Steinem, Skinner, Swords and Slippers

“Mama! Mama! Help! Polly is drowning!”

I was in the middle of mixing up cornbread batter when I heard the cry for help. I dropped the spoon and ran down the hall way.

My 4 year old daughter stood in front of the toilet. Her hands were placed on her cheeks as if she’d just witnessed a murder.

“What happened honey?”

“Zebbie flushed my Polly Pocket down the toilet and she can’t swim!”

I squatted down, put my hands on her little round shoulders and tried to offer some comforting words.

“Polly will be fine. I’m sure she’ll find the sword that he flushed yesterday. And with that sword, she can paddle her way back to the surface. She’ll be fine.”

“But she doesn’t have a boat mommy.”

I had to think quick, she was right, I had not seen a boat get flushed. But that didn’t mean one did notget flushed.

“Well, I have not seen the little red boat Zebbie used to play with in the bathtub- I think he sent that one down last week. So, you see, Polly has a boat waiting for her.”

A smile emerged, and the tears dried up.

“Oh, Zebbie flushed those red Barbie shoes last night, so she’ll have those too, won’t she mommy?”

“Yes, she’s got everything she needs: Pretty red, high-heeled shoes, a boat and a sword.”

I thought about that for a minute. What am I teaching my daughter about life with these words? I’d read enough about child-rearing to challenge B.F Skinner. What would Gloria Steinem think of me? But in this particular moment, comforting my daughter seemed paramount to giving my daughter a lecture about feminism. Why did offering red high-heeled shoes-as a symbol of comfort-bring on a hint of guilt? I mean, this image was completely contrary to everything I’d learned in college about ‘bridging the sexes.’

But, wasn’t I teaching her that with the right tools, we can handle any situation? Yes, that was what I was doing. This was a good moment, not one I should feel guilty over.

Later on that evening, after we’d had our cornbread and green beans, my two youngest children and I snuggled up on the sofa for a story. It was Lilly’s turn to pick the book.

“Let’s read Cinderella!”

We took turns with the parts. She loved to play the evil step-mother and put on a semi-British accent as she told the story. As we got to the part where the fairy god-mother enters the scene, Lilly asked, “Why didn’t Cinderella have any nice dresses?”

“Her step-mother didn’t buy her any.”

“Well Cinderella did all the work, so didn’t she have all the money?”

Hmmm. She did have a point with that one. I mulled it over for a couple of minutes, trying to stall her while I came up with a logical answer.

“Well, the step-mother doesn’t really have the money. Cinderella’s father has the money, and he gives it to his wife. She’s just mean and doesn’t want to buy Cinderella any clothes.”

“She’s just not a nice person.” I said, hoping to move on to the next section of the story.

Zebbie squirmed around on the sofa, waiting patiently for his turn.

“Cinderella needs to tell her daddy that her step-mother is mean.” My son interjected.

“That would be a good idea.”

I turned the page and let my son tell the part about Cinderella losing her slipper.

“The step-sister tried to force her foot into the shoe, but it was too small for her foot.” Both children sat quietly, listening to the end of the story. "Finally, the prince found Cinderella, and they got married and lived happily-ever after." After I closed the book my daughter asked, “Mamma, did Cinderella ever tell her daddy about how mean her step-mother was?”

I knew this was an important question. I could tell that this issue was bothering both of my children. Cinderella had been a victim, and what would her loving father have said to her if she had told him about the mistreatment.

“Yes, she did tell her daddy. And you know what he said to Cinderella?” ‘I never would have bought this house for your step-mother if I’d known the way she was going to treat you, that’s why tomorrow I’m going to burn it down.’

Hannah Montana Movie-Loved it!

My weekend highlight. I went to the Hannah Montana movie! 14 Apr 2009

I wasn’t disappointed. I was surprisingly entertained. I think my favorite part was when Miley and her dad were sitting up in the barn loft and she was singing a song to him about how he had comforted her when she was scared-- how he sang her to sleep….

As they sang together, I felt my own heart swell, remembering how I sang to my children, many evenings, for much longer than they needed me to. Even after they were fast asleep, I’d keep singing. Somehow, it comforted me, too. It also kept me from going to my bed, and facing the loneliness, and feeling the broken dream between the cold sheets.

Sitting beside my children, watching them sleep, looking so peaceful, filled me with hope that one day, I’d sleep as they do. Soft, slow breathing. Mine quick and shallow with frequent little gasps, as if I had just seen a small rodent scamper across the floor. No rodents, no bugs, a gasp at the realization that my dreams were dying. Death, for the lingering love, was more painful than I thought it would be. I had cried so many tears in the previous years that I really believed I didn’t have any left to cry. But I was wrong. Sometimes I cried for the lost years, realizing that so many had passed that I had just missed, because I was trying to force something that was never going to happen. I was angry a lot. Tired a lot. Scared a lot.

Watching them sleep, singing old lullabies that I hadn’t sang to them in years, became a routine that I couldn’t wait for each night. I never asked them if they wanted me to sing, I asked them what they wanted me to sing. They always had an answer. One night recently, I went to see my older daughter, say goodnight to her or maybe snuggle with her, possibly read her a book. That didn't happen. She asked me to sing her a lullaby. Knowing that she was about to make the transition from little girl to woman came a like striking slam against my chest. I brushed her hair back off her face and began to sing.

She felt my tears on her face, but didn’t ask any questions. I think she knew why I was crying. She, too, knew that something was ending. There were recent small changes. I noticed her figure change, her questions change. Yet, it all happened too fast. I felt as if I was still getting ready to be mother to her, still trying to figure out the recipe, so that I could help her build a strong foundation. I wanted to give her something I was struggling to find. Recently, I’d found it, but I felt as if it was too late.

My baby girl needing so much from me that I couldn’t and didn’t give her, but I gave her all I had. I gave more of myself to her than I had ever given anything in my life. I had tried so hard to comfort that crying baby, that hurting stomach. I tried to show her the rain drops on the street and the little buds on the trees. I took her to the dirt road, rolled down the car windows and let the wind blow in her hair. I let her help me make biscuits and get flour all over the kitchen. But now, those little things seemed to be not enough. I was looking for a big rock to put under her, to give her the security and strength that I never had as a child, so that she could reach places I never made it to.

I had just found that rock, but to me, it seemed that she had already walked on past, she had found another way to climb up on the porch of the house. The porch never had any steps. I see her walking around, knowing that I didn’t get the rock until it was too late. She’s looking in the windows of that house, and I am standing on the ground beside the rock wishing I could say, “Standing on this rock is easier.” But she’s too far away to hear me now. Maybe she will turn around, and she’ll watch me climb up on the rock, to get to the porch, where I'll stand beside her. Then, we can sit on the porch, drink some sweet tea with lemon, and enjoy the view together.

Bathing With Barbie

Bathing with Barbie

Shaving in the shower is just not an option for me. I wear glasses. Without them, I cannot see my own knees. If I try to shave in the shower, my glasses get foggy and I mistake droplets of water on my glasses for bumps that don't exist on my legs. So, I have to use the touch method. I drag the razor up my shin several times, and then I reach down and rub my finger tips on my skin to find poking patches of stubble. Then, I drag the razor over the area again; rub it with my fingers until my skin is so silky that I am reminded of the softest sheets at my Aunt Diane's house. This procedure, while quite effective, is time consuming. Shaving one leg takes the same amount of time as it takes to bake a fourteen pound turkey.

Recently I had a brilliant notion: "Why not shave in the tub?" I used to do that--- before I had kids.

As I stepped into the bathtub tonight, brushing seven Barbies aside, whose hair was plastered to the bottom of the tub in very unusual arrangements, I realized why I don't get in the tub: I don't like bathing with Barbie.

Ken? Well, I could put up with him. He's got great abs. But I just can't share a tub with Barbie. It goes against my faith or something along those lines. First of all, she's just too damn skinny. Secondly, wet or dry, her make-up never runs. And the final blow is that she's always looking straight at me. It's unnerving to bathe with Barbie glaring at my stubbly shins.

So tonight I dragged the seven Barbies, face-down, out of the tub and put them on the towel rack, as close as possible to the floor, and I reclaimed this wonderful area. I became a Porcelain Princess. Glasses in place, I covered myself in shaving cream and enjoyed watching my stubble float to the surface and stick to the sides of the tub.

When I climbed out, warm, relaxed and smooth as a slug, I was jolted back into reality when I saw "The Ring."

"Where's the blow torch? I know I left it somewhere?" After a futile search, I returned to the bathroom empty-handed and caught a glimpse of the Barbie Brigade lying prone on the wire-rack.

"I bet that Barbie hair is created by the same folks who make titanium. I can grab that skinny little waist, dip the hair in a comet paste and......"

Six minutes later: "Boy is my tub clean now.”