
So when you say there just isn't "space" on the team for my daughter and 14 other girls, I'm guessing what you mean is that strong athletes would lose playing time if they had to accommodate less talented teammates. That, of course, would be a tragedy.
I understand that talented athletes can only improve their skills if they play against athletes at or above their own level. I'm not opposed to the idea of dividing the kids into A and B teams. But what about a C team, or even a D team? The band program provides you with an excellent model: no student is turned away, even if he or she isn't particularly talented. They're sorted into honors band, symphonic band, intermediate band--there's a place for everyone who wants to stay involved with music. Perhaps this is because music teachers understand the benefits to be gained from pursuing their discipline.
I hear many arguments in favor of school sports: they teach teamwork, cooperation, dedication, time management. I don't dispute that any of these things are true. But if you really believe these are important skills, I find it hard to understand why you'd turn away a third of the students interested in developing the very qualities you're so quick to defend.
My tax dollars are subsidizing the giant new high school football stadium that, I now understand, will benefit only a select few high school football players. My tax dollars are subsidizing your volleyball program, too--in spite of the fact that it's not available to my own kid. And while you may argue that this is always the case, that my tax dollars also subsidize the Talented and Gifted education that my daughter enjoys while others are turned away, let's keep in mind that everyone gets to take math. The fact that some students can't learn math at her pace doesn't lead to them being told "Sorry, there's no room for you in Algebra."
Luckily, I've taught my kids to be tough. When they face disappointment, I've taught them to shake it off and plan for the next challenge. Now it's up to me to do the same, to lead by example.
At church this morning, the reading from Romans indicated that I should retaliate with kindness when someone is unfair to me, that I shouldn't retaliate in kind but, instead, fight injustice with goodness--and that by doing so, I'll heap hot coals on the enemy's head. So instead of calling you first thing in the morning and telling you exactly what I think about your sports program--which, let's face it, would do no good anyway--I'm going to encourage my daughter not to give up on fitness. I'm going to encourage her to take care of her physical self as well as her spirit, to welcome and support everyone, no matter their failings. I'm going to teach her to destroy your power by exercising her own.
Game on, coach. This time, you are not going to win.
Monday, August 25, 2008
Firsts
Today is the first day of middle school for my son, the first day of 8th grade for my daughter. I've spent the whole day trying not to think about the fact that junior high school was the single worst time of my life and 8th grade the single worst year of my educational experience. And I do mean the whole day. I've been awake since 4 a.m.--possibly because I was afraid I wouldn't wake up with my alarm this morning (after three months of sleeping in, it was certainly possible), and possibly because I'd just had one of those terrible my-child-is-missing nightmares that I tend to have whenever I'm stressed out about something.
My son is shy, like me, so I identify with him a little too strongly on days like this. Since he doesn't have a lot of friends, and since the whole eat-with-your-class dynamic disappears when you make the shift from elementary school, last week I tried to give him a little advice about how to navigate the cafeteria situation: just find someone who looks familiar from one of your classes, sit with whoever they're sitting with, say "Hi guys" when you sit down, and then start eating. Probably, I said, they'll be friendly. Most people are. And if they're not, you can pretend you're too busy eating to talk anyway.
"I don't mind saying hi," he said. "I just don't want to get into a whole conversation."
And thus I realized one of the ways in which my son and I are very different: for me, making the first move was always the agonizing endeavor. Once someone had invited me into a conversation, though, I was fine. For my son, it's precisely the opposite problem: he doesn't want to come up with witty repartee. He'd really prefer to eat his lunch and get on with the school day, thank you very much.
Earlier today I was thinking about the guys I knew in high school and junior high, how most of them didn't seem to run in packs the ways girls always did. In fact, some of the guys I knew best had no single close friend; they had friends from football, from basketball, from band, wherever they spent their time. That realization made me feel a little better. My son is not an unhappy kid--just the opposite--and no doubt I worry about him more than I need to. Having said that, though, let me add that I'll be very, very happy when this day is over and I know everyone survived the experience unscathed.
This is also the first official day of my sabbatical, if by sabbatical we mean days during which the kids are in school and I have many hours for doing my own writing and research rather than teaching. In theory, my sabbatical started with the end of the spring semester--but with the kids at home all summer, I think we all know how much work got done. I did start some research last week, and my brain has been spitting out new ideas at random, and I've been very good about keeping track of them so far. I know this is how the process begins; right now I'm walking around, picking up pieces of a puzzle, trying to imagine what picture they might create. Soon enough, it'll be more like I'm running to catch a bus that may well leave without me.
I'm really annoyed that my laptop chose this moment to fry itself, but at least I'll have a new one for my writing residency. I got the old laptop for my previous residency, four years ago, so it's all kind of fitting: new machine, new project, fresh start. We all need those once in awhile.
UPDATE: All present and accounted for. No major emotional or physical trauma. All's right with the world--for the moment, anyway.
My son is shy, like me, so I identify with him a little too strongly on days like this. Since he doesn't have a lot of friends, and since the whole eat-with-your-class dynamic disappears when you make the shift from elementary school, last week I tried to give him a little advice about how to navigate the cafeteria situation: just find someone who looks familiar from one of your classes, sit with whoever they're sitting with, say "Hi guys" when you sit down, and then start eating. Probably, I said, they'll be friendly. Most people are. And if they're not, you can pretend you're too busy eating to talk anyway.
"I don't mind saying hi," he said. "I just don't want to get into a whole conversation."
And thus I realized one of the ways in which my son and I are very different: for me, making the first move was always the agonizing endeavor. Once someone had invited me into a conversation, though, I was fine. For my son, it's precisely the opposite problem: he doesn't want to come up with witty repartee. He'd really prefer to eat his lunch and get on with the school day, thank you very much.
Earlier today I was thinking about the guys I knew in high school and junior high, how most of them didn't seem to run in packs the ways girls always did. In fact, some of the guys I knew best had no single close friend; they had friends from football, from basketball, from band, wherever they spent their time. That realization made me feel a little better. My son is not an unhappy kid--just the opposite--and no doubt I worry about him more than I need to. Having said that, though, let me add that I'll be very, very happy when this day is over and I know everyone survived the experience unscathed.
This is also the first official day of my sabbatical, if by sabbatical we mean days during which the kids are in school and I have many hours for doing my own writing and research rather than teaching. In theory, my sabbatical started with the end of the spring semester--but with the kids at home all summer, I think we all know how much work got done. I did start some research last week, and my brain has been spitting out new ideas at random, and I've been very good about keeping track of them so far. I know this is how the process begins; right now I'm walking around, picking up pieces of a puzzle, trying to imagine what picture they might create. Soon enough, it'll be more like I'm running to catch a bus that may well leave without me.
I'm really annoyed that my laptop chose this moment to fry itself, but at least I'll have a new one for my writing residency. I got the old laptop for my previous residency, four years ago, so it's all kind of fitting: new machine, new project, fresh start. We all need those once in awhile.
UPDATE: All present and accounted for. No major emotional or physical trauma. All's right with the world--for the moment, anyway.
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