This Blog Should Give Her Plenty To Worry About

When Savannah was about two years old she developed this obsession with gum. And I don't mean that she ate it. She counted it. And I don't mean that she counted it in a package. She counted it after being chewed and stuck underneath restaurant tables.

Every dining experience would begin the same way: Savannah craning her head underneath the table, her diapered bottom in the air, then coming back up to announce "There's FIVE pieces of gum under there!".

After several unsuccessful attempts to keep her from getting under the table and counting gum, and the ensuing meltdown, I realized that this little compulsion provided her with comfort. She liked the structure. The predictability that there would always be gum under the table. (We dine in style obviously.)

This was the first of many odd little quirks she came to possess, her anxiety insisting upon it.

Did this realization worry me? Honestly, no. Because I know it is in reaction to me.

I am not a Scheduler. I am not a Planner. I am not Organized. I am the friend who comes racing into your house, hair dripping wet, dragging my crying child with me and breathlessly apologizing for being a half hour late. Some would call me undependable. I prefer "free-spirited".

My daughter? Scheduler. She organizes. She plans. She cleans. She loves the smell and feel and texture of CLEAN. She loves the predictability and order of A PLAN. Disorganization bothers her. Lack of structure bothers her. She thrives on information.

In other words, she loves RULES.

It took some time, but eventually I figured out that all of her quirks had one thing in common: they were indications of broken rules.

Following her gum counting obsession was a healthy eating obsession. I can say with almost complete certainty that I am the only mother of a toddler who said after vomiting from the flu at three years old, "I haven't been eating enough broccoli".

The health obsession gave way to a safety obsession, which carries through to today. (Have you ever had a child demand you put on your seatbelt before you backed out of the driveway? It's a handy accompaniment to the insistent dinging and flashing seatbelt light that your car already possesses.)

Every warning must be read, every sign must be explained. The dangers of the new toy having small parts on which a 3 year old could choke must be deciphered. Every No Smoking, No Dogs, No Dumping, No Right Turn warning must be discussed and analyzed. Every unknown danger must be put to rest.

When this happened and there was talk of my license possibly being suspended, I can honestly tell you that in the last nine months we have not gone a single week without my fielding the question "Are they going to take your license away? But, how do you KNOW FOR SURE FOR SURE?".

Lately, Savannah's obsession with safety has also picked up a co-obsession: fear of stealing. As in, my stealing. ("Why are you opening that water? We haven't paid yet!" "Where is my fruit snack bag? HOW WILL WE PAY FOR IT?" And to the cashier at Target: "Did you get the cat food? It's underneath the cart".)

She will even refuse to finish her donut in the grocery store, so that she is able to show them her final bite. What if they charged us for a GLAZED when it had SPRINKLES?!

(Note to Self: NEVER DIVULGE THAT YOU ONCE SHOPLIFTED A JACKET FROM CONTEMPO CASUALS. Or was it Wet Seal?)

Chris and I both tend to get annoyed at the minor inconvenience Savannah's anxieties create. We sometimes get irritated when we have to explain for the 4,000th time that no, we're not doing anything wrong when we smuggle 99 cent M&M's in my purse to the movies to avoid the pleasure of a $24 concession stand experience.

But, the truth is, I find it endearing. I don't want my daughter to be nervous. I don't want her to be fearful. But, I also know that she comes from these genes and there's just no getting around that.

What intrigues me is the fact that she and I deal with our anxiety in completely opposing ways: I like to deny, she likes to learn. I like chaos to distract me, she prefers order to calm her.

As much as it tends to annoy me - her need for structure and rules - I know that there is no greater blessing as a parent than to know what works for your kid.

And so I'll continue to make Savannah's world feel a little safer one "Do Not Put Directly In Your Eyes" label at a time.

Now, you tell me. Do you have an anxious child?

Moms Are Just Former High Schoolers With Stretch Marks

No one warned me about The Drop Off.

In all the Kindergarten Preparedness advice I received, you would think someone would have slipped in there "Oh, and by the way, you'll want to buy yourself some new clothes too. And take a shower. And have interesting things to say at seven in the morning. Because every day you're going to have to stand with a group of women that you've never met. And after a few weeks, you're either in or you're out. Don't worry. You'll know which you are."

Where was this advice?? Huh? I was so focused on Savannah starting school and Savannah doing well socially and Savannah feeling confident that I completely missed the whole socially awkward adult dynamic that was bound to exist.

Here's how it goes down:

• Group A - The Alpha Mom Group.  These are the moms that get to school first. Always. Their hair is perfect. They wear coordinating workout clothes. The best dressed kids belong to them. Their cars are always shiny. They remember everyone's names. Aaaand one or two of them is bound to say "We were going to do private school, but we wanted to provide Tatum/Hunter/Preston with more diversity". (To which I responded "We were going to do private school too. But, we wanted to, you know, eat." No one laughed. Of course not.)

• Group B -  The Been There, Done That Group.  This group is the most relaxed. They have older children in the school. They know where the multi-purpose room is and where to sign up for dance class. They smile at you, amused, while you fret (How many yard duties are there? What if there's a fire? Were we supposed to sign that pink paper?! I forgot to bring the pink paper!! IS HER BACKPACK GOING TO BE IN THE SUN BECAUSE THERE'S CHEESE IN THERE!). They calmly reassure you while their eyes say "Ah, to be young again".

• Group C - The Nervous Newbies. These are the moms that bond over their anxiety. For the first week, they commiserate with each other (I was going to make him a peanut butter sandwich and then I remembered he isn't herrrrre." SOB). They grow closer as they recover and by the third week they're saying things like "You know, three hours isn't really enough. Now, first grade. That's going to be awesome. Let's get coffee!"

• Group D - The Hopeful Stragglers. These moms are the ones pecking around to the various groups. They seem to be shy, but always wear an eager smile. Sometimes they visit with each other, but frequently walk to their car alone. I notice that most of these moms seem to be moms of boys. I wonder, is it harder to make friends when you're a boy mom?

• Group E - The Drop Off and Go Group. Hi. Bye. They have enough friends. The End. I don't know; maybe they're bloggers?
  

Anyway, a lady never tells, so you'll just have to guess which group I'm a part of. Which is another way of saying 'I think I'm my own group?'.

So, last week, after dropping off Savannah and not having a particularly stellar social experience with the Drop Off Moms (honestly, I think its because I hadn't had my lip waxed since last winter) I was walking into Starbucks when I see two other moms from Savannah's class (See Group A) standing outside.

As I approach, one of them says "There's one of our moms right now!".

I beam. I think, what a lovely thing to say! "One of our moms". I feel like I really belong. "Hi there!" I respond and happily walk up to join their conversation.

Then the Other Mom turns around. She is not from Savannah's class, after all. She looks me up and down. I'm wearing my "Stud Tamer" t-shirt (it has a horse on it -- what double entendre?). "Who is this?" she asks.

I swear. Just like that. 'WHO is this?' She has a fake smile plastered on her face.

I introduce myself.

The Mom From Savannah's Class trips all over her words. "Oh...I...you're...I thought...are you a MOPS member?".

"No" I say, confused.

The Other Mom turns back around away from me.

The Mom From Savannah's Class says "Oh, sorry! I thought you were who we're waiting for."

"Oh, okay" I step back, "Just getting coffee. I do have a kindergartner, though". I'm obviously still confused.

Then I turn around and go inside to get my coffee, thus ending the World's Most Awkward Parenting Social Moment Ever.

As I'm standing in line, I'm thinking about how rude that was. Just dismiss me? Even though our kids are in the same class?

Naturally, this is the part of the story where I would go on about how mean she was and how I hate MOPS blah blah blah, but I'm sorry to report that the Mom From Savannah's Class went and RUINED EVERYTHING last night by showing up at my front door being all lovely and warm and inviting me to join MOPS. She even complimented my curtains, so... I think she's my friend now. It doesn't take much. I'm like a barnacle.

Does anyone know what MOPS even is? Because I hardly sweep. (BA-DUM)

Anyway, aside from that, here is my question for you, because we're all dying to know: How do you handle Drop Off? Do you visit? Do you feel like you have to force yourself? Does it come naturally? Have you made friends that way?

Also, do you think maybe I'm freaking out just a little because I may have mentioned this blog to one of the moms?? That can't end well.

Random House Come A-Knockin

What do I think this is? Some sort of communist dictatorship where I can promise you lovely people a post and then turn around and produce nada zip zilch the next day? What an evil blog overlord I am. Really, there should be a coup to overthrow me. (I'm easily distracted by shiny things, so you could start there.)

I sheepishly apologize for being so spotty in my posting recently. But! I have a good excuse! Don't tell the people over here who read this blog (I'm never quite sure how many of you are the same readers - 10%? all of you?), but we closed escrow yesterday. Woot! Finally. After six grueling gut-wrenching weeks.

(I know, I know. I sort of kind of inferred that we already closed escrow two weeks ago. But, I am ashamed to admit that I misled you. The truth is, the escrow was unraveling fast and frankly, I was tired of humiliating myself on the internet. A girl can only take so much. So, I'm sure you understand that I just had to put a stop to the discussion before I jumped in front of a train. I promised myself, though, that once there was an ending - good or bad - to the situation, I would tell you the whole sordid story. And I am. Over there.)

Today, though, over here I want to share with you the sorriest excuse for a book accompanied by the most rudimentary of illustrations.

I like to call it "Savannah's Morning", but alternate titles could've been "How To Prevent Mommy From Yelling Obscenities in the Morning" or "Mommy's Effort To Get Organized Because She's Kind Of Lazy" or even "This Book is Really For Mommy Because Once She Turns On the Today Show, She's Mesmerized by Matt Lauer and Forgets To Get Me Ready".

I quickly realized that we would need a manual of sorts for getting ready for school after spending more than a few mornings racing through the house half-dressed, holding a cereal bar, a comb, and a toothbrush while shouting "move! move! move!". All the makings of a relaxing morning, I assure you.

So, late one night I threw this together and can I tell you something? Savannah loves it. She's so encouraging of my parental efforts. I imagine her gazing lovingly upon me sleeping while thinking "she's getting so big". (And I am, by the way. I'm back on The Dip.)

Anyway, without further ado, I present you with "Savannah's Morning".

 

My kitchen really is that clean.


I am told that those teeth are absolutely terrifying.

I assume this is the car the internet would like me to drive.

While Chris and I had a good laugh over my terrifying illustrative skillz, I have to tell you that Savannah  is taking this book very seriously. She even told me last night, "Mommy, I like that book you made me because sometimes I forget what to do next and it makes me angry. And now my mornings are happy".

I hit the genetic jackpot with this child. We were made for each other.

~~~

Tomorrow's* Post brought to you by the letter H. For "Horrifying". Because that is the only word to describe what happened to me this morning at Starbucks with some MOPS members. I shall be back.

*And by "tomorrow", of course, I might mean Friday ...or I might mean eight days from now. I'm a free spirit that way.

Lena and Kindergarten Sitting in a Tree K-I-S-S-I-N-G

I LOVE KINDERGARTEN! I love it! I love everything about it! I love the way it looks at me. I love the way it makes me feel. Lena + Kindergarten 4 EVA!

Anyway, moving on...

I STILL LOVE KINDERGARTEN!

Sorry, I can't help myself. Kindergarten has turned out to be such a pleasant surprise. There's so much to love about it, it's hard to choose just one. I love the structure it provides - the routine. I love the conversation it provides when I pick up Savannah and she chatters on about her day. I love seeing her skip off excitedly into her classroom every morning.

Mostly, I love getting my coffee, grocery shopping, and trying on capris at Old Navy without ONCE singing Bananas In Pajamas.

And the best part is that I don't have to feel guilty while I'm doing it. Because, you know, it's THE LAW. I love The Kindergarten Law.

The only snag we've hit is punctuality. Which is to say, I am not. Punctual. Ever. I tried just getting up earlier, but by about Thursday I realized that the only way to get a child to school on time is to do everything you possibly can the night before (or sleep in the parking lot). Because if your child is anything like my daughter (and really, I think the world is only big enough for one), they will decide as you're running out the door with two minutes to spare that their pants are too tight (!) and they must take them off right now (!) and then they'll start to panic as if they've just discovered they're covered in leeches right there on the front porch.

There is really no way to prevent this meltdown. UNLESS you stayed up late the night before making their lunch and signing papers and doing laundry and laying out a backup outfit.

(Pin striped Gap capris got you down? No problem! How about some LTD 2 leggings and a sweater dress? Voila! And off we go! Here's a matching headband!)

Organization is a beautiful thing.

So beautiful, in fact, that when I watched another mom screech to a halt in front of the school this morning and race across the grass with dripping wet hair, her hand gripping her daughter's so tightly that the little girl went airborne a few times, I almost felt smug.

Almost.

Until I got home and realized this:

Next week's Goal: Mastering wearing my clothes right side out.

Tune in tomorrow, where I shall share with you the wonderment of my artistic abilities in the form of a an instructional book I drew for Savannah, or as she likes to call it "That book with the scary face brushing its teeth".

---

P.S. Totally off topic - Does anyone else feel like The View is completely unwatchable now with Whoopi Goldberg?

The Kissing Hand

Okay, funny story. So, yesterday Savannah and I are in the car and an ETrade commercial came on. And she asks, shocked "Mommy, how can you 'get rich trading socks'?".

Tell me that is not hilarious.

And also, maybe my next business venture.
~~~~
In other news, if you read this blog, then you know that right now I am only one step from leaping off a very tall building. Or even the gentle slope in my backyard. Where I would roll to a stop in the middle of the road and hopefully someone would put me out of my misery with their car.

So, let's talk about something happy, can we?

Let's talk about kittens or rainbows or Lindsay Lohan or or the new Dancing With the Stars cast!

I know! Let's talk about my wee baby girl starting Kindergarten Tuesday and how she is fully registered and scheduled and assigned and enrolled and has a Hannah Montana Backpack and bracelets!

(Bracelets! That go with her outfits! And I still remember velcro-ing bows into her three hairs. Wasn't that just yesterday?)

She is set to go in every way but one: nerves.

For the past year, Savannah has announced to everyone upon meeting them that she is "five and about to start Kindergarten". She'd grin and babble on about how excited she was and politely answer their questions about reading (yes, I know how) and math (I love numbers) and friends (I'm excited to meet new kids!).

Then she saw the school last week.

And I think the three dimensional-ism of it all terrified her. All those doors and slides and benches and swings and books and STRANGE KIDS THAT AREN'T USING KLEENEX.

And now, ever since, when someone asks her about kindergarten all she can say is "I'm very scared". And when they try to steer her into the positive parts of school, she just responds "Yes, well, I'm still very scared".

And I can tell, she really is.

Last week, the same day I eagerly awaited word from the bank about whether we had avoided foreclosure or not, we received a package in the mail.

It was from a friend of ours who is a teacher and it was a stack of books for Savannah. (Hi Kim! Your thank you card is, er, on its way!) Each book was about starting Kindergarten. One in particular caught Savannah's eye and she made me sit on the floor right there in the living room and read it aloud immediately.

It was about a little raccoon who is scared to start school. His mama soothes him by kissing the palm of his little hand and pressing it to his cheek, telling him that any time he feels scared, he can just press his palm against his cheek, feel her love, and tell himself "Mommy loves me".

Tear jerking, no? Just wait.

So, the little raccoon's first day of school comes. Before he leaves, the mommy raccoon kisses his palm and reminds him that he's not alone, "mommy loves you". And the little raccoon decides to kiss her palm back and tells her he loves her too.

As the little raccoon runs off, the mommy raccoon turns away and presses her palm to her cheek to soothe herself, repeating "Chester loves me".

Crying

(Although, we had raccoons in our apartment once and those little bastards used to run at me on their hind legs when I'd shoo them away from the cat food on our porch. But, that kind of ruins the story, doesn't it?)

Anyway, after reading this story and lying and saying I had something in my eye as I tried to suppress the boulder rising in my throat, Savannah asked if she and I could kiss each other's palms.

So, we did.

And do you know that for the ENTIRE DAY I kept catching Savannah staring at her palm and pressing it to her cheek? While she played Barbies, while she watched TV, while she played outside, she'd stop every once in a while when she thought I wasn't looking, feel her hand and then press her palm to her cheek. And smile.

Then I realized that I was doing the same.

And if you think that I didn't go hide in the kitchen and cry in the chocolate covered pretzels, you'd be wrong.

Damn raccoons.

Mommy Dearest

Kindergarten Countdown: T minus 10 days. (Vodka is chilling. For the coma I am planning on putting myself in that day. That day that my barren uterus and I get back into my car and drive around in lonely circles until 1:15.)

**********

Every morning when my dad would leave for work I would ride my pink banana seater bike as fast as I could alongside his van until I could no longer keep up. When I would finally stop I'd wave furiously and yell "Bye, Daddy! Have a good day, Daddy!" as the back of his van disappeared around the corner. He would honk and wave out his window and I would go back inside.

Back inside to Mother.

It remained this way - Daddy and Mother (or Mom) through most of my adolescence. I don't remember exactly when Mommy became Mom or Mother, but I do recall that I clung to Daddy for years. Until he gave me too many good reasons to move on to other (ahem) "names" for him.

I asked my mom recently at what age I stopped calling her Mommy.

"Around five or six" she answered. To my dismay.

Because Savannah will be six in two months (HOW IS THAT POSSIBLE?? WOE. DISTRESS. SADNESS.).

And I can't bear the thought of her little high-pitched voice not calling me Mama as she has with the exact same cadence since she was 9 months old...MAma. Like a little lamb's bleat.

I can't bear the thought of her regarding me with disdain; of calling me Mother. As in, Mother, you're as dumb as a bag of hair.

But, I know it's on its way. I know that that is the price I will pay for having a daughter: raising a Daddy's girl. I know he will remain Daddy while I will be demoted to Mother. ...On a good day.

Chris will be the treat while I will be the obligation. Chris will be the fun while I will be the work. Chris will retain the levity of Daddy and I will become the burden of Mother.

Which makes the next few years all the more important to me. I know we will soon have an age old dynamic between us - teenage daughter and mother - and I want more than ever to savor the time I have with her adoration. Because today is a good day.

Today I am still MAma.

I came across this little poem and while I normally roll my eyes at these (because I am very sensitive and caring) this one grabbed me by my throat. Seriously. Enjoy.

*Just for this morning, I am going to step over the laundry, and pick you up and take you to the park to play.

*Just for this morning, I will leave the dishes in the sink, and let you teach me how to put that puzzle of yours together.

*Just for this afternoon, I will unplug the telephone and keep the computer off, and sit with you in the backyard and blow bubbles.
 

*Just for this afternoon, I will not yell once, not even a tiny grumble when you scream and whine for the  ice cream truck and I will buy you one if he comes by.

*Just for this afternoon, I won't worry about what you are going to be when you grow up, or second guess every decision I have made where you are concerned.

*Just for this afternoon, I will let you help me bake cookies and I won't stand over you trying to fix them.

*Just for this evening, I will hold you in my arms and tell you a story about how you were born and how much I love you.

*Just for this evening, I will let you splash in the tub and not get angry.

*Just for this evening, I will let you stay up late while we sit on the porch and count all the stars.

*Just for this evening, I will snuggle beside you for hours and miss my favorite TV shows. (That is love right there. No joke.)

*Just for this evening when I run my finger through your hair as you pray, I will simply be grateful that God has given me the greatest gift ever given.

*I will think about the mothers and fathers who are searching for their missing children, the mothers and fathers who are visiting their children's graves instead of their bedrooms, and mothers and fathers who  are in hospital rooms watching their children suffer senselessly, and screaming inside that they can't  handle it anymore.

*And when I kiss you good night I will hold you a little tighter, a ittle longer. It is then, that I will thank  God for you, and ask Him for nothing, except one more day.

I Wonder How Many Google Hits I'll Get For "Roller Skating Giraffes"

If you could sum parenting up in one word, what would it be?

I want to answer my own question with something all encompassing like "ever-changing" or "all-consuming" or maybe tap into the emotions of parenting and describe it as "fulfilling" or "heartbreaking".

But, for me it all comes down to G-U-I-L-T. To me, so much about parenting is about the ever present feeling of not doing enough.

Some of the guilt is healthy and motivates me to strive to be a better mother and some of it is just a natural by-product of my own unhealthy childhood - the feeling of failing at parenting as I failed at being parented.

I hate to admit it, but I know our weak points as a family stem from guilt. Guilt that Chris and I made poor financial decisions and are now paying for them, guilt that I'm not a get-down-on-the-floor-and-play kind of mom, guilt that I cannot provide Savannah with a sibling, guilt that I don't make sensible dinners, guilt that I promise to go to the pool and then lie and say it's closed, guilt that I skip pages when I read, guilt that I say "later" to most of her requests, guilt guilt guilt guilt, blaarrghhjhkjsmph.

*brain short circuits* *head hits keyboard*

Guilt leads me to indulge Savannah.

Believe me, I'm not being too hard on myself. I give myself allowances. I don't beat myself up. But, I also know where Savannah is lacking and rather than sacrifice to give more of myself, I give her more stuff.

And that has never been made more apparent then now that we're school shopping.

Since I have made the choice to write about our finances (although, that was seriously only because I could not for the life of me write about ANYTHING ELSE - my honest writing, it is my curse) you all know by now that things have been tight around here. I bought the books, I made the budget, and I am now at the hardest part - changing my heart.

My heart is where the problem lies. Why?

Because I mother by spending. Seeing bulging bags of clothes or books or groceries makes me feel like I'm providing for my family. A flawed approach? Most definitely. I finally see that now and I'm trying to make the changes.

I can also tell you this: Limited Too is the Devil's work.

Here's me to Chris: "We're going to Limited Too because I have COUPONS!". I flash them. They are pink and very pretty when they catch the light.

Here's Chris: "How much are we spending?".

Here's me: "Didn't you hear me silly? I said I have cooooupons".

Fast forward THREE HOURS LATER and I am sitting alone in the Limited Too dressing room surrounded by hangers and piles of clothes and shoes. A heap of chosen outfits sit on my lap. Savannah has abandoned me long ago to look at accessories with Chris.

I'm going through each item piece by piece while adding and re-adding the price tags in my head. Eight hundred dollars! I start to wheeze. This can't be right. I re-add. Beads of sweat are gathering on my forehead.

But, I have COUPONS!!

In the end, I ended up spending a fraction of that, but I couldn't help feeling duped. I mean, I saved those damn coupons for months waiting for this day and in the end, did you know that $150 at Limited Too is basically a cover charge to get in?

I mean, sixty dollars for a sweater? That she'll wear twice until it starts "itching" or the "arms are too tight" or "the bow is bothering me! AHHHH! GET IT OFF! GET IT OFF!".

Guilt made me want to lug a thousand dollars worth of clothes to the register for a five year old. Guilt made me want to say "whatever you want, kitten". Guilt made me want to fill her closet with name brand clothes. (Guilt and also the knowledge that she's that much further away from wearing ROLLER SKATING GIRAFFES.)

But, do you know what the beauty of money problems is? You don't have that option anymore. You're forced to do something horrible and damaging and traumatic like put half of the clothes away and then go have lunch at Cafe Rainforest where your daughter immediately forgets about the bags full of clothes at her feet because she gets to TAKE HOME HER GLASS AND IT HAS SPARKLES ON IT OH MY GOD.

Maybe guilt doesn't have to be so expensive after all.

For Those of You That Didn't Hear Me Crying In the Dressing Room

Once again I tried to make decisions for myself and it ended badly. So, I turn to you.

How much do you spend on school clothes?

We've established that the part in my brain that controls my spending is filled with Starbucks lowfat apricot muffins. I can make a budget. I can print out a budget. I can even use the word "budget" in a sentence. (See?) But, somewhere between my computer and the Limited Too dressing room yesterday, something went painfully awry.

So, please share. How much do you spend on each child? Does it vary by age?

Are you methodical about your spending? Do you shop for school clothes throughout the year? Do you shop online?

Do you go to Limited Too and spend so much that your husband waits outside of the store on the bench breathing between his knees?

On the Other Hand, Maybe I'm Raising a Politician

A couple of years ago we started going to a new congregation. At our very first meeting, a pretty young mom came running up to me, grabbed both my hands, introduced herself as Joanie and effused how happy she was that I was there. She had a daughter just one year older than Savannah and was pretty adamant that there was no way we were not going to be best friends.

Being a somewhat socially awkward person myself, I was relieved that she had made it so easy.

Until I met her daughter.

Our meeting went a little something like this:

"Hi Ireland! How are you?"

*glare*

"How do you like Kindergarten?"

*glare*

"Do you like your teacher?"

*glare*

"Hmm...mmkay."

All the while her mom grinned on like a fool, as if this was her proudest moment. I didn't think that it could get worse. And yet it did.

A few weeks later, we were assigned the same Bible study group. I imagined that this was the perfect environment for Savannah and Ireland to really get to know each other and play together. I told myself that Ireland was probably just shy and that this smaller setting is just what she needed to draw her out.

Yeah, no.

At our first group Ireland sat across from Savannah and glared at her the entire study. The following week, she glared at me. Then? At Chris. I am not even exaggerating. After each study, Joanie would sweetly suggest that Ireland show Savannah her room. Ireland would ignore her mom and turn away. Joanie would grin.

I am not kidding when I say that after TWO YEARS of attempts our interaction never improved.

I swore I would never be that parent who forced her child on people. I remember my mom literally elbowing me in the back to kiss a relative I hardly knew. I was probably 5 or 6 and I can still recall the horror I felt putting my lips to their cheek. They smelled like Vicks Vapo Rub and I wanted to cry. But, I knew my alternative was my mother removing my arms. So, I did it.

But, I swore that I would never do that to MY child.

Once I actually became a parent, though, I realized that there is something far worse than forcing your child to be polite. Raising a brat.

I love that my daughter says "please" and "thank you" and "excuse me". I love that when the server asks for her order, she tells him, even though it's barely a whisper. I love that she sees the value in making people feel comfortable and being polite. I see her look at me when people ask her questions. I see that she doesn't want to respond or be bothered to make conversation with adults. But, she does it anyway. And that makes me proud.

Because I have to be honest. I think my daughter is in the minority. I see a lot of Irelands out there. I see a lot of silent stares and glares and refusals to say "hi". I see a lot of parents who smile and dismiss their kid's bratty behavior as just being a kid. I see parents making a lot of excuses.

So, I wonder: If you allow your child to be "shy", is it because you feel like it is a protection? Does it make you more confident that they won't talk to strangers?

Or is it just that you don't agree with rushing their social skills?

Where is the line for you? When does shy become rude?

Teach Her

Do you know why I love writing on the internet? Because just when I think I have an opinion on something, BAM! You guys prove me wrong.

While quite a few of you (unknowingly) agreed with me on my last post and would choose an inexperienced female teacher over a male teacher, most of you made pretty compelling arguments for choosing the male teacher. Arguments that were so convincing that I started feeling a little sheepish for ever allowing myself to have doubts about a teacher because he has boy parts.

BUT THEN...

Then I realized that our opinions are born of our experiences. Aren't they?

Many of us have had very negative, maybe even violent, experiences with men as young girls. For these women, the thought of handing their little girl over to a strange man's care, whether there are aides or parents present or not, is a little unsettling.

That is the sad reality.

And for that reason, I do not apologize for my hesitation over a male kindergarten teacher. While my question wasn't about Savannah's teacher in particular - I have no idea whether her teacher is a man or a woman or a giraffe - I can tell you that I personally would never feel comfortable with a man for her first teacher.

Obviously, not all men are pedophiles. And obviously not all male kindergarten teachers have questionable intentions. I know there are many lovely male teachers out there - I know a few myself. I just know that for my daughter's very first year of school, this is one stressed chick who would be much more comfortable having one less thing to be anxious over.

Unfair? Probably.

Now, having said that, I have to admit that there is still one comment that stopped me in my mental tracks.

Karianna threw me a curve ball when she said:

"This is interesting... because women hate being pigeonholed into careers such as teaching or nursing; but then when a man is in these fields, we get creeped out.

(I was VERY uncomfortable as a male nurse wanted to watch me breastfeed to make sure I understood how to do it.)

If we paid teachers/nurses better, then would we "justify" that the men in those professions were doing so because of their interest in the profession, rather than taking a low-paid job for access to children and boobies?

Why do we not say the same about women? Do we think women are stupid to take low paying jobs that they love, but don't think men would do this without more compensation or a shady motive?"

I admit. FANTASTIC POINT.

I wonder. How much of my hesitation (and those who agree with me) is because our teachers are so underpaid? Is part of our reservation due to our (maybe subconscious) concern that a man is willing to likely make less money than he would otherwise just to be around children?

I would so love to say that it has nothing to do with that. But, then I ask myself this: Would I trust a renowned male physician to be alone with my daughter for necessary medical treatment? Uh...yep. I'm sure I would.

I expect the pilot to be a man and the nurse to be a girl. I expect the firefighter to be a man and the receptionist to be a girl. I expect the construction worker to be a man and the kindergarten teacher to be a girl.

It's hard to admit, but I'm possibly making decisions in adulthood governed completely by what Little People taught me.

Edited To Add: I was raised in a little town in an extremely religious house. I saw no color or race growing up. I truly believed that the dark skinned Latin woman who visited our house regularly was my blond haired blue eyed English mother's literal sister until I was 12. I still remember the first time I noticed that my very best friend's father was African American. And my best friend had to point it out to me. I think I was 9 or 10. I was also raised to believe that men should be respected and women should be cherished...by their husbands...at home. The point is, while I love that my natural tendency is to be accepting of all races and backgrounds, I do recognize that I have some subconscious expectations when it comes to gender.

That's the beauty of sharing ideas, isn't it? To soften our rough edges.