I wasn’t raised by my mother. She turned legal guardianship of me over to my grandparents when I was two years old, and they had been raising me long before that. For all of my childhood and most of my adolescence she lived thousands of miles from me and I called her by her first name. She never called to speak to me, she rarely visited, and gifts were few and far in between. She wrote me a letter once, when I was eleven, after my grandmother had told her I’d been getting in trouble at school. I read it up until the line that said “You will not be 12 years old forever…” then I immediately crumpled it up and threw it away, thinking she doesn’t even know how old I am.

Today, she has this habit of telling me how I was when I was a little girl.

We talk about potty training and she reminisces about how I was potty trained quickly and never had an accident. I wet the bed until I was about ten years old. She goes on and on about how my brother was behaviorally difficult from the time he entered preschool but I never was that way. I was kicked out of preschool for being such a terror. She talks to me about discussions she had with me, lessons she taught me, and none of it happened. The only memories I have of her from when I was a child are of her fighting my brother’s father and the time she came to North Carolina to visit with a bunch of our family and acted like she wanted nothing to do with me.

I don’t argue with her, I usually just nod or stare incredulously at her. I wonder if she has really convinced herself that these things actually happened. I wonder if all parents do this, if they claim memories that don’t really exist. On more than one occasion I’ve wanted to say “um, I think you are confused. I can count how many times I saw you when I was growing up on one hand.” but I don’t. I ignore it, or I talk to my grandparents and they shake their heads and mutter things like “delusional” and “crazy” and “off her rocker“. I think the three of us find it more amusing than anything else.

I asked her once, when I was a teenager, about her giving me up but keeping my younger brother and sister. She spouted off some nonsense like “you wanted to live with them, I asked you and you told me and they poisoned your mind against me“. She’ll never admit anything that would make her look like anything but a victim, and I had a wonderful childhood – much better than the one she could or would have given me – so what purpose would dredging up the past serve? I leave it be. That dog’s not just sleeping – it’s dead.

I’m grateful that unlike my mother, when my children are older, I won’t have to make up any stories about them. I’ll have real ones.

*It should be “let sleeping dogs lay” shouldn’t it?

—————-
Listening to: Michael McDonald – I Keep Forgettin’ (Every Time You’re Near)

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Yesterday, as soon as Bella got off the bus and started trudging across the road, I knew from the look on her face that something was wrong. Not seriously wrong but “oh hell, begin the whining in three, two, one…” wrong.

“Mommy,” she pleaded as if she’d already asked her question, “can you puh-lease get me a new backpack? Everyone makes fun of it.”

“Who’s everyone?”

“Jasmin*.”

“Just her?”

“Yes.”

“What does she say?”

“That it’s for boys.”

“And now you need a new one? Because of that?”

- she nods emphatically-

“No, you can’t get another bookbag, not until you start 1st grade. That’s how it goes. One new backpack per school year.”

“Well next time, can I pick out one for girls, that I like?”

“You don’t like the one you have now?”

“No.”

“Did you like it before Jasmin said it was for boys?”

- she nods, much less emphatically-

So then, I start my speech. It’s one I’ve given often: I’m sure that if I said “Isabella, give yourself the ‘there are very few things that can be classified as a boy thing or a girl thing’ talk” she could recite it in the mirror.

I hate that little girls are almost restricted to princess and housewife fantasies. I hate that “you wear pink and bat your lashes” is the message driven home much sooner than any “you can be anything in the world you want to be”. Is there something wrong with a little girl wanting to be a princess? Of course not. Goobalicious is prancing around with a plastic tiara on her head as I type. Yet, there’s something to be said for breaking down gender barriers and destroying stereotypes, and I don’t think that can be done if every playtime is just tea parties with crowns on our heads. I think all things regarding equality – whether gender, racial, or otherwise – should be taught early. I don’t think we  have to be a queer family for me to raise my girls with the same sensibilities and values regarding society-taught gender roles as my friend Polly and her wife instill in their children. That is, pretending they pretty much don’t exist.

Bella’s bookbag is in the shape of a turtle shell, and it has the Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles printed on it. I picked it out for her in Chicago last year and when I brought it back her eyes lit up like you wouldn’t believe. She’s loved it ever since – and Bella will let you know if she doesn’t like something, so I’m sure of this. Now, someone has told her that her bookbag is for boys, and she doesn’t want it anymore.

All I want is for her to be able to be herself. To be able to like what she likes without anyone telling her that it’s not for her, and especially not because she’s a girl.

After I went through my speech I asked Bella “If Jasmin told you that you couldn’t like Iron Man anymore because only boys like superheroes, would you stop liking Iron Man? What about Spiderman? The Hulk? X-Men? Batman?!” Her eyes became larger and larger, head shaking from side to side after every suggestion. “Well, that’s how some people feel. Like you can only like Cinderella and Barbie Dolls. That you should only have a play kitchen, not a play tool bench. That you should have been Tinkerbell instead of The Joker last Halloween. The Little Mermaid instead of Iron Man the year before. I say that these people are nuts and you should be able to like what you like, regardless of whether you’re a girl or a boy. The Ninja Turtles were my favorite when I was little, and I didn’t let anyone make me feel bad about it. Neither should you. You tell Jasmin that if she doesn’t like your backpack, she doesn’t have to wear it. And next year, if you want a different backpack that you think is more “girly” {yes, I make finger quotations} that’ll be fine. I liked the purple one in The Gap last year anyway, but you didn’t.”

I’ll get her a “girlier” bookbag. Sure. I’ve been watching Modern Family. I’m trying to watch Gossip Girl (hoping it gets better and all my friends aren’t insane for liking it). I find myself paying very close attention to these portrayals of adolescent and teenage girls, and their interactions with their parents. I remember these conversations and fights and misunderstandings, and I realize that they are right around the corner, with both of my daughters. The Bella already has mood swings for God’s sake.

Soon, The Bella may lose interest in the things she loves now like comic book heroes and ninjas. I hope that never happens, or that if it does, it’s not because she’s losing herself but because she’s becoming herself.  I get that she’s growing up and soon, regardless of what I’ve taught her, she may just want to be one of The Plastics. She may feel the need to conform, despite her own personal interests and values. Most of us do at one point or another, and because I want her to look back on her childhood and think of it as a wonderful time in her life, I’ll bite my tongue and allow her to make her own way most of the time. I only hope  that there is a balance between the ideals regarding individuality, gender roles, and everything else I’ve taught her and her desire to be accepted by her peers.

I just want her to know: it’s alright to wear black instead of pink. You don’t have to be a cheerleader, you can be a softball player with that strong right arm you’ve got. You can subscribe to Fables rather than Seventeen. You can keep listening to The Smiths instead of Taylor Swift. Be more like Shoshanna than Cinderella. You being a girl doesn’t mean shit. Enjoy being a woman, but don’t you dare let yourself be placed in a box, unless it’s of your own making. That means don’t focus too much on what I envision you as either: even if you end up the prissiest little prima donna of them all, as long as it’s who you really want to be, I’ll be happy.

{*I changed the kid’s name.}

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The question was asked by OHMommy, and it’s about my religious beliefs and how they affect my parenting. Yes, I am resting my chin on her head for most of the video. I know it’s supposed to be pronounced ‘vee-log’ but I REFUSE to say that. It’s stupid and I hate it.

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Although I have not and will never do the same, I don’t have a problem with people who have accepted their larger shapes and have decided not to beat themselves up over it. More power to you, but I don’t believe in the Fat Acceptance movement. I don’t believe that we should let our children believe that it’s fine to be overweight or obese. The obesity rate in children here in the states is ridiculously high. They learn that at home. It’s not okay – we are jeopardizing the lives of those we swear to love the most with the examples we set and the standards we’re attempting to lower.

Is it alright to teach a young girl that it’s okay to be comfortable in her own skin, no matter her shape or size? Of course, definitely so. It is not alright to teach a young girl that it’s okay to be comfortable being overweight or obese, be out of shape, eat nothing but McDonald’s, to put her health at risk for sake of being alright with who she is. There’s a fine line there, but I’d rather cross it than not approach it.

We teach them to strive to be the very best that they can with everything they do, right? School, social relationships, extra-curricular activities. That should also extend their outward appearance. Not solely for the sake of vanity, but for their quality of life as a whole. We should tell them to strive to be healthy, not thin or skinny, but to be healthy. It they are healthy at an above average weight, fine. If they are not, we should not coddle them. It does them no good, and much harm.

My younger sister is fat. She’s 13 years old and weighs a significant amount. She’s at high risk for diabetes, and her pediatrician has suggested to her and my mom that she lose weight. Neither of them take heed. She eats nothing that doesn’t come from a microwave or a paper bag. The most walking she does is getting from class to class in school. She is growing, every day, width wise more so than in height, and my mother is so concerned with not making her feel self concious about it that she won’t address it.

That’s not what my sister needs – people tiptoeing around the topic of her weight. She shouldn’t like herself the way she is. She is unhealthy. She should be aware, if some rude child at school hasn’t already taken care of that for her, that she’s too big. How is she being taught to love herself if she’s not being taught to take care of herself? Those two things seem to go hand in hand, if we’re talking about teaching them to a child. I don’t want her to be huge and happy. She should be average, normal, healthy and happy. If that means that she can’t have anymore Hot Pockets and Toaster Strudels, and that she’s miserably riding her bike around the neighborhood, so be it.

She’s about to enter high school. High school is hard enough without being the fat girl. Soon, there will be boys. I’d hate to see her crushes crush her because of her size. Yeah, sure, that makes the boys assholes and shallow and all of that, but they’re teenage boys. That’s what they are. She’s going to be in the thick of it, and I don’t understand why my mom is willing to send her into that den of hyenas with a bullseye on her front. People don’t want to accept or acknowledge it, but the truth is that looks matter. They shouldn’t – sure – but they do.

Now, it’s time for me to practice what I preach. I’m not going on any weight loss journey, but I’ve got set a better examples for my girls. I know that I’m not going to sit idly by while they get fat. It’s never going to happen. We have some serious genes in this family to combat, and when they’re old enough to know/do better, I’m going to encourage them to be their best, both inside and out. People may think that’s a bad thing, but I think it’s a wonderful thing. I think it’s bad to do the opposite, and I realize that if I’m pushing them to join the volleyball team or not eat a triple whopper with cheese while sitting here 80 pounds overweight, unable to resist that last donut, that they’re not going to take me seriously and they probably shouldn’t. How am I supposed to tell them to take care of themselves mind, body and soul if I don’t do the same? ‘Do as I say, not as I do‘? Yeah, no. I know my daughters, and that is not going to fly.

—————-
Listening to: John Mayer – In Repair

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I don’t get to take my daughters Trick or Treating this year.

That may sound trite to you, but it’s not to me. It’s something I’ve done with them every year, usually just me and them. This year, their father’s one weekend a month includes Halloween. I’m not happy about it. But it is what it is.

Instead of looking at it like “it’s not fair, he’s pretty much completely disinterested in their lives but gets to have the fun days? That’s bullshit!“, I’m trying to see it as “well, he only gets them one weekend per month and they love it so whatever, it’s a good thing”.

Giving up my marriage was really difficult. I’m still working on doing it completely. Giving up my daughters, even temporarily, sporadically, is much more so.

I’m not really going to go into how I feel about how little their father is involved in their lives. How I have to instigate most conversations and interactions, how I have to make the phone calls and text messages or they don’t get made. How he basically comes across as an ‘out of sight, out of mind’ type of father except for paying his support twice a month. Bah. I could write a book on those things, but I won’t.

When Joey and Jason met the first time, Joey told Jason that he wanted to assure him that he didn’t want to overstep his boundaries or try to take Jason’s place in their life. Jason told him, pretty smugly, that he knew that Joey never could: that his daughters loved him and knew who their father was. It’s true, yes, but I wonder if he has any idea how that line between himself and Joey is being blurred in the girls eyes, by his own inaction.

Over the past few months, his role has been taken on by Joey. Joey plays with them in the yard, he sits and colors and draws with him. He gives them piggy back rides, he takes them to the movies. He buys them toys and plays their games. He comes with me to pick Isabella up from school. He knows more about their current personalities than their dad does. They talk to him, they see him more than their father.

It’s been hard: Joey’s not their dad and I wish it was their dad doing all of these things with them, but it’s not and it is what it is. I am glad that someone wants to be there for them, in all the ways their father should be – that their father should want to be. Maybe he does want to be; maybe he’s got his reasons and justifications for the way things are.

Growing up without my father wasn’t a big deal for me because I had my grandfather to fill that role, and I’m glad that my daughters have Joey. As they get older and realize how little they see their father and why, I hope having Joey in their lives eases whatever pain those realizations might cause a bit, like having my grandfather did for me.

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