We woke up a week ago this morning to a foot of freshly fallen snow powdered over the sprigs of green in the yard and the daffodil blooms in the flowerbeds. By noon most of the snow had melted, and Monday found us in our shirt-sleeves as we prepared to get back into the groove of school after a week of Spring Break. And what a week it has been. The girls had class pictures on Tuesday and we had family portraits for our church directory made on Friday. So I've blown dry and curled two heads full of long, thick hair twice this week.
Doing hair at our house always involves some measure of drama and this week the duty and the drama doubled. Tears book-ended the week because of sibling rivalry and friend issues and all of that angst came tumbling out with the tangles. I tried to dry tears as well as tresses and create conversational moments along with the curls. I'm not sure how to measure success. The hair came out lovely, but in the midst of the up-dos we also had shouts and even a fainting spell.
Raising two girls and shepherding two young women through the throes of puberty promises to turn what hair I have left to solid gray. During the process of getting ready for family pictures on Friday, I continued a conversation with my 11 year old about the film she viewed the week before - the 5th Grade Film - PUBERTY! I'd heard some commentary from other moms about conversations taking place, and I wanted to make sure Courtney didn't have any questions. While she indicated she had not been involved in the discussion of birth control, somehow she had heard part of a conversation about epidurals. Confused, she wanted to know why you needed drugs when you were having a baby. I tried to follow developmental wisdom and only answer what she was asking, but she continued to dig. In my quest to ensure she has the information she wants and needs, I continued to answer. It was hot and humid in the bathroom and she was wrapped in her fuzziest robe. After several pressing questions about why childbirth hurts enough to need drugs, she looked at me in the mirror and said "Mom, can we stop talking about this now, I feel...." and before she could say dizzy, or sick, or funny - she fainted dead away.
Now she has fainted once before, when she cut her chin open and stood contemplating stitches - so I've seen it before. But let me tell you, when your daughter collapses in your arms, eyes rolling back in her head, body jerking in a seizure, tongue curling back in her throat, it strikes terror in your heart. She came to immediately and felt fine after lying still for a few minutes. But I felt horrible. Did I share too much information? Is my drive to make sure my girls are equipped and informed pushing me to go too far?
I don't know the answer to that question. I am often at a loss as a mom of a growing tween. How do I convey information about which clothes are becoming on her developing body, especially since she doesn't fit the twig model so many tween clothes are designed for? How do I support her when girl friends shift alliances and she feels left out without being a total helicopter mom? How do I ensure that she and her sister feel adequately, equally loved but still assign responsibilities appropriate for their ages? Can I do anything to make sure they recognize what a treasure they have in each other or is that simply something they have to figure out on their own in the midst of constant bickering? And how much of it all is my projection of my own pain in those years instead of what she is really experiencing?
I don't know. But I do know this. When I was in 5th grade, my mother and I fought constantly over my hair. She had preconceived notions of what I must look like to pass muster to leave the house. My hair was long and thick and curly - and a ponytail often would not do. So she combed and pulled and prodded and curled and sprayed and combed some more, with me fighting her all the way. If there ever was a calm moment to share my hormonal angst about my friends or lack thereof - somehow she turned it into a lesson on civility and morality. I dared not ask a question about puberty, sexuality, my body, boys or anything related to those topics. Finally, I cut my hair short, and started doing it myself, even in the face of pretty constant criticism at first until I learned how to effectively use a hair dryer and a curling iron. And we stopped having screaming matches over my hair. In fact, we stopped having much conversation at all.
My girls have long, thick, beautiful hair. My 11 year old manages hers completely on her own most of the time, except for special occasions. When she requests my help, I try to respect her sense of how she wants to appear and help her achieve that goal. I tell her, out loud and often, how beautiful she is. My almost 7 year old needs more help. Her hair, also long and beautiful, is often tangled and wind-blown. But I let her do what she can, and I try to make my helping time a positive interaction. I don't want my girls to remember fighting over their hair. Fainting because of too much information on the pain of childbirth... well that's another matter entirely!
Sunday, March 28, 2010
Tuesday, March 23, 2010
Green Glasses
I remember the green glasses at the dinner table, rough and bumpy, heavy, hard for little hands to hold. Sitting late at night, filled with cornbread and buttermilk, a treat for him the rest of us turned our noses at.
I remember waking before dawn, peering down the hall in the darkness, waiting for the first stirrings and the big shoulders at the sink, creeping in to check my imagined wakings and being sent back to bed until light began to appear on the horizon and I could sit with him while he drank his coffee and read the paper.
Gone far too soon, I have too few memories, and then the chair opposite hers sat empty. Oh others held audience there, but none like him. My mother, my uncle, companions to fill her time and keep her attention, a revolving crew of grandkids who fought for the right to claim that seat. Looking out the picture window at the driveway sloping toward the quiet street, the rocks in the bed collected on various adventures, pickups carrying layers of dust coming to and from the fields, life passed by.
Time passed, things changed, but the chairs flanking that window were constants. And the swing in the back. And the line of pine trees. I remember swinging with all our might to pull the sour grapes from the vine that twined through the trellis above the swing. Spending hours huddled in the basement on summer nights, waiting for the sirens to stop and the storm to pass. Eating thin buttered toast, crunchy from the funny double-doored oven and malt-o-meal on tv trays for breakfast. Sitting opposite her in that chair, reading Prevention magazine.
And of course there were birthdays and Christmas and dinners and events. But I treasured the time I spent there alone, the only girl and favored a bit, safe there and loved. I resented having to share her with a new family. I resented her splitting her time between that home and another house. I felt the loss each time I passed by on my way anywhere, since she presided over my main route, and her carport sat empty.
And then, suddenly, with an addressed invitation to my graduation not yet arrived in her mailbox, she was gone. The house filled with busy women, holding off the grief with idle chatter and food. Asking questions to which I had no answer. Talking on the phone to relatives and step-relatives I didn't even know, relaying details of an event I could not comprehend. Time passed in a whirlwind and a blur, but I remember him sitting down in that chair, looking so much like his brother who had been gone so long, and feeling the memories flood back to me. For once, someone belonged to that chair, that place again, even if only for a moment.
I sat in the swing in back on my 18th birthday, still grieving, and felt awareness of my own life dawn as my mother plucked my first gray hair. I cherished the sparkling new Pontiac Grand-Am she gave me for graduation that she never even got to see. I drove it away into my new life, leaving behind that place.
And time marched on. Construction crews and con-artists changed the house, putting pressure on the foundation that finally caused it to crack. My mother could not let go. She clung to the memories desperately, driving the wedge deeper and deeper. My brother lived in that house, vastly different, yet still the same somehow, and watched as everything crumbled. I spent only one summer there, and left in August knowing home had vanished, never to be returned to again. And through it all, the chairs never changed. Oh furniture came and went, but always always two chairs flanked the window, looking out on a street that saw less and less traffic.
My firstborn visited that house only once, barely old enough to hold her head up. The sign already in the yard, the leaving already done. Now the swing is gone, the rocks are no longer in the bed, the pine trees have been cut down, and Pontiac is a brand of the past. Strangers live in my house, the house that holds the roots of my family tree. Chairs no longer flank the window. My grandparents and my uncle lie beneath a stone a few miles down the dust road. My mother sits in other chairs, looking out other windows, with someone who fits somehow better than my father, in the puzzle of her life.
There is no where to go home to.
But I have the green glasses.
I remember waking before dawn, peering down the hall in the darkness, waiting for the first stirrings and the big shoulders at the sink, creeping in to check my imagined wakings and being sent back to bed until light began to appear on the horizon and I could sit with him while he drank his coffee and read the paper.
Gone far too soon, I have too few memories, and then the chair opposite hers sat empty. Oh others held audience there, but none like him. My mother, my uncle, companions to fill her time and keep her attention, a revolving crew of grandkids who fought for the right to claim that seat. Looking out the picture window at the driveway sloping toward the quiet street, the rocks in the bed collected on various adventures, pickups carrying layers of dust coming to and from the fields, life passed by.
Time passed, things changed, but the chairs flanking that window were constants. And the swing in the back. And the line of pine trees. I remember swinging with all our might to pull the sour grapes from the vine that twined through the trellis above the swing. Spending hours huddled in the basement on summer nights, waiting for the sirens to stop and the storm to pass. Eating thin buttered toast, crunchy from the funny double-doored oven and malt-o-meal on tv trays for breakfast. Sitting opposite her in that chair, reading Prevention magazine.
And of course there were birthdays and Christmas and dinners and events. But I treasured the time I spent there alone, the only girl and favored a bit, safe there and loved. I resented having to share her with a new family. I resented her splitting her time between that home and another house. I felt the loss each time I passed by on my way anywhere, since she presided over my main route, and her carport sat empty.
And then, suddenly, with an addressed invitation to my graduation not yet arrived in her mailbox, she was gone. The house filled with busy women, holding off the grief with idle chatter and food. Asking questions to which I had no answer. Talking on the phone to relatives and step-relatives I didn't even know, relaying details of an event I could not comprehend. Time passed in a whirlwind and a blur, but I remember him sitting down in that chair, looking so much like his brother who had been gone so long, and feeling the memories flood back to me. For once, someone belonged to that chair, that place again, even if only for a moment.
I sat in the swing in back on my 18th birthday, still grieving, and felt awareness of my own life dawn as my mother plucked my first gray hair. I cherished the sparkling new Pontiac Grand-Am she gave me for graduation that she never even got to see. I drove it away into my new life, leaving behind that place.
And time marched on. Construction crews and con-artists changed the house, putting pressure on the foundation that finally caused it to crack. My mother could not let go. She clung to the memories desperately, driving the wedge deeper and deeper. My brother lived in that house, vastly different, yet still the same somehow, and watched as everything crumbled. I spent only one summer there, and left in August knowing home had vanished, never to be returned to again. And through it all, the chairs never changed. Oh furniture came and went, but always always two chairs flanked the window, looking out on a street that saw less and less traffic.
My firstborn visited that house only once, barely old enough to hold her head up. The sign already in the yard, the leaving already done. Now the swing is gone, the rocks are no longer in the bed, the pine trees have been cut down, and Pontiac is a brand of the past. Strangers live in my house, the house that holds the roots of my family tree. Chairs no longer flank the window. My grandparents and my uncle lie beneath a stone a few miles down the dust road. My mother sits in other chairs, looking out other windows, with someone who fits somehow better than my father, in the puzzle of her life.
There is no where to go home to.
But I have the green glasses.
Saturday, March 20, 2010
Weather for a Texas Girl
It's supposed to snow here today, March 21st, the first day of Spring. The snow is supposed to arrive about noon along with the turning of the seasons. In many places, snow on the first day of Spring just comes with the territory, but it's a bit unusual for us. Our trees have burst into bloom. Flowers color the beds with the yellows and purples that herald sunshine and warmer weather. We spent a beautiful day at the zoo yesterday, enjoying warmth and spring breezes. But this morning I am listening to a cold rain that has flooded already saturated soil overnight and anticipating the first flakes.
We think of the cycle of seasons in a rather linear fashion, Spring follows Winter follows Autumn follows Summer. Snow in the summer? Unheard of in Texas. One hundred degree days in December? Not what we normally anticipate. But Texas weather has a reputation of surprise and extreme changeability. Our cold spells are driven by fronts, so without a strong one a hundred degree December day isn't out of the question and with one, snow on the first day of Spring or killer cold snaps into April sometimes occur. May through August can be counted on to be hot, but we've had a rainy July or two where the sun barely showed up.
Life seems a bit like the weather in Texas. My expectation of some linear or predictably cyclical progress often ends up disrupted by some unexpected turn of events or my unexpected reaction to something or someone. Weather forecasters warn us of upcoming weather changes, but my internal weather often shifts without the benefit of any foreshadowing. Sitting with what is, honoring what my soul tells me I need today, instead of fighting the feelings with musts and shoulds isn't as easy as checking the forecast and dressing appropriately for the weather.
I've written lately about this feeling of hibernation, pulling inward, wanting to hole up, curl up, burrow and hide. It's Spring. I SHOULD be bursting into life. It's the end of my push for school. I SHOULD be ecstatic. I MUST be about looking for "what's next" and figuring out how to put all this education and experience to use. But I just want to curl up, pull the covers over my head, hide, and maybe cry for a while. I don't WANT to feel this way, but I do. I want to have an answer to the question - what's next? But I don't. There's been a lot of collaborative energy around life and Spring and worth these past few weeks in the blogosphere and I've been involved on the periphery of that energy. But I want to feel it in my bones and in my soul, and I don't.
I've lived in Texas all my life. The saying about the weather that everyone here knows goes: "If you don't like the weather in Texas - wait 5 minutes - it will change". Maybe that's true of my own interior weather too. Maybe the sun will come out tomorrow and illuminate a path I've yet to see, a direction I feel inspired to take. A poem that needs to be written. A chance I'm compelled to take. But for today, I think I'm just going to huddle up under a warm blanket and watch the snow fall.
We think of the cycle of seasons in a rather linear fashion, Spring follows Winter follows Autumn follows Summer. Snow in the summer? Unheard of in Texas. One hundred degree days in December? Not what we normally anticipate. But Texas weather has a reputation of surprise and extreme changeability. Our cold spells are driven by fronts, so without a strong one a hundred degree December day isn't out of the question and with one, snow on the first day of Spring or killer cold snaps into April sometimes occur. May through August can be counted on to be hot, but we've had a rainy July or two where the sun barely showed up.
Life seems a bit like the weather in Texas. My expectation of some linear or predictably cyclical progress often ends up disrupted by some unexpected turn of events or my unexpected reaction to something or someone. Weather forecasters warn us of upcoming weather changes, but my internal weather often shifts without the benefit of any foreshadowing. Sitting with what is, honoring what my soul tells me I need today, instead of fighting the feelings with musts and shoulds isn't as easy as checking the forecast and dressing appropriately for the weather.
I've written lately about this feeling of hibernation, pulling inward, wanting to hole up, curl up, burrow and hide. It's Spring. I SHOULD be bursting into life. It's the end of my push for school. I SHOULD be ecstatic. I MUST be about looking for "what's next" and figuring out how to put all this education and experience to use. But I just want to curl up, pull the covers over my head, hide, and maybe cry for a while. I don't WANT to feel this way, but I do. I want to have an answer to the question - what's next? But I don't. There's been a lot of collaborative energy around life and Spring and worth these past few weeks in the blogosphere and I've been involved on the periphery of that energy. But I want to feel it in my bones and in my soul, and I don't.
I've lived in Texas all my life. The saying about the weather that everyone here knows goes: "If you don't like the weather in Texas - wait 5 minutes - it will change". Maybe that's true of my own interior weather too. Maybe the sun will come out tomorrow and illuminate a path I've yet to see, a direction I feel inspired to take. A poem that needs to be written. A chance I'm compelled to take. But for today, I think I'm just going to huddle up under a warm blanket and watch the snow fall.
Tuesday, March 16, 2010
Being Born
No one told me about the pain,
or maybe they did but without experience I couldn't listen.
It comes in waves that I cannot escape,
building to a point so intense I think I might,
no...I think I want to die.
For me, it never settles into a rhythm I can anticipate.
Sharp, excruciating, breathtaking pain.
The intermittent relief marred by the certainty of return.
I should walk or soak or rock or squat,
but screaming steals my energy.
The midwife urges me to breath, encourages me onward,
until finally I sense the end.
But I'm not done yet.
I must push, through the fear and the pain, I must push.
But this life inside me is already large with plans and dreams and destiny.
She can't come gently.
She rends her way out with a force that nearly ends me.
After her initial screams of protest at the shock,
when they lay her in my arms,
we gaze at one another
and wonder "now what?"
or maybe they did but without experience I couldn't listen.
It comes in waves that I cannot escape,
building to a point so intense I think I might,
no...I think I want to die.
For me, it never settles into a rhythm I can anticipate.
Sharp, excruciating, breathtaking pain.
The intermittent relief marred by the certainty of return.
I should walk or soak or rock or squat,
but screaming steals my energy.
The midwife urges me to breath, encourages me onward,
until finally I sense the end.
But I'm not done yet.
I must push, through the fear and the pain, I must push.
But this life inside me is already large with plans and dreams and destiny.
She can't come gently.
She rends her way out with a force that nearly ends me.
After her initial screams of protest at the shock,
when they lay her in my arms,
we gaze at one another
and wonder "now what?"
Thursday, March 11, 2010
It is Spring
I love the willow trees the most, bare one day the next a stream of green rivers cascading to the ground.
Pears, plums, and redbud span a spectrum of clean crisp white to deep purple bursting out of the gray monotony.
Daffodils in every shade of yellow turn their faces to the sun, collecting rays in their open cups.
A mockingbird practices runs of every melody and sound he has ever heard, showing off his talents for all of us, but especially I suspect for that special some-bird.
Dawn cracks the window a bit earlier and my two chirping birds rise more easily - at least for a few weeks until we push forward to take full advantage of the afternoon light.
It happens so suddenly. Wasn't it just weeks ago that the ground lay covered knee-deep with white and dormant tree branches sacrificed their limbs to the snow-creatures on display?
Now I look out and see the beginnings of a crayon-colored spring, like a half-finished picture my child works on with her rainbow in a box.
Yesterday I stood outside and turned my face to the sun, soaking in the warmth, the light and feeling my own soul spring to life. I pay too little attention, but my being corresponds to the seasons of the earth. The colors burst forth suddenly, with possibilities that have lain dormant through the cold and the dark.
The world and I, we are waking up. It is Spring.
Pears, plums, and redbud span a spectrum of clean crisp white to deep purple bursting out of the gray monotony.
Daffodils in every shade of yellow turn their faces to the sun, collecting rays in their open cups.
A mockingbird practices runs of every melody and sound he has ever heard, showing off his talents for all of us, but especially I suspect for that special some-bird.
Dawn cracks the window a bit earlier and my two chirping birds rise more easily - at least for a few weeks until we push forward to take full advantage of the afternoon light.
It happens so suddenly. Wasn't it just weeks ago that the ground lay covered knee-deep with white and dormant tree branches sacrificed their limbs to the snow-creatures on display?
Now I look out and see the beginnings of a crayon-colored spring, like a half-finished picture my child works on with her rainbow in a box.
Yesterday I stood outside and turned my face to the sun, soaking in the warmth, the light and feeling my own soul spring to life. I pay too little attention, but my being corresponds to the seasons of the earth. The colors burst forth suddenly, with possibilities that have lain dormant through the cold and the dark.
The world and I, we are waking up. It is Spring.
Wednesday, March 10, 2010
From one Extreme to the Other
"Wisdom tells me that I am nothing; love tells me I am everything.
Between the two, my life flows."
Nisargadatta Maharaj
Jeanie Miley used this quote in her blog post this morning, a third post in a series of four about ambiguity. This series is part of a larger set of posts exploring the book by Jim Hollis What Matters Most: Living a More Considered Life. Go explore, it's good stuff.
Brené Brown is hosting a discussion of enough and worthiness this week on her blog in conjunction with the release of a CD of her work.
And it all has me thinking. In the depths of a particularly painful increase in consciousness not terribly long ago, I cried out in despair "If I am okay just as I am, why do I need to be transformed?" That question echoes the quote from Jeanie's post this morning, and it's a question I don't know if I have the answer to.
Yet I do believe deeply in the inherent worth of every life. I see the divine spark in every soul. We are indeed worthy, now. We are indeed enough just as we are. Yet the ambiguity is that we all still need the transformation.
Part of the trick for me is in listening to my Self, my soul, and following where she leads me. Constantly "stuff" floats up from within that forces me to look deeply at my life, see the rough areas I need to polish, feel the dark emotions I need to express, move through the fear to do something out of my comfort zone. The push comes from within, from a divine place that holds me in the fire until I am transformed.
And the other half of the trick is in NOT listening to the voices that want me to play small. The voices that say "you are too fat, too lazy, too insecure, too neurotic, too harsh, too imperfect to matter". The voices that tell me I am not enough and never will be. Those voices - whether internal or external - have to be silenced. Because they strip me of my worth.
How do we strike a balance between the need for forward movement, growth, yes - transformation and a healthy view of our worth, our goodness, our power, our light? Holding the opposites hurts. Finding the ground, even if it is shifting, where I can own my power while at the very same time owning my flaws proves incredibly difficult most days. So maybe it isn't about finding that sweet spot - but as the quote says - flowing back and forth between the two ideas. Like water flowing produces energy, in the movement of our lives between the two poles of wisdom and love we find the transformation.
Between the two, my life flows."
Nisargadatta Maharaj
Jeanie Miley used this quote in her blog post this morning, a third post in a series of four about ambiguity. This series is part of a larger set of posts exploring the book by Jim Hollis What Matters Most: Living a More Considered Life. Go explore, it's good stuff.
Brené Brown is hosting a discussion of enough and worthiness this week on her blog in conjunction with the release of a CD of her work.
And it all has me thinking. In the depths of a particularly painful increase in consciousness not terribly long ago, I cried out in despair "If I am okay just as I am, why do I need to be transformed?" That question echoes the quote from Jeanie's post this morning, and it's a question I don't know if I have the answer to.
Yet I do believe deeply in the inherent worth of every life. I see the divine spark in every soul. We are indeed worthy, now. We are indeed enough just as we are. Yet the ambiguity is that we all still need the transformation.
Part of the trick for me is in listening to my Self, my soul, and following where she leads me. Constantly "stuff" floats up from within that forces me to look deeply at my life, see the rough areas I need to polish, feel the dark emotions I need to express, move through the fear to do something out of my comfort zone. The push comes from within, from a divine place that holds me in the fire until I am transformed.
And the other half of the trick is in NOT listening to the voices that want me to play small. The voices that say "you are too fat, too lazy, too insecure, too neurotic, too harsh, too imperfect to matter". The voices that tell me I am not enough and never will be. Those voices - whether internal or external - have to be silenced. Because they strip me of my worth.
How do we strike a balance between the need for forward movement, growth, yes - transformation and a healthy view of our worth, our goodness, our power, our light? Holding the opposites hurts. Finding the ground, even if it is shifting, where I can own my power while at the very same time owning my flaws proves incredibly difficult most days. So maybe it isn't about finding that sweet spot - but as the quote says - flowing back and forth between the two ideas. Like water flowing produces energy, in the movement of our lives between the two poles of wisdom and love we find the transformation.
Wednesday, March 3, 2010
Coming of Age
My oldest daughter turns 11 a week from tomorrow. Her elementary school has Open House that evening and the next week is Spring Break. So we plan to celebrate her birthday tomorrow, without competing interests and before her friends flit away for snowy peaks or sandy beaches. I remember vividly the day she entered this world. And I remember the many joyful, painful, unbelievable days of growth I underwent in those first months of her life. The act of being a parent blows apart any expectations of being a parent that pre-existed the child herself.
I signed a note from school yesterday giving her permission to view THE 5TH GRADE FILM on the day after her birthday, at 2pm in the afternoon, on the Friday before Spring Break. Any chance that timing might be coincidence? I don't think so. The school has set everything up to show these videos, to segregated classrooms of 10-12 year old boys and girls, moments before they march out of school into the warm spring sunshine and promptly forget most of what they saw. The timing is meant to push questions toward home and suppress gossip and giggles with the hopes that the excitement of the topic will have died down by the time the students return.
I knew the film was on the horizon. Courtney seemed concerned when she handed me the paper. I assured her that she had my full permission to watch the film. And that I expected she would not encounter much new information there. We have covered everything in the film and more. As parents, the school permits us to preview the film. I don't need to do that. I know the more informed she is, the better able to make good decisions she will be. So I have informed her. In bits and pieces, ever more in depth, as the time seemed right. I have entertained her questions. We have had deep discussions. Some too early for my liking, precipitated by some conversation or event I couldn't control. But that's life isn't it? Encounters with awareness and information to be processed, not always at the time that might be the most convenient.
She has friends, coming to the end of their 5th grade year, who know NOTHING about the changes coming soon for them. Why? Because we are afraid. Because somehow we have internalized such shame about being a woman that we cannot even talk to our daughters about the beauty of the ability to give life. We certainly don't celebrate their budding sexuality, their feminine power, the inherent beauty of the divine within them. Instead, we separate and segregate, send home scary permission slips, and hide on the front edge of vacation. Even the school, trying to do the job no one else will do, sets things up in a way that hints at shame.
I say NO MORE. At least not at my house. We will honor and celebrate. We will talk freely. We will embrace and engage our feminine selves. Or at least I hope we can. I am scheduled to present similar information, although I will do it with a twist, for my daughter's girlscout troop in May. We have plans to party. We will meet the requirements for the badge, discuss the developmental, look at the pressure from society to look and be a certain way, entertain any and all questions. And then we will celebrate. We will pamper ourselves with pedicures and take pleasure in the delight of a good meal. We will even have dessert - and talk about how to enjoy food in healthy amounts with a healthy attitude, not with either indulgence or denial. I hope the event will be memorable, celebratory, supportive.
And yet, last night, my younger daughter announced while watching the election returns that the governor should be a man because men were taller, had better hair, shinier teeth, talked louder and were smarter. So, while I'm making ground on one front I seem to be losing it on the other. She said it with a grin, knowing her statement would push my buttons, and taking great delight in doing just that. Humor ruled the moment, as she intended, but the underlying message - accepted so easily - does bother me - even as a joke.
So I press ever onward, sometimes feeling like I'm fighting the battle alone. And then I ran across this post: http://www.unabashedlyfemale.com/2010/03/02/theres-no-voice-like-yours/ I've been reading Julie's blog for a few weeks. I'm adding her to my blog roll. She touches the deep places in my soul. She makes me feel that the community I want for my daughters, might, just might, be possible.
And so, we move into a new year, ever closer to the teen years, with at least a little hope that my daughters will live in a world without shame about who they are. That they can spend their energy fighting new battles instead of the same old ones. That they will grow into their own voices and not need to find them, because they will have been there all along.
I signed a note from school yesterday giving her permission to view THE 5TH GRADE FILM on the day after her birthday, at 2pm in the afternoon, on the Friday before Spring Break. Any chance that timing might be coincidence? I don't think so. The school has set everything up to show these videos, to segregated classrooms of 10-12 year old boys and girls, moments before they march out of school into the warm spring sunshine and promptly forget most of what they saw. The timing is meant to push questions toward home and suppress gossip and giggles with the hopes that the excitement of the topic will have died down by the time the students return.
I knew the film was on the horizon. Courtney seemed concerned when she handed me the paper. I assured her that she had my full permission to watch the film. And that I expected she would not encounter much new information there. We have covered everything in the film and more. As parents, the school permits us to preview the film. I don't need to do that. I know the more informed she is, the better able to make good decisions she will be. So I have informed her. In bits and pieces, ever more in depth, as the time seemed right. I have entertained her questions. We have had deep discussions. Some too early for my liking, precipitated by some conversation or event I couldn't control. But that's life isn't it? Encounters with awareness and information to be processed, not always at the time that might be the most convenient.
She has friends, coming to the end of their 5th grade year, who know NOTHING about the changes coming soon for them. Why? Because we are afraid. Because somehow we have internalized such shame about being a woman that we cannot even talk to our daughters about the beauty of the ability to give life. We certainly don't celebrate their budding sexuality, their feminine power, the inherent beauty of the divine within them. Instead, we separate and segregate, send home scary permission slips, and hide on the front edge of vacation. Even the school, trying to do the job no one else will do, sets things up in a way that hints at shame.
I say NO MORE. At least not at my house. We will honor and celebrate. We will talk freely. We will embrace and engage our feminine selves. Or at least I hope we can. I am scheduled to present similar information, although I will do it with a twist, for my daughter's girlscout troop in May. We have plans to party. We will meet the requirements for the badge, discuss the developmental, look at the pressure from society to look and be a certain way, entertain any and all questions. And then we will celebrate. We will pamper ourselves with pedicures and take pleasure in the delight of a good meal. We will even have dessert - and talk about how to enjoy food in healthy amounts with a healthy attitude, not with either indulgence or denial. I hope the event will be memorable, celebratory, supportive.
And yet, last night, my younger daughter announced while watching the election returns that the governor should be a man because men were taller, had better hair, shinier teeth, talked louder and were smarter. So, while I'm making ground on one front I seem to be losing it on the other. She said it with a grin, knowing her statement would push my buttons, and taking great delight in doing just that. Humor ruled the moment, as she intended, but the underlying message - accepted so easily - does bother me - even as a joke.
So I press ever onward, sometimes feeling like I'm fighting the battle alone. And then I ran across this post: http://www.unabashedlyfemale.com/2010/03/02/theres-no-voice-like-yours/ I've been reading Julie's blog for a few weeks. I'm adding her to my blog roll. She touches the deep places in my soul. She makes me feel that the community I want for my daughters, might, just might, be possible.
And so, we move into a new year, ever closer to the teen years, with at least a little hope that my daughters will live in a world without shame about who they are. That they can spend their energy fighting new battles instead of the same old ones. That they will grow into their own voices and not need to find them, because they will have been there all along.
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