Oct 10
It started out innocently enough. Tired of watching the same garish cartoons over and over with my children, I thought, “Let me get a movie we could all enjoy.”
It hit me. “Look Who’s Talking?” A classic. You know the movie with the talking baby and a young John Travolta and Kirstie Alley. No one would lose.
My daughter, who I have coined Ms. Prissy, is attending a new school for first grade. Throughout the summer, she was anxious about leaving her former school and making new friends. So, as the pre-emptive woman that I am, I went into overdrive to get her prepared for what I knew would be an emotional experience for her. I made play dates with her future classmates, she chose a new book bag and lunchbox for the occasion, and we visited the school together a few times and even met her new teacher before the first day.
And then it arrived.
One night as I as I was making dinner, my 6-year-old daughter, Ms. Prissy was coloring at her table in the kitchen nook, which has subsequently been converted to the kids’ art area. As I was mincing garlic, I heard her say, “Man, this is gay.’” and then she crossed out the image on her drawing.
“What did you say?” I asked, my head whipping around like the little girl in the Exorcist.
It’s graduation time and last month was full of them! My 3-year-old daughter, Chickehawk, had a “moving up” ceremony, from day care to preschool. My 6-year-old, Ms. Prissy, just completed kindergarten, and perhaps most monumental, my stepson graduated from high school! Needless to say, it has been an emotion-filled time for me. Each graduation not only signified the passing of time but also the fact that change is never ending. As my children transition into a new phase in their lives, I realize that I, too, am evolving.
Lesson learned…
The other day, I bought my daughters a pack of markers. And, of course, as soon as I turned my back, they managed to draw all over each other’s faces.
Cue angry mother.
It is extremely difficult to wash markers off little faces -even if they are labeled “washable”. I’m talking vigorous scrubbing of turning and twisting faces. Why do my kids think everything is make-up?
After I snatched the markers from their hands and verbally scolded them, they scampered away to their room. About five minutes later, my youngest, came over to me with a wide smile.
“Mom” she said, “ Come with me. I gotta show you something. Watch…it will make you happy again.”
I was in the midst of searching my walls and couch for possible marker graffiti, but my little girl persisted.
“Come on, Mommy,” she said, grabbing my hand. “You will be happy.”
She led me to the bathroom, right over to the toilet, and inside was a pile of poop. “See mommy,” she said, smiling ear to ear, hands on her hips, clearly proud of herself. “Are you happy now?”
And I actually was happy. Very happy, because in that moment I recalled the months that had passed and my needless worry over her regression with the potty after she fell ill in the beginning of the year. Retraining her felt so frustrating since I knew she knew how to go.
Now here she is…her old self again. I was proud — proud enough to look past the fact that there was no toilet paper in the toilet and that my daughter probably did not wash her hands.
“Yes. I am happy,” I told her, smiling, too as I changed her soiled panties and washed her hands. My anger from the marker fiasco subsided as I realized what a turning point we had reached. I noticed my camera nearby and snapped a picture of both of my girls, their faces decorated in a rainbow of colors, before scrubbing them as they whined and protested loudly.
In that moment, I realized the importance of letting go of the small things and appreciating the bigger picture. That day, I ended up taking a really funny picture of my daughters, one that I’ll cherish forever. Kids grow up so fast. It’s been said many times, but it sure is true. It’s important to take a moment to enjoy the crap they give you — literally!
Jun 1
Just putting it all out there because it has been a while since I blogged. In fact, I started writing this entry in January, and I just sat my butt down to finish it. And, yes, your calendar is correct … it’s the beginning of June!
My two little girls, Ms. Prissy and Chickenhawk, have been keeping me busy with pneumonia, school trips, and runny noses. But their new obsession, watching the musical Hairspray, requires a lot less work on my part! They love the latest remake, with John Travolta, Queen Latifah, and Michelle Pfeiffer. Since Mother’s Day, I’ve been forced to watch it morning, noon, and night.
As soon as we pop in the DVD, my 3-year-old falls into that frozen mannequin trance that only the TV can induce. And now both of my girls are not only singing the songs but doing the dance routines as well. But the most intriguing part has been the conversations the movie has inspired in our household, prompted primarily by my 5-year-old.
First, she asked me about the main character’s plump size. “Is she big throughout the whole movie?” she inquired innocently. I thought it was an odd question, but then it dawned on me that my daughter probably never sees larger-sized women on television, especially as a lead character. I told her, “It is like my book, Same Difference. We come in all different sizes and complexions. No one is better or worse.”
Another time, while huffing and puffing from attempting to dance in unison with the movie, she flooded me with, “What is segregation? Why were blacks and whites separated? When did it end? And how did it change?”I was totally unprepared to answer an onslaught of questions about race from my child. I thought I had a few more years left before we had to have these kinds of conversations! So as simply as I could, I started to explain. I told her that segregation was a law that said black and white people could not live near each other, that they could not go to the same schools, sit together on buses, or in movie theaters. And even if a white person and black person loved each other, they could not hold hands or even walk down the street together.
After I finished, my oldest daughter looked at me in earnest and said, “I am glad the laws in America changed, Mom, because now you can go outside with Daddy and not be scared.” A bit stunned by the realization that my daughter thought I was white, I said, “No, baby. I am black and Daddy is black, too. Segregation would not affect us because we are the same race.” She responded, quite confidently, “No, Mom, you are white. Me, my sister, and Daddy are black.” Again, I attempted to explain “No. I am just a very light-skinned black woman.”
But I could see in my daughter’s eyes that she was not buying it one bit. She stopped dancing, walked over to me, and patted me on the shoulder and said, “It’s okay, Mom. It’s just like your book, Same Difference,” then went back to dancing. I guess in her own little way, she was telling me that race really didn’t matter. White, black—we’re all the same. All I could do was smile. And although our conversation will undoubtedly continue, she was right. We are all the same. No one is better or worse.
crazymomwithkids 