Another Year Over, A New One Just Begun

Here we are again, at the end of another year.

I’m not a big fan of New Year’s festivities; I’d rather be safe and comfy at home than out dodging people who’d like to start their new year in the hospital, or put me there when they get behind the wheel in a drunken haze.

I’d rather be home in my jammies, comfy cozy, knowing that I am safe and sound in my humble little home.  And if I happen to desire an adult beverage (a rare but possible occurrence), I need travel as far as the second floor, or curl up on the couch, just within earshot of Little Man, should his end of the year sleep not go as smoothly as he (or I) has planned.

More appealing still is the thoughtful contemplation that comes from the impending reboot of the calendar back to January 1.  The waxing nostalgic.  The stock taking.

Sure, it’s easy to beat yourself up over all the things you meant to do but didn’t: the weight you intended to loose but somehow keeps finding you, the bad habit you just couldn’t break, that person you’ve been meaning to call/email/text. The list could go on and on.

And while it’s great to take evaluate in what has been, the new year also brings with it the cathartic idea of a clean slate.

The past, as they say, is the past and there’s no escaping that. But there is something about the change from one year to the next that gives me hope.  Yes, it’s just the stroke of midnight ending the day before and starting one anew, just as every day that has gone before. Yet the new year gives me a milestone to look back upon and say, “Look here; I am still standing.” Whatever challenges I have had to face, great or small, I have managed to survive them. I have kept on keeping on.

Tonight I can take a deep breath, gather up my courage, my faith, my trust, my heart, knowing that tomorrow is full of infinite possibilities. I will dream many dreams.  They will not all come true. But then again, some of them just might. After all, tomorrow is not just another day.  It’s a New Year day. Closing time for 2011.

“Every new beginning comes from some other beginning’s end.”

Giving Thanks 2: Deja Vu

Giving thanks?  I know, I know, that’s so LAST WEEK, right?

So, why talk about giving thanks now?  Well, honestly, I feel like Thanksgiving is getting a bum rap. It’s nothing new really; it’s been happening for years.  The slow and steady decline from the picturesque Norman Rockwell fantasy to the mosh pit that has become Black Friday. I had similar feelings last year, but this year seems much worse.

Again this year, the merchants couldn’t even wait for Black Friday.  In fact, their ads actually said, ‘Why wait for Black Friday?  Save big now on blah-dee-blah-blah!’  While Black Friday used to be the starter pistol of holiday shopping, this year you barely got to digest your turkey before some stores opened on Thanksgiving day.

I understand the idea of the importance of Black Friday, so called because it’s supposed to be the day that sales bring merchants’ books out of the red and into the black. The day they look forward to in order to keep their businesses in business.

Remember when Black Friday was a quirky diversion?  Something families would make plans to do together? When getting up early meant hitting the stores at 5 or 6 AM to hunt for bargains, then crashing at home late morning for some much needed R&R?

This year stores opened as early as 9 PM on Thanksgiving Day, while some never closed at all. Friday evening’s news was riddled with war stories from the field; tales of shoppers being trampled, mugged, tasered, and more. Really?  I simply cannot imagine the thing that I would need sooooo badly that I’d actually pepper spray my fellow shoppers to get it. Way to show some Christmas spirit! While I’m not a terribly religious person, in this case, I think the question ‘WWJD?’ is pretty darn appropriate. I hardly think he’d approve of trampling thy neighbor for a waffle iron (or anything else, for that matter).

Early on Thanksgiving, I took my 5-year-old son to see the Muppet Movie.  In it, Tex Richman tells Kermit the Frog that it’s a hard and cynical world, a world that has no place for the sappy, sweetness of the Muppets. And he is right.  The world we live in is a hard and cynical place.  And it makes me wonder how I can raise my Little Man to be… a Muppet.  A kind hearted, sweet, silly boy who values friendship and honesty and doing the right thing over greed and selfishness and mean-spiritedness. (Maniacal laugh! Maniacal laugh! Maniacal laugh!) I hope I’m raising him to never, ever shop on Black Friday.

And so, although it’s been over a week since Thanksgiving, I prefer to hang on to the season of giving thanks for a bit longer, thank you very much. Because I have so very much to be thankful for.  I hope that you do, too.

Time To (Wo)man Up: Thinking Pink

This was a landmark year for me: the big 4-0. I think I handled its arrival pretty well: no brooding, no weeping, no gnashing of teeth. “Forty is FABULOUS!” That was my mantra. Time for me to come into my own.  Time to enjoy the person I’ve become and set new goals for myself. Time to …get a mammogram.

Because as fabulous as I think 40 is, I must admit that I’ve begun to look at my body as a bit of a ticking time bomb. Although I’m in good health, I can’t help but wonder what part of me is ready to give out, give in, give up or take on a life of it’s own.  I’ve already noticed a change in my vision and know I’m well overdue for a visit to the optometrist. I fear reading glasses are in my not too distant future (like, tomorrow maybe). I’ve begun to pay more attention to those ads on TV that tell me to ‘ask my doctor if xyz is right for me.’ I don’t take any medications now (save for a daily vitamin) and am loath to start.  Yet I find my mind wondering if plaque build up smaller than an erasure is poised at any moment to break off and lead to a heart attack or stroke. Are my bones dense enough? Do I have too much uric acid?

Most of this rolls around in my mind in an abstract sort of way.  Like the way that exercising more sounds great in theory, but generally does not make it to the “practice” phase as often as it should. Most of it remains sort of a vague, shadowy phantom that enters the forefront of my consciousness whenever I see some frightening story on Dateline NBC.  Even then, there’s little call to action; once that initial fear wears off,  I usually settle comfortably back into “yes, but that won’t happen to me” mode. But the mammogram, that’s a different story.

About two years ago, my friend, MC was diagnosed with breast cancer. Well, I say “my friend,” but you would not call us close. I know her because she is my best friend’s sister in law.  Her husband, his sister and I went to high school together. She’s part of the package deal that is some old friends from school who have kept in touch and join forces when we can. When I’m passing through town on my way home from visiting my Mom, and the stars align in some mystical cosmic way, we get to meet face to face. More often, we keep tabs on each other through FB and maintain a running commentary on one another’s families and lives.  MC’s the kind of person that fit right in.  She has a warm smile and a genuine, down to earth way about her.  You meet her and you just like her.  You know the kind of person I’m talking about. So although we aren’t “close,” I still count her as my friend (FB and otherwise).

Her diagnosis was a shock.  Breast cancer did not run in her family.  She was so young, just in her 40s.  She had a beautiful family, with a loving husband and two growing girls.  I had heard stories, known people whose lives had been affected by the disease, but never quite so close to me. At first I was relieved to hear that the lump they found was caught early and at a low stage. Knowing little about cancer, I didn’t realize there was another component to consider, which is how aggressive the tumor is.  In MC’s case, this was very high. She had a lumpectomy, followed by another surgery to clear the margin, as well as both chemo and radiation. Her sisters came out to help when they could.  When she lost her hair, her husband shaved his head as a show of support. I kept up with her FB updates and thought of her often. I talked to God, which I do on occasion, and informed Him/Her that MC’s family needed her and it was imperative that she came out the other side of this OK. Luckily, she did just that (not because of my talk with God, mind you, but I figured it didn’t hurt).

Like MC, I have no history of breast cancer in my family. No increased risk factors. No reason to think this could happen to me. But my area of the country has the highest rate of breast cancer in the nation. And as much as I’d like to put things off and dismiss the possibility, MC made me realize that it COULD happen to me. So shortly after my 40^th birthday, I made my appointment with the OB/GYN (which I was just a little overdue for—hey, I can’t be perfect with everything!), who gave me my script for my very first mammogram. Time to (wo)man up.  Squished up boobies, here I come!

It turns out my mammogram was not as big a deal as I made it out to be in my head.  It certainly wasn’t fun; not something I’d rush out to do more often than necessary. But it wasn’t horrible either.

When I posted in my status that I’d gone for my test, a friend commented: “Way to take care of yourself!” she said.  I appreciated that, and I guess that that was true in retrospect.  But in reality, I wasn’t doing it for me. I was doing it for my son, amazing, sweet, wonderful boy that he is.  He deserves to have his Mommy and he deserves to have a Mommy who takes care of herself. If I don’t do for me, how can I be there for him?

And I also did it for MC.  To honor the unexpected and unwelcome fight she endured. To honor her struggle and her success.

I truly believe that everything happens for a reason. I do not always understand it and I very often do NOT like it. But I believe it to be true. So, I believe that there was a reason for MC’s breast cancer, for her battle and ultimate triumph.  I believe there was a reason that another noble and inspiring voice needed to be added to this fight. I believe there is someone out there who needed to hear her message, to hear her story from her, to make the connection, to make a difference.  Maybe it was me.  Maybe it was you.

So ladies, in this month dedicated to breast cancer awareness, to battles lost and won, to research that carries on, please go get your mammogram.  Take care of yourself.  Take care of those you love by taking care of your self. Take yourself to the clinic and get your mammogram.

Kindergarten, Part 3: The Waiting is the Hardest Part

When we returned to pre-school from our kindergarten visit in the morning, Little Man was suddenly the rock star of the playground. His friends rushed to greet him. His teacher was anxious to hear how it had gone. He proudly displayed his “Ask me about my visit to kindergarten” sticker. I looked back as I left for work to see him sitting at the bottom of a slide surrounded by a group of friends as he held court on his amazing (one hour) visit to the Big House called Elementary School.

I breathed a little sigh of relief. The paperwork had been completed, submitted and approved. I was stoked about the school and Little Man’s enthusiasm was growing day by day. The stage was being set for a smooth transition. The only problem was, this visit occurred in May.

May, before the current school year was even over.
May, before his “end of pre-school” celebration had even happened.
May, more than three whole months before school started in the fall.

And so the waiting began. I continued to talk about kindergarten and how great it was going to be, careful not to ‘oversell’ the prospect while still keeping the issue visible on his then 4-year-old horizon. Everyone asked him about school, and he fielded their questions with the cool confidence of a little man not entirely comprehensive of the great change about to take place.

I was a bit apprehensive, but not terribly concerned.  I knew he’d do great at school, probably a bit shy at first and somewhat overwhelmed at the sheer size of the place: both the building and the people. Frankly, I was overwhelmed at the thought of my “baby” going from a daycare that had 60 kids max, to a school where there were over 80 kindergarteners alone. So many kindergarteners, in fact, that while there would be at least four classes for sure, there was a possibility of five.  Five kindergartens?! Holy cow! When I went to school there were exactly two kindergarten classes, A.M. and P.M., both taught by Mrs. Napoleon who, from my very low vantage point, appeared to be an Amazon (but a really nice Amazon!).

The principal had cautioned us that while the class lists were expected out at the beginning of August, they were subject to change if enrollment rose past the threshold of the max class size. As mentioned in Part One, our school has two male kindergarten teachers, a veritable coup in my book, and as a single mom (with no offense intended towards the female teachers) I was sincerely hoping that Little Man would be assigned to one of them. The first week of August, which coincidentally was also the week of his 5^th birthday, seemed ages away.

The letter finally arrived, on his birthday, no less, and I ripped it open with a frenetic energy fed by the alarming realization that this was about to get really…real. This was happening, this kindergarten.  This abstract thing that we’d been discussing since last Fall when his older pre-K friends went off to school. This milestone of childhood, this passage into formal education. He was about to be a name on a list. The list of his future kindergarten teacher.

I withdrew the small stack of papers from the envelope and unfolded them. The top page was a brightly bordered sheet with a greeting from his teacher welcoming him to class.  I scanned the information and my eye finally fell on the name at the bottom: Mr. M.  MR. M! Was this really his teacher? I sifted through the rest of the papers ‘til I found the class list. Sure enough, Mr. M’s class was made up of 19 children, one of which was Little Man himself.  YEA!! I was ever so happy. I consulted with our neighbor across the street whose daughter would also be starting school this year. She had been assigned to a different class consisting of 18 students.  Surely they must have gone to five kindergartens, we surmised. Hadn’t they?  Slowly the doubts crept in.  This was the teacher I’d hoped he’d be assigned to, so the thought of losing out at the last moment was crushing.  I had to know!

I called the school a few days later and spoke to our lovely secretary, Ms. Nancy, who sadly informed me that the lists were based on four classes and there was still a chance that they might change. Nooooo!  My heart sank.  I felt a bit better when she noted that summer enrollment had not been as high as they anticipated and while she didn’t want to make a promise she couldn’t keep, she felt there was a good possibility that they would stay at four classes. I asked if I could call back in a few weeks to check the progress and she cheerfully encouraged me to call any time and she would give me an update.

School didn’t start until September 1, so the waiting continued, exacerbated by the fact that what I had hoped for was resting there in the palm of my hand (literally, at least on paper). While I didn’t want to rush things, I couldn’t wait until I knew for sure how things would turn out. In the mean time, I got Little Man prepped for school with a new LL Bean junior backpack and lunch bag in colors of his choosing.  I’d already picked his first day clothes and got him two new pairs of shoes (thank you, Payless BOGO). Before and after care was in place.  The stage was set, the players waiting in the wings.

I called back a few weeks later, and we were still holding at four classes. If we didn’t hear anything in the next week, we would be good to go. Fingers crossed, we prepared for the last day of pre-K, making cards for his teachers and collecting up his things from the place he’d spent the last four years. On his last day, I cried on the way to drop him off, on my way to work, on my way to pick him back up and on the way home. These amazing ladies were like part of our family and I certainly would miss them. But it was time for bigger things for the Little Man.

September 1^st finally arrived, and still we had to wait. Our district divides the kindergartens into three one-hour shifts and has them come in small groups on the first day.  This gives them a chance to meet their teacher, tour the classroom, find where their things go, have crazy crying parents play paparazzi, and then be ready to come back the next day for a full day of kindergarten fun. Our assigned time was, of course, the last slot at 12:30 PM. So we slept in (to Little Man, this means about 6:45AM), had breakfast, took a shower, took lots of pictures, had lunch, and got ready to go.

As we prepared to leave he admitted he was a little nervous. That’s perfectly normal, I assured him.  What was it that was making him most nervous? Well, everything would be new and he wouldn’t know anyone, he told me. I tried to be sage without sounding condescending. Most people were a little nervous when they did new things.  I talked about when I first started my job and didn’t know anyone or how I was going to get things done, or even if I would be able to do the job. “But now you know lots of people and do all kinds of things!” he said. “Exactly; and you will, too.” I made up a song as we drove up the hill towards the school and we sang it all the way there. It ended with “kindergarten, here we come!”

And so we came.  After all that time, we were finally crossing the threshold of the school as a newly minted kindergartener and his Mom.  We found his classroom and met the teacher (Mr. M!).  We found his cubby (LOCKER, Mommy!).  We went on a treasure hunt that was simultaneously touching and informative (insert watery-eyed Mommy here).  We went out to the kindergarten playground for the circle ceremony (the one I’d heard about in Kindergarten, Part One; more water works here). Then we were done: prepped and ready for the full day of school the next day.

As we walked out of the school, I suggested we take a picture by the school sign out in front of the building. Little Man thought that was a great idea! As we held hands and walked across the grass, he told me how much fun he’d had and how he was not nervous any more. He could not wait until tomorrow!

And there you have it.  We’d waited and waited and waited and waited. Then suddenly, in a mere 24 hour time frame, we’d moved from Pre-K to K. And he couldn’t wait for more.

I’ve been told that once Little Man starts school, the years will just fly by.  I’ll have to wait and see if that’s true…

Kindergarten, Part 2: Who Are You?

After the kindergarten parent meeting comes the scheduled school visit. This is when your child comes to the school at a set time with a small group of other incoming kindergarteners. They go away with some of the kindergarten teachers and participate in various activities (listening, reading, coloring, etc).  This gives the teachers a chance to see how the children interact and they get a basic idea of what their skill levels are.

Little Man was super excited about visiting his new school. I talked him through it several times, reminding him that he’d go off to a different room with the teachers and other children while I stayed behind with the parents and principal. I reminded him to listen to his teachers and that they would bring him back to where I was when they were done. He picked out the clothes he wanted to wear and chatted cheerfully as we walked through the front door.  He was raring to go until some of the other children arrived… then he got a bit shy. I expected that, and continued to talk to him about what to expect and how much fun it would be.  He was a bit apprehensive when the group was ready to go, but went along without incident and I let out a little sigh of relief. After all, I know how super awesome he is, and soon his potential teachers would know it, too.

Then I shuffled off into the parent meeting, which was certain to be less fun.  Don’t get me wrong, everyone was pleasant enough and was happy to answer all our questions (if you’ve ever had a child start kindergarten, you know there are quite a few questions ranging from basic information gathering to outright paranoia). With us we schlepped the big fat packets we received at the Parent Night (see Kindergarten Part One) containing a half an inch of all manner of forms which we had (more or less) dutifully completed between that day and this one. Forms about me, forms about him, forms about health and residency and the PTA. So many forms that I had to fill them out a few at a time as my hand was getting crampy (funny how I used to be able to write forever, but now that I’ve become so dependent on my laptop anything more than a paragraph or two sends my muscles into spasms and my handwriting into the toilet).

Truthfully, there were forms, or parts of forms, that I set aside to deal with later. As a Single Mother by Choice, I began to wonder how to answer some of the questions. One question from the after school program (which is not run by the school) asked me to indicate my relationship status.  My choices were: “married,” “separated,” “divorced,” “living together,” and “prefer not to answer.” Since I was none of the first four, my only other option was the latter, which was untrue—I did PREFER to answer, but did not have an option applicable to me. Being particularly sensitive to this issue, I also wondered what gay/lesbian couples might indicate. “Living together” would seem the closest choice for them, although certainly not adequately descriptive of their relationship, and ‘civil union’ was not an option (although legal in our state). I was particularly disturbed by the options because the after school program is run by a woman’s organization–you’d think they’d be a bit more cognizant of the different types of families that exist. For my purposes, I refused to check “prefer not to answer” and instead created my own check box with the word “single” next to it, checked it off and highlighted it in yellow. Take that!

The second stumbling block came on the same form (and also came up in some forms that came directly from the school), where I was asked: “does your child have any siblings?”

Well, hmm. How to answer this question? I assumed that their intent was to seek information on other siblings living your home with you and your child. Which, in our case, would be ‘no.’ However, the fact of the matter is that he does have siblings. They are not full siblings, but they are technically related and he does know about them, has even met one of them. I didn’t want to lie, but I also didn’t want to confuse the truth. Argh!

All these forms are designed to reflect relevant, database worthy information on the incoming class.  Most of them capture extremely basic information, although a few were open ended inquiries seeking a bit more personal information, such as “which discipline style does your child respond best to?” followed by a list of several options.  Being a Gemini and knowing my child as I do, the answer to a question like this is generally ‘all of the above.’  For example, sometimes I can speak quietly to him to correct his behavior, sometimes positive reinforcement works, and sometimes I just have to scream my fool head off.

God bless the people who design these forms in an effort to get to know our children; I know they are trying very hard to get parents to talk about their kids. In these little rectangles, I am tasked with creating an outline of the remarkable little boy that I’ve spend nearly 5 years raising. For a wordy girl like me, this is a nearly impossible feat.

Luckily (or not), our packet contained a lovely lavender flyer titled: “A Message from the Principal, Class Placement for 2011-2012.” On this flyer, the principal invited parents to “write a letter about your child for 2011-2012 placement purposes.” Letters would be used during the creation of the class lists and we were asked to adhere to the following guidelines: tell us about your child, don’t request a specific teacher, don’t ask to be placed in a class with current friends (it was noted that this would be considered in passing only and would not be a major consideration in placement), and get your letter in by the deadline. The principal’s closing lines were:

“So, begin the reflection process.  Jot little notes to yourself.  Make a strong cup of coffee and sit down at the computer one night to compose your masterpiece. Then place it in an envelope addressed to your child’s teacher.  We promise to do our best!”

Are you kidding me?  This was a dream come true!  I could write a whole letter about my Little Man? Sa-weet!! I stretched my arms, cracked my knuckles, and prepared for the challenge.

I filled the space all around the margins of the flyer with notes to myself .  What did I want to say about Little Man? What was most important?  How could I best convey his personality? His strengths? His weaknesses?

I found it just as easy to gush about his good points as to dish about his bad ones.  He’s not a total angel, but certainly is no devil.  Sweet and kind but hard-headed and sassy. How to balance the presentation so as not to give impression that he’s a pain in the ass, but also not that I think he can do no wrong.

I hemmed and hawed and thought and composed little snippets in my head.   And I put it off for as long as possible.  The night before our kindergarten visit (when I would have to turn my letter in) I was up until midnight crafting my words, carving them out, molding and shaping them into an impression of my soon-to-be kindergartener.

I opened with a brief explanation of our family structure, then launched into my description: joyful, funny, creative, affectionate, and a list of the things he likes, which is almost everything.  He is just as comfortable playing dress-up or creating macaroni art, as he is reading a book, writing a story, building with blocks or playing with dinosaurs.  From there I talked about his weaknesses, although I admit I found myself using lots of hedging words here: sometimes, occasionally, seems. He is my baby, after all!

I read it, re-read it, printed it, read it again, edited it again, re-printed it.  What had I missed? Had I said too much?  Not enough? Well, to be honest, I hardly think I’d be accused of “not enough.” I managed to squeeze 865 words onto a single page by annihilating the margins and using a tighter font. But did it say everything that needed to be said?  I could not believe the angst that went into this! I hope that I did my Little Man justice.

The hour was late and a big day lay ahead for us both, so I finally had to put it, and me, to bed. I concluded my letter thusly:

“So there, in a nutshell, is my amazing son. I have planted the seeds of learning, love and life, and pass him now to your tender care, to help me nourish his mind, body and spirit, and cultivate the incredible human being he is meant to be. I hope that you enjoy having him in your life as much as I enjoy having him in mine.

Thank you so much for all you do.  I hope this letter is helpful and look forward to working with you in the coming year.”

Stay tuned for Part Three!  🙂

How Mommy Got Her Groove Back (no, not that groove!)

It all started with a package of underwear. Well, that’s not entirely true, but more on that later…

Obviously it’s been a while since I’ve posted. When last we met, I’d been to the parent meeting in preparation for my son’s impending foray into kindergarten.  Since then, we’ve had kindergarten visit day, Spring turned to Summer, Little Man “graduated” from Pre-K, I turned 40, I took a semester off from online teaching, the state went to hell in a handbasket, Little Man’s about to turn 5, Little Man got his library card and has proceeded to consume reading materials at a startling pace…

Fully blog-able topics, all, and then some! And yet, I have not written. While finishing up my online class in June, a multitude of topics whirled in my head.  “No!” I told myself, “you have to focus! You’ll have plenty of time to write once class is over and all your grades are in.”

So true!  Eight weeks of blissfully boring time at home with nothing in particular to do once Little Man has gone to bed but write.

And read (two Stephen King’s, a Tina Fey, and half a Grisham later).
And catch up on Criminal Minds…and Without a Trace. <damn you, Ion TV.  You ARE positively entertaining!>
And play Bejeweled Blitz…and Wordpath <damn you, FB, with your brain sucking, quasi-intellectual and/or mind-numbing games>
And fall asleep on the couch, waking up in time to brush my teeth and go to bed…

It has occurred to me these past few weeks, as I played Pathwords for the 5,000^th time (high score: 1360—hooya!), that my lack of focus has a curious source.  I seem to be more motivated to work when I have other work competing for my time and energy. I must do everything, or nothing at all. All the big plans I had for my time off from my second job?  Nothing has materialized. The curse of the post-modern mommy.  “You deserve a break,” I say to myself, “some time to just veg out.  You can write later.”

And while ideas continued brewing on all manner of subjects, they’ve been relegated to tomorrow, and tomorrow, and tomorrow. Until today.

Today I’m browsing around Target determined to find the perfect pale pink to paint my nails (mind you, I haven’t painted my nails since my son was born… but I digress). On my journey, I pass by the ‘intimates’ section and  decide to look, as I always do, to see if they have my underwear in my size. After all, the Hanes six pack is on sale, with 2 bonus pair! (I am hard pressed to pass up bonus packaging of something I use anyway).

Here’s what I want: all cotton, hi-cuts. I’m not going for sexy and I’m not a little girl: no bows, no lace, no nylon, no cutesy pattern, no string up my butt. Just no-ride guaranteed ®, all cotton, hi-cuts.  Size 7.  Yeah, I said it. Size 7.  Me and my Ben & Jerry belly are a size 7.  And apparently, so is every other woman in 50 mile radius, because every time, and I mean EVERY time, I look for this type, style and size, there are none.  Size 6? Yep.  Size 8, 9, 10? You betcha! Size 7? Nope.  Size 7 briefs, boy cut, bikini, string?  Sure! No high cuts.  It’s infuriating! I believe it may be a conspiracy…

But that’s not what motivated me to get writing.  No, that wasn’t it at all.

As I peruse the packages, tossing aside one after the other in frustration at the lack of a winning combination of style and size, I find one that’s been torn open. A few packages later, another.  Then another. At least five, maybe more.  Different sizes.  Different styles. But there’s no stray pairs of underwear laying around.

And I begin to wonder:

Are women stealing underwear one pair at a time? Did they really need a pair right then and there and just couldn’t wait to get to the checkout? And then just decided the rest of the package was unnecessary? No one is going to miss one pair, right? Are they trying them on? Over their clothes? Under their clothes?? [ew…in which case, I do not mind that they are nowhere to be found]

There appears to be an epidemic of occasional underwear abduction and someone needs to get to the bottom of it!  [I know, a cheap pun, but tell me you didn’t at least snicker…or groan…yeah, that’s what I thought!]

And that, my friends, is how Mommy got her writing groove back.

Expect more posts soon…after I finish a few rounds of Wordpath…

Kindergarten Part 1: Parent Orientation

This fall marks one of my son’s big milestone events: on September 1, 2011, he will join the ranks of the class of 2024 as he enters kindergarten. It’s hard to believe, for so many reasons.  Time seems to be creeping along and flying by all at the same time, like some slo-mo scene in an action-packed martial arts film: frozen in mid-leap, then suddenly kicked in the jaw and sprawling on the ground.

Don’t get me wrong, I am excited for this new adventure, both his and mine. He is so ready.  I talk up kindergarten whenever it can be naturally inserted into the conversation—my child is one who, like his mother, appreciates a little mental preparation for upcoming events.  We talk about meeting new friends, having a new teacher, learning cool things. So far his chief concerns have been riding the bus (which he has decided against (for no particular reason), which is just fine because we don’t live far enough for that anyway) and what types/amount of new toys will be available. He’s excited that our neighbor across the street will be starting school this year, too, although I carefully caution that we do not know if she will be in the same class or not. His enthusiasm at the prospect of shedding his pre-school skin and spreading his wings in the big world of public school grows daily, although I suspect a few fears, tears, and laughs along the way, both his and mine.

My part of the adventure formally began this past week, when the 2011 parental cohort converged on our elementary school for the time-honored tradition of Kindergarten Parent Orientation Night.  Clearly institutionalized, we lined up in front of the appropriately labeled boxes containing alphabetized packets of information, glossy folders neatly stuffed with what appeared to be a ream of paper. The left side contained all manner of informational flyers: calendars, PTO, afterschool program, registration requirements… The right side, and certainly the more intimidating of the two, contained all manner of forms, requiring completion and submission to the appropriate entity. But more on them later…

Packets in hand, we were set to navigate the halls to the various kindergarten classrooms to get a peek at where our kids would be spending the next academic year of their lives.  What I saw impressed me.  The classes, as one might expect, were warm and inviting. There was art everywhere, and not just the children’s own art, but Renoir and Van Gogh.  Different areas of the classrooms were designated as learning centers for a variety of subjects. I felt my anticipation grow as I made my way to the auditorium.

The evening began with the school’s principal, a man so full of genuine enthusiasm that he could not help but rub off on you. Before introducing several key players, he gave an overview of the philosophical approach of the school. I listened intently, every moment growing more ecstatic that this was the place my son would start his formal education.

He started off speaking about positive reinforcement. Studies reveal, he said, that in the most effective disciplinary model, students should receive 6 positive comments for every negative/corrective comment.  Many schools do the opposite.

One way they work to achieve this model is through clearly stated expectations.  All over the school are postings stating what the expectations are in that area: auditorium, cafeteria, hallway.  Great little colorful, laminated signs worded in a positive way that tell kids what is acceptable.  I am totally groovin’ on this.  I’m a firm believer in clear expectations—and then expecting my child to meet them. I’m on board.

He continued by describing Monday morning assembly, his words paint he picture: all the students in the school meet in the auditorium on Monday morning, greeted by a drum choir (like the drum line in band).  The drummers are front and center, tapping out their beats.  Student can’t help but pick up on it and begin moving to the music-a sea of elementary kids bopping and swaying. A tactile, literal example of getting everybody in the same rhythm, off on the same foot, to start their week in a positive way.  Are you kidding me?  I LOVE it! This is just too good to be true.

He tells us how they listen to the kids and their ideas on improving the school through various experiences and opportunities.  As an example, he tells us about the circle ceremony.

It seems that a 5^th grade class had a teacher whose mother passed away during the school year.  The students took their teacher’s loss to heart and began thinking about life and the journey each of us was on. They decided they wanted to create something to reflect this journey, and came up with the Circle Ceremony.  It goes like this:

On the first day of school, the new kindergarteners go out on their very own kindergarten playground, where a circle is painted on the ground. As the principal calls each child’s name, they step onto the circle, with their parent/guardian behind them. This symbolizes them being welcomed into the circle of friends, and that there will always be someone standing behind them to support them along the way. On the last day of 5^th grade, the same students go out to the kindergarten playground; this time, they stand on the circle. When the principal calls their name, they step off the circle, then take a last lap through the hallways of the school, where the students in all the other classes stand in the hall outside their rooms and clap for them.  This symbolizes them being ready to move on to the next phase of their lives.

The story gave me chills, and after thinking how sweet and nurturing and supportive this environment was, my immediate next thought was: “and then you’re gonna send him off to middle school and they’ll ruin it all!!” Ok, really? I’m on the verge of tears, now I’m worried about 6^th grade and middle school, and my son hasn’t even STARTED kindergarten yet!

The evening went on, briskly hitting the basics, to be covered more in depth at a later time: PTO officers introducing the organization and fund raisers (no candy bars, gift wrap, bundt cakes—yea!!), the school nurse, and the teachers themselves, addressing a ‘day in the life’ and some basic expectations/preparations for our budding kindergarteners to be. I was thrilled to find that not one but TWO of the four kindergarten teachers are men.  As a single mom, I’d love to have him wind up in one of their classes as another positive male role model in his life, although I know he’ll do well no matter which teacher he’s placed with.

After all the presentations, came the mad rush to sign up for the Kindergarten Visit day next week, where my son gets to go and play for a bit while I turn in the mountain of paperwork currently weighing down the right side of my folder.

Among my forms and official looking documents is another requirement—to write a letter to his future, as yet unnamed teacher introducing my son to him/her: his strengths, weaknesses, passions, personality. A simple, yet monumental task. It’s difficult to explain the mix of emotions that this journey evokes, but as I write this, a lyric comes to mind: “put my tender heart in a blender, watch it spin round to a beautiful oblivion.”

It’s going to be a long (and short) few months…

Things that make you go…WTH?!

I know it’s been a while since I’ve written anything.  Not for lack of trying, nor lack of ideas; I even wrote half a post, but never published it. It seems I’ve gone sort of ADD on stupid. I’ve ricocheted off recent stories in the news and online, each one more stupid than the next, each one begging to be expounded upon. Unable to focus, I’ve felt like the love child of Rachel Maddow and Lewis Black—a cross between astonished, dumbfounded and on the brink of an aneurysm.

It all started with a mildly enough, with a story from Maine (http://www.huffingtonpost.com/2011/03/23/maine-paul-lepage-unions-labor-mural_n_839520.html) about their Governor demanding that some murals erected in 2008 in the Department of Labor building be removed because they were too “pro-labor.”  What?  The Department of Labor being pro-labor? To hell, you say!  What were they thinking? Apparently there was a perception that the pro-labor artwork, housed in the state department of the same name could be giving business owners the heebie jeebies and not making them feel sufficiently warm and fuzzy.

“Additionally, the state would be renaming eight conference rooms, many of which commemorate former labor leaders and one honoring the first female U.S. Cabinet secretary.”

Maine DOL Acting Commissioner Laura Boyett  stated that, “whether or not the perception is valid is not really at issue and therefore, not open to debate.” Wow. Way to shut down a conversation.  Hope she’s on the negotiation team!

I was immediately reminded of a scene from the film Cradle Will Rock (if you haven’t seen it, you should). Based on actual people and events, part of the story involves Rockefeller hiring Diego Rivera to paint a mural for one of his buildings.  Diego includes people in his mural that Rockefeller finds offensive, and after a dispute, Rockefeller orders the entire mural destroyed.  The scene of the work being jackhammered off the wall is both stunning and heartbreaking.

To the Governor’s credit, the story did report that his office was “exploring alternative places to keep the mural, perhaps in the state museum, and believes they can move it without damaging the artwork.”

It was at this point that I’d planned on launching into a pithy discussion of the value of art, particularly that which is non-aesthetic, controversial or otherwise not “pretty,” but I was derailed. Derailed by stupid.

Several years ago, I was watching an episode of Real Time with Bill Maher on HBO.  The panel was, of course, discussing some controversial topic.  Voices were raised.  Panties were in a twist.  One panelist, from Canada I believe, admitted that she was offended by the views of a fellow guest. ‘But if you are not offended by something every day,’ she said, ‘you are not alive.’

Apparently, there is no doubt that I am among the living.

From the utter “huh?” of my inner Rachel Maddow, I moved to apoplectic brain freeze when I read the headline: “Rick Santorum Blames Abortion For Social Security Woes” (http://www.huffingtonpost.com/2011/03/29/rick-santorum-blames-abor_n_841940.html). Have you ever heard Lewis Black tell the “If It Weren’t for My Horse…” story? If not, Google it.  Do it right now. I’ll wait. Because that’s the kind of moment I had when I read this headline.

And like a train wreck, I had to look.  I had to click on the link.  I had to read the story about how Republican (and “potential presidential candidate”) Rick Santorum, while speaking on a NH radio show, stated that he blames legalized abortion for the underfunded Social Security Administration.

For the moment, I ask you to put aside whatever your personal views on abortion may be.  I have my opinion; I’m sure you have yours.  The discussion of whether legalized abortion is right or wrong is not the issue I have with this story. The completely derailed logic train is.  Even as I write this, I must pause to rub my temples and try to make it make sense.

According to the report, Mr. Santorum explained that the reason Social Security “is in big trouble is that there aren’t enough workers to support retirees.”  Certainly this is a major factor, which is no news to anyone who has a clue that the Baby Boomers have been marching steadily towards retirement for some time now. No real headlines here. But this next bit…

“He blamed that [not having enough workers to support retirees] on what he called the nation’s abortion culture. He says that culture… den[ies] America what it needs — more people.”

If it weren’t for my horse…

The levels of wrong, the layers upon layers… I barely know where to begin. It is true that if more people were paying into Social Security than taking out, it would presumably be in better shape. Unfortunately, there’s currently a large chunk of the work-age population that is already UNEMPLOYED. So it does not seem to follow that adding more people to the mix is actually going help, since there currently aren’t enough jobs for the people we’ve already got.

It also seems rather presumptuous that ALL these people would be productive members of society. Certainly at least some of those people would be adding to an overcrowded prison system, for example. The very thought of “needing” more people gave me visions of women locked away in some Orwellian nightmare, forced to have children in order to keep the governmental system running smoothly. And let’s not even consider the general overpopulation of the planet to begin with, and the fact that having more people in this generation would mean “needing” to have more people in the next, and so on and so on…

If it weren’t for my horse…

And from that story, I just moved on to plain old pissed off, when I read about our good friends at the Dove Outreach Center in Gainesville, Florida.  You may recall that the leader of this church, Rev. Terry Jones, nearly started an international incident last year when he threatened Burn a Quran Day, which Jesus apparently told him was a good idea, but later told him, not so much. With Spring in the air, however, it seems the right reverend was on the red phone to heaven once again and this time successfully burned the Muslim holy book on March 20^th at his “church,” which has now been abandoned by almost all its parishioners.

A ‘spectator’ at the event taped the whole thing and posted it on the world wide web, where it was apparently viewed by, you know, the WORLD.  Afghan leaders, being part of the world, saw the video and publicly condemned the act 4 days later (which appears to be the length of time for www world travel), fueling days of violence in that country “where demonstrators set cars and shops ablaze Saturday in a riot that killed nine protesters” and endangered the lives of countless U.S. military personnel serving overseas. Another pastor at the church thought the riots were a shame, but sooo not their fault and he did not regret the action: “I in no way feel like our church is responsible for what happened.”

Really?  You don’t feel at all responsible? The whole part last time when you were considering this epic move, where the General in charge of the armed forces in Afghanastan and the frickin’ President of the United States were telling you not to burn the Quran and how it would needlessly endanger countless lives—that wasn’t a clue? Responsible: “chargeable with being the author, cause, or occasion of something (usually followed by for )”

Freedom of speech is a great thing and I am all for it.  But with freedom comes responsibility. There’s a reason you can’t yell fire in a theatre—you don’t get to do that because people could get hurt.  People could die.

In discussing the death threats he’s received since the incident, Rev. Jones claimed he was ‘prepared to die for what he felt was right.’ How noble of him!  I’m sure that makes the men and women currently stationed in the Middle East who have now been placed in additional danger due to his actions feel sooo much better. Surely they’ll sleep better tonight knowing Terry is willing to be a martyr for stupid people everywhere.  If they can sleep at all…

And then I read that this brilliant man now “plans to hold a trial of the Prophet Mohammed for ‘crimes against humanity’.” Tell me, is there a patron saint of jackasses??

On a lighter note, at least there was some good news: the last minute national budget fix didn’t zero out federal funding for the arts.  Good thing, too; clearly all these men need to watch some PBS and get a frickin’ grip.

I love it when things come full circle.

Teachers are taxpayers, too (and so are all the other public employees)

I am in the unique position of having been a public school teacher (albeit for a brief time), having worked in the private sector for a number of years, and being currently employeed in the public sector in a non-teaching position, too.

Watching the drama in Wisconsin unfold (and drama is certainly the appropriate word), a mix of repulsion and morbid curiosity washes over me. Much like watching a car wreck: you don’t want to keep looking, yet somehow you’re horrified to realize that it’s difficult to look away.

As with much of the political rhetoric of recent years, the use of language by politicians (and would-be politicians) is both fascinating and frightening.

In one speech defending his position on cutting teacher salaries and prohibiting collective bargaining, Governor Walker discussed the imbalance between the ‘have’ and ‘have nots.’ Us versus them.  You’re either with me or against me.  Gee, that sounds familiar…

In this scenario, it is the teachers and state employees who are the ‘haves’ and the tax payers of the great state of (insert state here) Wisconsin who are apparently the ‘have nots.’ Teacher vs. taxpayers. State employees vs. taxpayers.  Since I’m a state employee and a taxpayer, should I be fighting with myself?  Which side of the argument should I come down on?  What level of crazy will I rate as I drive down the street yelling at myself?

The language used to frame this argument is quite literally laughable, yet there it is, plain as day. The teachers are the ‘haves.’  The TEACHERS?  Seriously? Since when, I wonder, have the teachers been the ‘haves’? Good grief, the FEDERAL government even recognizes that this isn’t the case and created a tax credit to compensate public school teachers who routinely take part of their own salary to buy basic supplies for their classrooms. Not because they have extra money just laying around, going to waste, but because they care enough to have a little less themselves so that they can enrich their students’ educational experience in the most basic of ways.

Where does this happen in the private sector?  Having worked in Corporate America, I was never expected/required to buy a ream of paper or toner cartridge for my office.  No one ever said to me ‘if you really CARED about your job, you’d buy a package of dry erase markers for the conference room!’

In sense, I guess the teachers ARE the ‘haves.’  They ‘have’ education and training. They ‘have’ the responsibility of teaching our children (which, according to some, they never do right.  Either they’re doing too much: ‘that’s not your job to teach them that, that’s my job as a parent’ or not enough: ‘that’s what I pay YOU for; don’t expect me to get involved with my child’s education or participate in it in any way.’). They ‘have’ a thankless job for which they are undervalued.

The other day on The Daily Show, Jon Stewart pointed out another fascinating (and by fascinating, I mean disgusting) anomaly in the discussion of teachers and money.

One commentator, in expressing her support for Gov. Walker and his stance against teachers, stated that teachers ‘quite frankly don’t DESERVE $50K/year’ ($50K being an ‘average’ teacher salary thrown out for discussion). Wow. She went on to say how shameful it was that teachers were protesting. ‘What are they teaching our children?’

That is actually a great question.  What are these teachers teaching the children of Wisconsin (and those across the country) by protesting the governor’s proposals?  To value themselves and their work?  To stand up for themselves and their beliefs, even in the face of great controversy? To support quality education?  What a shame it would be to teach such lessons to our future leaders!

Interestingly enough (and by interesting, I mean disgusting), the same woman claimed (in a previous conversation defending the stance that the Bush tax cuts on the rich should be extended) that a couple filing jointly making a combined income of $250K/year and raising two children, perhaps attempting to put both through college, were ‘practically at poverty level.’ Really?

Assuming for a moment that the man and the woman (as a federally recognized couple is mandated to be) make the same amount of money (which in our country is highly unlikely, but I digress), that means each of these tax payers is making $125K/year, which again, according to this reporter, is ‘practically poverty level.’  Each person makes 2 ½ TIMES what the greedy, self-centered teacher makes.  If $125K is the new ‘poverty level,’ then what the hell is $50K?!

Ah, but those lazy teachers only work 9 months out of the year, you say.  Despite the fact that this is not actually true, let us assume, for the sake of argument, that the teacher is getting paid $50K for 9 months of work, while the poor woman in the couple example, let’s call her Pobrecita, works a whole 12 months for her meager $125K. It’s apples to oranges, you say.  So let’s level the playing field and say that Pobrecita only gets 75% of her salary, because she only works 9 months out of the year. That’s $93,750.

So, the teacher, who makes $50K and has a salary of 53% of Pobrecita’s for the same ‘9 months of work,’ is grossly overpaid, while Pobrecita should, what, look into applying for food stamps? That’s some interesting math right there.

And speaking of interesting math, where did the ‘fact’ that teachers work nine months out of the year come from? I’m not sure about where you live, but in my neck o’ the woods, teachers start teaching either at the end of August or the very beginning of September, and teach into June. Additionally, amazing as it may seem, classrooms don’t actually ready themselves, so teachers are required to be at work for some time prior to the start of the school year, as well as some time after school is out for the summer.

Teachers are also credited with the luxury of a ‘short’ work day.  Of actual in front of the class teaching time? Perhaps.  Let’s not consider the grading, lesson plans, conferences, etc. as part of their work day, though.  And in the high school where I taught, every teacher was also required to sponsor/co-sponsor a club or sport.  No time spent on that.

Clearly, everyone must sacrifice.

A few years ago, when the economy began going south in a big, bad way, the union leaders in our state sat down with the then governor in good faith, understanding the very notion that ‘everyone must sacrifice.’  We accepted concessions that saved our state $1 billion (yes, with a B).  That’s their number, not one the ‘unions’ (read ‘them’ and not ‘us’) made up.

Those concessions included a variety of ‘give backs,’ such as a pay cut, increased insurance costs, and a freeze on wages and hires to name a few.  Did we like it?  Of course not. But we all realized that in the end, everyone needed to give a little to do their part and help keep things running.

Our new governor (a democrat, lest you think this is a partisan rant), who initially gave the appearance of reaching out to state employees by encouraging us to submit ideas for saving money and generating revenue directly to his office, recently came out with his new budget proposal which demanded additional concessions (which he had not yet even begun discussing with the unions) or promised ‘massive layoffs.’ Unfortunately, if  you laid off every state worker in my state, you would still not balance the budget and you’d have no services either.

Yet, like the teachers in Wisconsin, we are the bad guys. We have to listen to the people who tell us how we should just shut up and give up whatever is needed, because just like the teachers, we apparently have no worth and provide no value to the state—we’re just there taking up space and stuffing our pockets with ‘taxpayer money.’ We are luck to even have jobs, we’re told, and if we don’t like it, we can just step aside because their 20 unemployed people who’d be happy to take our place.

Well, of course we’re lucky to have a job—who isn’t lucky to have a job in this economy? And who, particularly in this economy, wouldn’t have 20 people in line waiting to fill their job, if they didn’t like it?

The bottom line is, if we’re all in this together, that means we should ALL be in this together.  Not just pubic employees, or the middle class, or the poor. Everyone.

Yes, I am a public employee.  I do a job and get a check.  Don’t you? I support my community. I pay my taxes. All that ‘tax payer money’ that keeps getting talked about? That’s MY money, too.  And I don’t want to see it wasted any more than anyone else. But I am not a waste.  And neither are teachers. We did not cause the financial crisis.  And we have always been a part of the solution.

Unicorns, Bad Guys and Princesses, oh my!

The other day, my son started a random conversation over breakfast.

“Mom,” he said, “ I don’t like girly things.” He gestured with his hand for emphasis as he clarified: “I like girls, but I don’t like girly things”

I tried to remain calm as sirens began to go off in my head. Part of me wanted to react immediately and I fought the urge to step up on my soapbox and launch into a speech on how there weren’t ‘girl things’ and ‘boy things’ and how you could do or like or be whatever you wanted. Instead, my curiosity piqued, I took a breath and sought further clarification. Sometimes what you think kids are talking about is not what they actually are talking about.  “Like what?”

“Like unicorns.”

“Unicorns?”

“Yeah, you know they have that horn that’s pointy on top of their heads and it could stab me. I don’t like them”

Ok, let’s face it, it’s difficult to dispute that kind of logic. “And princesses. I don’t like princesses.”

This one was news to me, as I had it on good authority that, despite the fact that he had not seen any of the Disney movies to date, he knew every Disney princess by name and had, in fact, pointed them all out to me in the princess collection in the toy section at Target, having been schooled by the older girls in his mostly female pre-K class last year. “Why don’t you like princesses?”

“Because they wear dresses.”

Attempt to insert adult logic: “Well, Mommy wears dresses, does that mean you don’t like me?”

“No, I LOVE you. But they wear dresses ALL the time. There is one princess movie I’d like to see, and that’s The Princess and the Frog.”

Before I had a chance to pursue this line of questioning further, he pressed on: “I do like one girly thing, that’s horses, because I’d like to ride a horse.”

Now, I generally don’t think of horses as particularly girly, but again, in his class last year, some of the girls were into ‘ponies’ so apparently the whole equine line has been tinted pink.

Not to be one sided, he continued by providing ‘equal time’ to his own gender’s stereotypes. “There’s also some boy things I don’t like. I also don’t like bad guy boyish things.”

“No, I don’t like bad guy things either,’ I concurred.  In his current year at pre-K the tides had taken a decided turn, with a younger and almost all male class that tended to conform to the “typical” boy interests in guns, fighting ‘bad guys,’ wrestling, tackling, etc.

And then, just as it had begin, the conversation was over, and he’d moved on to finishing his breakfast and then heading into the living room to watch Martha Speaks on PBS while I got ready for work. I sat for a moment both amused and appalled at the inner workings of my child’s mind.  Don’t misunderstand, I wasn’t upset with him in any way.  But it was somewhat startling how he had already so clearly begun to designate ‘girly’ things and ‘boyish’ things. I did take some comfort in the fact that he had chosen in his mind to allow himself to both embrace something he identified as feminine (horses) and reject something he’d identified as masculine (playing bad guys). It is fascinating. Having a kid is like observing a lifetime science experiment.

I’ve been fighting an uphill battle with society (and myself) against gender stereotypes since I got pregnant. When I first found out I was having a baby, I just assumed it was going to be a girl. As a single mother, I would raise her to be a smart, competent, kick-ass girl who would have strength and confidence and be full of ‘girl power.’ So finding out my feminist-in-training-to-be was a boy initially threw me off my game.  Of course I would love him with all of my heart, but was I really meant to have a boy? I knew so much about being a girl, how would I approach raising a boy?  Eventually it occurred to me that the idea was to raise a human being: a confident, caring, compassionate, upstanding member of society. Duh.  One of many lessons learned (learn-ING).

I was determined not to raise a stereotypical boy, or at least not surround my boy with stereotypical things, and at my baby shower requested guests refrain from gifts involving blue, cars, and sports. It’s not that I don’t like blue or cars or sports.  It’s that I didn’t want everything the child owned from birth to involve one or more of those things.  And that’s pretty much all that’s out there. It’s truly amazing how important it is to some people to know the gender of a child simply by looking at it. If a baby’s not in pink or blue, these people get downright cross—as if you were trying to trick them.  As if the infant in your arms was to suffer some irreparable harm if a total stranger could not readily identify whether the child possessed a penis or vagina by the onsie it wore.

Realizing that my request basically prevented anyone from purchasing newborn boy clothes from most mainstream stores, I set out to purchase the 5 items in existence in the apparently ‘universally neutral’ baby colors available: green and yellow. Shopping for boy clothes can be so utterly depressing.  There, in one part of the store, taking up nearly ¾ of the available space, are the girl clothes, in all manner of hue. In the other part, a few aisles wide, lie the boy clothes. Blue, generally navy and baby.  Red. White.  Perhaps some brown.  On a lucky day, there may be some dark green, dark orange, or brighter blue.  It will probably have a race car, basketball, or dump truck on it.  Or words like “All-Star” or “Team Captain” emblazoned across it. Or a big number, like a sports jersey. Ugh.

I thought it was bad when he was a baby, until I started looking for underwear when he was potty training. If you do not want a licensed character (which I did NOT), you have exactly two choices: pink or blue.  In extraordinary cases, a lone package of white may be found. By the time they’re ready to hit the bathroom, your little one’s booty better be color-coded, my friend.

In his daycare pictures one year, the boys held a football while the girls held a flower.  There weren’t any ‘neutral’ choices, like a book or a pumpkin.  Boy: football; girl: flower. Period. Beginning leveled reader books? Princesses or Spider Man. And try to find purple ANYTHING (my favorite color, and one of my son’s as well) for boys.  Until the last year or so, it was impossible (thanks, Old Navy, for sporting a plethora of purple this Fall!).

I work hard to fight against this stifling gender conformity and let my son have as many choices as possible.  When he chooses to play with dump trucks and train sets, that’s just fine.  And when he wants to paint his toenails, like he did last summer, that’s AOK with me, too. Mommy uses power tools.  Uncle is a gourmet cook. My son dons his green and blue apron to help make cookies (a gift from another Uncle). Happily, these are part of his everyday life, and not seen as ‘exceptions’ to gender-specific ‘rules.’

I have to admit that while contemplating my choices on one underwear-buying occasion early on, I nearly bought a package containing cotton briefs with pink flowers just for spite at the whole ‘system.’ I knew my son wouldn’t care—he was just excited to be wearing ‘big boy’ underwear instead of diapers (he’s still excited about that; in fact, he recently stuck his hand through the front of his newest underwear and said, ‘Look, Mom, it’s got a pocket!’ (lol!)). What stopped me was the thought of him being in pre-K and possibly being picked on by other boys (and/or girls) in his class.

And that is where I currently find myself negotiating the choppy waters

How do you balance the desire to instill in your child the courage to be his or her own self, and to embrace the things they like and to be who they are, with the real-life fear existing in our world today where bullies take our children’s lives, or make them feel so bad that they believe that taking their own life is their only option? These types of cases used to be extreme.  Now they seem to be the ‘norm’ and are occurring at younger and younger ages, all across the country.

To me, this is one of the great struggles of parenthood. Where the balance lies, I’m not quite sure.  Right now, I’m trying to roll with it.  And tell him every day, many times a day, that I love him.  Even if he makes me mad.  Even if I don’t like his choices. Always.  No matter what. Because Mommy’s love is like that.