Category — parenting

My friend Jen recently gave birth to a beautiful little girl whom she and her husband named Keagan; I’m now an honourary auntie!

I knit Keagan a blanket (my first attempt at anything larger than a dishcloth, and it actually looked pretty decent) and I wrote her a letter. I’d been toying with the idea of posting it and finally decided I would. So here it is, my letter to my lovely little niece:

Dear Keagan,

You’re finally here! We’ve all been waiting what seems like forever for you to come, and now that you’re here we all feel compelled to give you presents (and this will happen with great regularity because people LOVE to spoil cute babies).

My present is in the paper grocery bag along with your parent’s Supernatural CD. I would have wrapped it in something fancier, but Canada Post seems to know when you do things up nicely and then they drop your parcel in a puddle.

Anyway, my gift is a blanket that I knit for you. It’s pretty big considering how small you are. And given the heat wave going on in Ottawa, you probably won’t need it right away, but it will be handy come winter as a lap blanket or car-seat liner.

Here’s the really cool part about this blanket though – it’s not just some boring practical gift like socks or underwear, it’s actually a magical gift.

I know, I wouldn’t believe me either normally, but this really is a magical blanket.

Here are some of the uses I’ve discovered so far:

1. It makes a very comfortable flying carpet. That being said, if you’re off gallivanting in the Himalaya’s, do NOT let any yeti you meet use it. Yetis shed like mad and their hair is really hard to wash out – and this is a very washable flying carpet. Also, if some old guy in Cairo with a red hat and a cane offers you a bag of so-called ‘magic beans’ as trade for the carpet – say no and walk away. He’s a crafty one.
2. A very warm superhero cape. You’ll want to build up to really heroic feats though. Rescue a kitten in a tree a few times first and then maybe move on to rescuing folks in evil secret lairs. Lots of heroes think they can just start out big, but really, it’s like any other job – you start small, learn the ropes and work your way up. You’ll also find this cape great for rescuing people who got trapped in the Alps because they thought it would be fun to re-enact The Sound of Music. Try not to judge them too harshly, they can’t help being that stupid.
3. A small, but cozy, teddy bear fort. You’ll need two sticks and some string too, which I didn’t include because Canada Post won’t let me mail sticks. Something about them being a dirty safety hazard. Absolute rot in my opinion. If any of your bears start making lame excuses about needing to use the blanket to protect them from monsters, give them the blanket anyway; then follow them when they all sneak off to the annual Teddy Bear’s Picnic. You won’t taste better honey or sweets anywhere and the blanket does a fine job of keeping curious ants out of the custard.
4. DO NOT let your parents know about this one! This is secret information I’m about to divulge. Now, this blanket’s most useful magic is its ability to hide things. You’ll discover that hiding stuff under your bed when you’re told to “clean up that pig-pen you call a bedroom” will drive your parents absolutely wild. I could never see the big fuss either, I mean it’s all in one spot and easy to find right? Parents lose their minds over this sort of clear-headed logic

So, when you’re cleaning up, stuff everything under the bed as usual, and then put the blanket over the stuff. The blanket will create the illusion that there is nothing there – it’ll blend itself and all your things right into the floor.

That’s a very handy trick if you like collecting snakes, snails, rocks, cute toads or sticks and other things that destroy vacuum cleaners and make mothers shriek like old tea kettles. Trust me on this, I know.

That’s all I’ve discovered so far about the blanket, let me know if you find any new uses for it!

Welcome to the world little Firefly – I’ll try and visit just as soon as I possibly can.

Love,

Auntie R.

(and Uncle Joe too, though, he was no help at all with the knitting)

Bookstores are one of my biggest weaknesses.

Rare are the days I can walk by one and not go in. Even rarer are the times when I go in and come out empty-handed.

I went into Chapters today with my friends Emily and Beau and within less than five minutes, I’d found a book: At Large and at Small – Confessions of a Literary Hedonist by Anne Fadiman (along with three other books, because I really am very weak-willed in bookstores).

Anne Fadiman is the sole reason I enjoy reading essays. After years of being forced to write essays in high school and university  – writing that seemed to involve sucking the life and joy out of every word ever printed – I was finished with essays. Then I stumbled onto Ex Libris – Confessions of a Common Reader also by Anne Fadiman and what a gem that book is! My copy is a paperback with a pale green cover and contains some of the most entertaining essays about being a book lover I’ve ever read.

That little green book hooked me and suddenly essays were not life-sucking, paper-wasting pieces of boredom; they were interesting, well-written comments on something I truly love: books!

So you can imagine how eager I was to dive into the new find.

After saying goodbye to Emily and Beau I took out my newest treasure and began to read at the bus stop.

Now, I can read anywhere (and frequently do) so I’ve got the skills to read and enjoy a book while being aware enough of the world around me to still catch a bus. I got on the #10, which was unusually crowded, and managed to find as seat at the very back. I sat and opened my book.

Normally, I’d pick up where I left off and the rest of the world would cease to exist. Today, I found it hard.

The guy one seat over to my left had the most piercing nose-whistle I’ve ever heard. The guy to my right was blathering on about the colour blue to the guy next to him at top volume. The bus’s brakes were in desperate need of some kind of tuning given the high-pitched screams of protest they made every time the bus came to a stop. Another woman was digging her in over-sized purse for a phone that was shrieking out Katy Perry’s I Kissed a Girl at a very loud volume (who knew faux alligator skin was such a poor sound barrier) not to mention the various kinds of music leaking out of people’s headphones.

It was nearly too much to tune out. I am not good at meditation – largely because I’ve only ever tried a handful of times and taming the monkey-mind is not going to happen overnight – so drowning out the people on the bus, and the surrounding traffic was not going well today. My immediate feeling towards all these noises (and their creators) was one of pure resentment.

I know the whole world can’t suddenly turn down the volume because I want to read – but that doesn’t stop me from wanting it. This resentment towards the noisy world coming between me and my books goes back a long way.

As a kid I remember not being able to find a lot of time to read quietly – there were always interruptions. Most of these interruptions came in the form of my mother’s voice: “What are you doing inside? It’s a beautiful day, go outside and play.”

You want to see resentment? Separate a kid from her book all in the name of “playing outside”. Anyone who really loves to read will fully understand my sulky replies, the irritated tone of voice and even the backchat that was usually some form of, “Why don’t YOU go outside and play and leave me alone?”

I still can’t understand how parents can desperately want their kids to be readers and yet cannot, absolutely cannot, leave their children alone when they DO finally pick up a book and get absorbed in it. The moment the outside world disappears for a reading child is exactly the moment parents start in on all the apparent virtues of being outside (though, even if the kid does go out, heaven forbid you come back dirty with tears in your clothes and scraped up knees!).

Anyway, after many, many repetitions of this, I got smart. I took a small bag (a red canvas child’s purse with a picture of Snoopy on it), packed a couple of books, some stolen cookies, and a juice box and hightailed it through the woods behind my aunt and uncle’s place directly to the local graveyard. Once there, I found a great and shady spot behind the mausoleum, sprawled out in the grass, and read to my heart’s content.

I can’t remember the name of the family buried there, but I hope they didn’t mind me borrowing a little shade while I read The Secret Garden or The Stand and ate some Oreos. The graveyard is maybe an odd place to find such happiness but it was well chosen. It was close enough to the house that I could get back fairly quickly, but far enough away that if Mum stood on the back step and yelled for me I’d be able to honestly say I hadn’t heard her calling.

I wasn’t an awful child, just determined to pursue my passion without all the commentary – and children need privacy and freedom the same as adults.

In the winter, I lived at the library (usually on weekends) and the librarian, Annie, was always glad to let me take a chair out of the way and read whatever I liked. I also read under the covers with a flashlight, I would read standing around in my room while listening for any sign of a parent (and stuff the book under the pillow and say I was cleaning up when caught), I read in the bathroom, on the bus, at recess, in class (when I could get away with it), on class trips including the over-night trip to Camp Sylvan and once even at a particularly bad company summer picnic.

Romeo and Juliet’s doomed romance was far more interesting than getting a loaf of bread from the freezer, or cleaning my room. Reading about the survivors of “Captain Trips” in The Stand (and my secret conviction that I would have been a survivor too) was much more entertaining than doing the dishes.

Even today, I still feel that same resentment at being pulled from whatever world I was inhabiting. Of course, the good thing about being an adult is that no one ever tells me to go outside and play if I’d rather read. Nor am I frequently interrupted to fetch things or clean my room and best of all – I don’t have to hide out in the graveyard with contraband cookies.

I sometimes think I should open up a reading lounge. People would come in with a book and sprawl out on a plush and comfortable rug or chair and then just zone out and read. No laptops, all cell phones on vibrate, no chatterboxes yapping about the colour blue – just some unobtrusive music and the sound of pages being turned.

How peaceful that would be!

I hear my own reading lounge calling to me; my very comfortable couch where I will read without further interruptions.

Lately it seems that everytime I open WordPress, or read the news I see a new article about child discipline.

For instance, David Deacon’s post on WordPress about the boy who slapped his mother on the Dr. Phil show.

Anyone who is a parent is probably horrified that any kid would slap his mother – and normally I’d be right there with you. I’ve slapped two people in my life – one was a boy in biology class who kept throwing eraser bits at me, and I warned him before I did it. The other was a much older guy in highschool who said something so filthy to me I can’t even type it here and I put my whole, skinny little 100 pound body behind that slap.

I watched the clip on David Deacon’s site and read his comment about how if that had been his kid, that kid would be recovering in the hospital about now because he had “to get his butt beat.”

What struck me about that video was the lack of respect on both sides. The kid was obviously upset, obviously angry and sad and I can understand the impulse that drove him to slap his mother – though I don’t condone the behaviour in any way. The mother was upset in the same way and the only difference between their behaviour that I could see was that she could pull rank as the mother and say “Do it my way, because I’m the parent.”

I’m not a parent and not likely to have kids at all, but I’m going to put in my two cents anyway: I don’t think kids are belongings or formless things to be molded into whatever parents want them to be. Yes, they should be taught right from wrong, bad behaviour should be corrected and parents should ”pull rank” when the child is getting in over their heads – but what about mutual respect? Why is it that parents belittle, order about, physically punish and talk at and over their kids?

Are kids not also people in their own right? Do they not have feelings, wants, fears, desires etc. like any other person would? Why do parents say things like “Do as I said because I said so.” or “Stop that crying or I’ll give you something to cry about.” What do those things even mean? The first implies you don’t really have a reason, you just want something for yourself. It’s not about what’s in the child’s best interest – it’s about what’s in yours at that moment. The second is just stupid – if the kid is already crying, then there is a already a problem. Try a little sensitivity or just letting them cry it out rather than stifling a perfectly natural response to being upset.

Think of it this way – would you respond that way to a friend? “Oh stop that crying or I’ll give you something to cry about.” Of course not. No one would do that to a fellow adult – someone they see as worthy of respect, but kids get that line all the time. Kids are routinely made to feel small and unimportant by the same adults who profess to love them – and I’m not saying the parent is being intentionally abusive, but simply that the parent is just doing what they know, because that’s how they were raised by their parents.

I feel sorry for that boy who slapped his mum. I remember what it was like to be that young and feel that nothing you said mattered, that your opinions didn’t count, that your wants and needs were second best to the wants and needs of your parents – and it felt terrible to wonder if I mattered at all. It felt awful to feel invisible and unneccesary. Even if those things were not what my parents meant, that’s how I felt.

I don’t buy the “Well, my parents did that to me and I turned out OK.” crap either. I DID turn OK, if by OK you mean I’m generally a decent human being, I contribute in a meaningful way to society and I didn’t become a criminal. I’m aware of right from wrong, but I’m also aware that the behaviour I witnessed in my parents relating to me is behaviour that I sometimes exhibit myself in relation to others. It’s a struggle to genuinely and respectfully relate to another person in those instances when my wants are essentially telling me that what I want is more important than having empathy or being respectful. 

What I see in that video is a mother who is very much like a child herself – just bigger. She doesn’t like being spoken to as if she doesn’t matter, doesn’t like being elbowed or hit but thinks nothing of doing it to her child – as if he weren’t really a person yet simply because he’s young and her son.

Age should not be a factor in deciding whether you’ll give respect to another person. How about simply giving a person respect as another human being? Even if that person happens to be one you gave birth to?

Parenting sometimes seems to me to be about ownership – you’re MY child. I have to take care of you, so I get to decide how you feel, what you do, what you want and what you need. What I want from you and for you is more important than what you want from and for yourself. You can do whatever you want when you’re a grown up, but while you’re under MY roof – you’ll toe the line and behave as I tell you.

Nice little dictatorship there. That basically telling a kid he’s not a person until he’s old enough to move out – and then you’ve created a kid who, somewhere under the regular teenage bravado and bullshit, feels like he doesn’t really matter – not really. And this isn’t about angst, or “what does it all mean” questions to the universe, but personal questions directed inwards about the self; “Am I here?” Do I really matter?”

If I could talk to that boy (after locking Dr. Phil up for being a meddlesome bonehead) I would say: You matter. You didn’t ask to be born and you are owed a certain amount of respect simply for being a fellow human being and you keep (and deepen) or lose that respect based on your actions and behaviour.

I would also get him into some counselling post haste so he could move on to becoming a person in his own right, unfettered by the mistakes and issues of his mother.