Fortified

If you know me personally, or have been keeping up with this blog, you probably surmise that I adore my daughter.  Like, a lot.  Probably bordering on being obnoxious.  She just... astonishes me, and I am so filled with pride and hope and love.  And I know life is hard, and my hope is that the more I build her up, the harder it will be for life to knock her down.  Which is already a battle we have to wage at age 5, and that, too, astonishes me.

I know first-hand how cruel kids can be.  Don't we all, really? There's no magic protection from it, either.  Kids are teased and bullied in public schools and private schools, for being too tall or too short, too fat or too thin, too unattractive or too attractive, too smart or too dumb - there is absolutely no formula or combination of traits that will spare you from that part of childhood.  I survived it.  Everyone I know survived it.  But now I'm a parent.  And I suddenly don't know HOW we survive it...  I just have to be there to pick Nancy back up and nudge her forward when she is subjected to rejection, cruelty, and hurt.  I have never had my heart broken so badly as to watch some outside force that I can't control swoop in and pluck a little piece of my precious girl's joy.  To be helpless that you can't stop it, wise enough to know you shouldn't, brave enough to encourage her forward, and strong enough to hide your own pain.  She's not the only one who has to be fortified...  I'll be going through that cycle on her behalf for the rest of my life.

Nancy is incredibly sensitive.  I am, too.  My hope for her is to achieve a balance in life that I find most artists are forced to achieve:  you have to be sensitive enough to empathize, emote, to absorb the complexities of humanity and reflect it; but, simultaneously, you have to be tough enough to endure rejection and ridicule, and persevere.  Humans are ego-centric beings, and empathy has to be learned, and just a quick glance at the headlines or scan across the internet shows me we are not doing a good job teaching it in the here and now.

In "safe" places, like school, church groups, and parentally-arranged playdates - places where the kids, and their families, are familiar to you - , we have had a few forays into conflict resolution and instances of not bonding, or taking, to another child, and vice versa.  Right now, she is at an awkward age.  She is so advanced, in both her intellect and her emotional maturity, that she seems years older than kids her own age.  But kids that are even just 2-3 years older than her are WAY too "cool" to include her.  She likes dinosaurs and trains and cars and Legos and sword-fighting and pirates, but has great difficulty bonding with boys at this age, mostly because she is uber-girlie to the boys. In one rather humorous instance, at a church weekly playgroup, the mom with three boys age 4 and under had to remove them early and forcibly. Nancy sat next to one of the moms in the quiet after, and said, "I have a book about arctic animals. I sawded a snow hare, that's fancy for bunny. He's white and he camouflages in the snow. (Pause) I like to talk to grown-ups."  So that is what she does, for the most part.

And yet, she was very popular in her preschool in Chicago, with everyone.  The things her teacher reported back made me absolutely beam with pride.  She interacted with all the kids, she was especially kind to ones who needed attention the most, and she was a positive role model.  On her last day, her teacher told me, "There are going to be a lot of sad kiddos next week.  They're not going to know who to follow..."

Here with me while I work this job out of town, we are struggling.  She doesn't have regular contact with other kids.  The only regular contact she has is me and her babysitter.  We are living in the heart of a very kid-UN-friendly town, and our resources and transportation options are limited.  So I take every opportunity I can to get her to places where she'll encounter other kids.  But that means going into "unsafe" places, like playgrounds, festivals, and malls - places where the kids are unfamiliar and you just have to be prepared for any number of situations to arise.  Today, at the mall, was one of the worst situations we've had to deal with so far.

Usually, in the "unsafe" places, the common situation is kids who exclude her.  And she is sensitive to that, and I have to do damage control reassuring her of how likable and wonderful she is.  Today was the first of its kind...  Nancy was playing on her own in the mall play area, and as new kids came in, she would engage them in her play.  Eventually, she was playing with two boys, both younger than her.  The older of the two looked to be around four.  At one point, she'd climbed up on the top of the play structure with the two boys making animal growling noises at her from below, and monster sounds and roars, stuff like that.  Nancy sat atop the piece, and declared, "Nothing scares me off!"  And I smiled.  Then the older of the boys climbed up beside her.  He proceeded to push her down, still growling, hawked a loogie and spit on her, pinned her to the ground, and punched her in the head full force with his fist.  When Nancy is embarrassed or upset, the waterworks comes after some hesitation.  Not today.  She was hurt, and she started crying on impact.  And I leapt up from my seat, rushed over to her, looked that boy right in the eyes and said, "HEY!"  That got his grandfather up, who was not paying attention to any of this.  I turned to him and said, "He hit her."  The grandfather stayed on the outside of the structure, and told the boy to apologize.  The boy came closer to Nancy and said, "Sorry."  And this is when I had to flip into the parts of the cycle.  Inside, I was livid.  I wanted to punch that punk kid in the head for hurting my baby.  But I calmly told Nancy the boy apologized and she needed to accept his apology.  Which she did.  I took her aside to calm her down, and make sure she wasn't showing any visible signs of physical damage.  But out of the corner of my eye, I see grandpa sit back down and the boy is back to running around the playground growling - like nothing happened.  And inside, I'm even more livid.  Now I want to punch grandpa in the head for not taking the initiative to use this as a teaching moment for that boy, for not assigning consequences to his actions.  I asked Nancy if she wanted to play some more, and she says no.  I told her she doesn't have to stop playing because of the boy, that she has as much right as everyone else to be on that playground.  She nods okay, and heads back into the play area, but at the sight of the boy, crawls into a tunnel, pulls her knees to her chest, and starts to cry again.  I called for her and she came to me, and I reiterated to her she had the right to play but that she didn't have to play anymore if she didn't want to.  She got her shoes, and we left.  And neither the grandpa nor the boy even glanced up at us as we walked away.

I bought Nancy a pretzel, and I told her I was proud of her for the way she handled herself.  I said, "You stood up to them bravely, but then when he hit you, you didn't hit him back and you accepted his apology.  We can't control other people's actions, only our own.  You did an awesome job."  She said, "Thanks, Mom."  When we reconvened at the company car, she told the story to my coworkers.  I sat silently, thinking back over things, wondering if I did enough.  Should I have been more forceful towards the grandpa?  Did I stand up for her enough?  Am I encouraging her to be too passive by teaching her not to retaliate, and to accept an apology?

Ultimately, in this society, in this here and now, what is the incentive for empathy?

 When we got home, I sat in a chair and said, "Nancy, come here for a second, I want to talk to you."  She came over and stood in between my legs so I could hold her around the shoulders and look at her face to face.  I said, "Do you know how much I love you?  You make me SO proud to be your mom.  You are an amazing human being and I believe you are going to be someone very important some day.  VERY important.  And truly important people treat EVERYONE with kindness, and respect.  That's why you are learning about the Golden Rule now, so you will always remember to treat other people that way you hope to be treated.  Do you understand?"  "Yes, Mommy."

Helpless that I can't stop it, wise enough to know I shouldn't, brave enough to encourage her forward, and strong enough to hide my own pain.  She's not the only one who has to be fortified...  

       

Observation

As I've stated, and elaborated on, in other posts, Nancy is an astute little thing.  She is always observing, always putting two-and-two together, and always articulating those things.  I wish I had a quarter for every time I said, "That's a good observation, Nance."  Here is a short list of Awesome Nancy Observations:

This past Tuesday, one of my coworkers and I were being driven to a radio interview, and Nancy was in the car with us.  Holly was telling us a story about her childhood pet quail who didn't like the color red.  The car turns a corner, and without missing a beat in the conversation, Nancy says, "Um, Miss Holly, that Toyota sign is red, so she wouldn't like that sign..."  Holly looked at me amused, and I said, "By the transitive property..."

When we arrived at the radio station, we passed a framed poster in the stairwell of Beatles album covers.  Nancy, at hefty volume, said, "Ooh!  The Beatles!" and then sang, "I am the eggman.  I am the eggman.  I am the walrus!  Coo coo cachoo!" The girl escorting us to the studio looked stunned, and I said, "We raised her right."

We put the I SPY franchise in her life a long while ago to put those powers of observation to good use.  The books, and then CD-Rom, and eventually for her Leapster.  When she was 3 1/2 and we were doing the CD-Rom game together, I was totally stumped.  We were supposed to be looking for a trunk, and I said, "I don't see a trunk anywhere in this picture."  Nancy grabs the mouse and says, "An elephant has a trunk..." clicks on the elephant statue in the game, and the music for "correct answer" plays as I shake my head in simultaneous offspring-pride and self-shame.

I was able to take her to New York City this time last year, and we traveled there by Megabus from Providence.  The last half-hour of the trip is all within the Manhattan city limits, and Nancy was glued to her view out the window.  She saw her first yellow taxi cab, and got very excited: "Mommy!  I sawded a yellow taxi cab!"  I said, "You'll see a lot of those..." but that did not quell her repeated excitement as she observed cab after cab.  I thought, Oh Lord, we're going to be jumped by the passengers on this bus if she keeps up this level of excitement with every taxi cab we pass...  But, fortunately, the taxi cab accumulation made an impression on her fairly quickly, and she turned to me and said, "Mommy, I am so surprised.  This place is amazing full of taxi cabs..."  Chuckles can be heard in a three-row radius. 

A few days ago, I showed Nancy a picture of a good friend from Florida whom she has not seen in over a year. I assumed she wouldn't remember him at all because of her young age, but, of course, was proven wrong. I showed her a picture of David holding his 5-month old son, and Nancy said, "He looks younger!" I thought she was talking about the baby, but before I could clarify, she continued, "He used to have a beard." 

Watching The Jeff Corwin Experience on Netflix. During the teaser footage, Nancy sees a bird and says, "Ooh! A harpy eagle!" When Jeff later confirms it is, in fact, a harpy eagle, I turned to Nancy in legitimate amazement. Mommy: "How did you know that was a harpy eagle?" Nancy: "Diego."

When we were at the United Center, waiting for the start of Disney on Ice, Nancy exclaimed, "Mommy! I saw a picture of a girl who looks like you!" I said, "Oh, yeah?" Nancy: " Yes! She had red lips like you, and brown hair like you, and pretty eyes like you!" Mommy: "Aw, honey, you are so sweet." She points to the scrolling ads at the United Center: "There she is!" It's a picture of Alicia Keys...  She wasn't even 5 and she knew the way to Mommy's heart... is through her ego :o) 

The way to Mommy's heart, is NOT, however, this:   I turned around to find Nancy's naked rear end facing me... I said, "Nancy! What are you doing?" Nancy: "Showing you my bottom." Me: "Why are you showing me your bottom...?" Nancy: "I wanted you to remember it."

In New York City, Nancy observed me trying to hail a cab, and then I observed Nancy trying to help me.

  

Listening

Nancy will inevitably bump into someone or something every time we go walking somewhere.  She either is dancing, or twirling, or head-in-the-clouds-ing, or jumping up and down, or pretending to be some type of animal, or talking, or any combination of those things.  But don't be fooled by what appears to be distraction.  She is LISTENING.

ALWAYS.

A month ago we were listening to some classic Big Band tunes, and at the conclusion of Rosemary Clooney's "Come on-a-My House," Nancy said, "Where does she live anyway?"  I said, "I dunno..." Nancy said, "She said she'll give you candy.  She should have told-ed us where she lives, too."

Once she has heard something, she has also RETAINED that something, and don't go and try pulling a fast one on her...  We borrowed a book of bear-themed songs and poems. One of them was to the tune of "Mary Had a Little Lamb." So you, the reader, were to sing "Mary had a little bear..." Nancy stopped me after one verse: "Mommy! The REAL Mary had a little LAMB, not a little bear... That's just confusing." 

She is a sponge for lyrics, as I've discovered raising her as the child of a musical theatre performer.  She saw Motherhood the Musical 10 times in 3 states during my off-and-on 2-years with the show.  We utter a swear word once in the show, sung quickly in a line: "She's gonna shop, gonna read all the shit she doesn't need."  One day, I overheard Nancy singing that song, leading up to that line.  I just stood there, not making any sudden moves...  And she sang, "She's gonna shop, gonna read all the shee-shee doesn't need."  Phew!  Still, she knew the whole show.  In the song "Grannyland," Amy's mom says, "What business is a Grandma in? (pause) YOURS!" At a performance at Trinity Rep in Providence, someone in the audience yelled out "Yours!" during the pause. And we chuckled backstage.  And then I learned ... it was Nancy.   

At the end of March of this year was our big trip to London and Paris.  The main impetus for the trip was to take Nancy to see Judi Dench in a play: Peter and Alice, by John Logan.  I felt so strongly about embracing this once in her lifetime chance to see Judi Dench perform live, that we booked the tickets 9 months in advance with absolutely NO information about the play.  Few moments of relief in my life parallel when I read the play description about a week out from the trip that said: "Running time: 90 minutes.  Performed without an interval."  I thought, Oh thank God, she can keep her attention on ANYTHING for 90 minutes.  Even still, the play is not children's theatre.  It is gorgeously written, and it was gorgeously executed in the London production.  But it is John Logan at the top of his game, firing on all cylinders... Complex, dark, light, wordy, silent, funny, serious, engaging... Mature.  And there we were on the 5th row, center stage. With a 4-year old.

Nancy was completely riveted.  She laughed when she was supposed to, she sucked her two "comfort / concentration" fingers watching the stage intensely, and she only spoke once in the whole show, in a whisper to me.  One of the characters mentions going to Paris with a friend for studies, and Nancy, who had just been in Paris the day before, whispered, "I went to Paris!"  When the show ended, I turned to her and said, "Nancy, what did you think of the show?" She said, "I thought it was AWESOME, but I really have to go to the potty..." Who knows how long she sat there with that feeling, but she wasn't about to disrupt us or the show.  We finished in the potty, and walked around to the stage door in back of the theatre to wait for the actors.  The show's title is a reference to Peter Pan and Alice in Wonderland.  Those two iconic characters of great literature were based on actual children the authors knew.  And the real-life inspirations, Peter Llewellyn Davis, and Alice Liddell Hargreaves, really met each other at a function, which begins John Logan's exploration of what they could have said to each other, what they had in common and what they didn't, how being a fantasy character affected their reality.  Those are the characters played by the marquee stars, Ben Wishaw and Judi Dench.  There are two actors in the play portraying the authors, and two actors portraying the iconic literary versions of Peter Pan and Alice in Wonderland.  And a utility player to round out auxiliary characters of significance from scene to scene.  So, behind the theatre after the show, Ben Wishaw came out through the stage door, and I said to Nancy, "The actor who played Peter just came outside."  Nancy said, "Peter Pan?" I said, "Nooo..." and I hesitated, because I didn't know how much of the show she grasped, so how to describe him accurately was alluding me.  But she took care of it for me.  In my momentary hesitation, she said, "Peter Davis?"

Sooo....  she was listening...

            "Peter Davis?" Note Nancy is blurry.  Because she is jumping up and down while talking.  See what I mean?

Resolve

I am currently working out of town, and Nancy is with me.  We decided it would be easier on all of us if she had a babysitter a few hours a day here than a full-time nanny back home.  And, for the most part, that is the case.  But it is difficult.  I am living the life of a single mom with an exhausting job, and Nancy doesn't have regular contact with other kids.  When I have time away from her, it's at work, and when she has time away from me, it's with the babysitter.  So we both struggle in our own ways with being depressed and trying to make the best of our situation.  After all, even when you are doing the right thing, or making the best possible choice, it doesn't result in perfection.  On the positive side, our time in this temporary home is affording us the chance to see new places, enjoy new experiences, and delve into brand new learning opportunities... like tonight's.

Nancy and I were at the table together before the babysitter arrived, and she says to me: 

"Mommy, sometimes, Erica and I argue." 

"How do you mean?"

"Well, sometimes she doesn't listen to me. So we argue."

"What have you argued about?"

"Well, I told-ed her it was okay for me to skip bath.  But she said I had to take a bath.  And that made me mad."

This is the first I am hearing about any of this.  I come home every night to a clean, sleeping child, an apartment that's still in one piece, and a babysitter with a smile on her a face who says "See you tomorrow," so I assume everything is fine...  I start to develop theories about why we're suddenly having this conversation.  First of all, I know my working nights is hard on her and she's five, so she is likely inventing reasons to be dissatisfied with her sitter in an attempt to keep me at home.  Secondly, my folks and her dad were just here for her birthday, so she had three nights in a row of being with, and being put to bed by, family.  Nobody competes with that.  So I have the feeling that this is an isolated incident, and Nancy's perspective of this incident is different from the babysitter's.  Still, I don't want to discount Nancy's feelings.  And this is a good chance to explore some conflict resolution.  So I continue the conversation:

"Have you told Miss Erica how you feel?"

"No..."

"Because, here's the thing, Nance.  Mommy has Miss Erica here to take care of you while I'm at work, and she is in charge.  So what she says goes.  And you are to treat her with respect.  But if you feel something because of something she did or said, you can tell her how you feel."

"She wasn't listening to me."

"Okay. But remember, just because you SAY something, doesn't mean it's going to happen..."

"And we argue." 

"Well, sometimes, arguments happen because of misunderstandings, and that's what sounds like happened.  If you knew it was okay to skip to bath, but she didn't know it was okay, it was just a misunderstanding."

Erica arrives right on time, and we exchange pleasantries and tell her about our Mother's Day adventures.  And then Nancy says, "When Mommy comes home for dinner, we all need to have a talk."

{silence}

Erica: "Okay..."

Nancy: "Because, sometimes, we argue."

Erica: "We do?"

Me: "Okay, Nancy, we..."

Nancy: "Yes."

Erica: (looking at me nervously) "I thought we were doing fine..."

Me: "Everything's fine!  I'm encouraging her to communicate her thoughts and feelings.  So, Nancy, we can all three have a talk when I come home for dinner if you want, that would be fine..."

Nancy: "Okay."

Erica: "...okay."

I leave Nancy and our shell-shocked babysitter and head off to work.  When I come back on my dinner break, the two of them are snuggled on the couch watching the movie Hairspray.  Erica had brought supplies for a mani-pedi, and Nancy is now sporting sparkly polish on her fingers and toes.  Nancy and I dance to the final song while dinner is in the oven, and we set the table, and we plate our supper, and sit down.  And a few bites in, Nancy says, "Soooo...  we need to talk."

Erica: "Okay..." 

Nancy: "Sometimes, when you don't listen to me, and we argue, it makes me feel mad."

Erica: "I know, you said that before.  When have we argued?"

Me: "Nancy mentioned a night when she told you she could skip bath but you said she needed to take one."

Erica: "Oh, yeah.  That did happen."

Nancy: "I told-ed you I could skip bath but you said I had to take a bath and I was mad and I threw a little fit and then I took a bath."

Me: "She threw a fit?"

Erica: "A tiny one.  I've dealt with way worse.  And she took a bath and that was the end of it..."

Nancy: "My mommy says sometimes people argue because of misunderstandings."

Erica: "Yes, that's true.
Me: "And, Nancy, remember I said Erica is here to take care of you when I'm at work.  And taking a bath is part of getting ready for bed.  So if I told you it was okay to skip bath, but I forgot to tell Erica, that is my fault for not communicating, and I apologize to both of you."

Nancy: "Okay.  Mommy, you pretend you are Nancy, and Erica, you pretend that you are Nancy's babysitter, and Nancy tell Erica how you feel."

Me: (did she seriously just set up a role play??) "Honey, we don't need to do that, I think we've talked and have resolved our situation.  If you have something come up in the future, Miss Erica can text me for clarification, and if I can't respond at that moment, whatever she says, goes.  Because she's in charge.  And you are always welcome to tell us how you are feeling."

Nancy: "Okay.  I will.  Thanks, Mom."

Me: "And, Nance.  You know what?  You are learning skills that some grown-ups haven't mastered, for when you need to resolve something."

Erica: "Yeah, you could teach some of my friends some stuff."

Nancy: "Is it okay if I skip bath tonight?"

Me: "Yes.  You may skip bath tonight."

We spent the rest of our dinner conversation discussing fancy words to replace vague feelings descriptors - I said "mad" was not very specific.  "Frustrated" and "Exasperated" were offered as alternatives. Later that night, with Nancy in bed, I thanked Erica for her participation in this exercise.  I felt very strongly that Nancy's feelings should be treated as valid, no matter what is going on in her world to originate them.  But she needs to learn that the key to a resolve is communication.  I gave Erica my theories for what caused this sudden need to revisit that bath time incident, and reassured Erica that if things like that continued, I would address it in another manner.  But for now...

Me: "I am raising a pretty amazing little human."

Erica: "Yes, you are."

    

     

        

Food

Nancy is staggeringly observant, hyper-aware, and has an incredible memory.  She is also rapidly honing her negotiation skills, stubborn, and a completely unadventurous eater.  Last week, she told the babysitter she doesn't like peanut butter and jelly because "My Mommy made-ed me a peanut butter and jelly sandwich when I was in preschool in Florida and I didn't like it."  That was August of 2011...  Nothing will sway her to give it another try.  Same with chicken pot pies - she was apparently traumatized by a sub-par microwavable pot pie and refuses to try even restaurant or homemade versions.  She went through a phase of only eating chicken nuggets if they were shaped like dinosaurs.  Didn't matter if it was the same brand, if it was shaped like anything BUT a dinosaur, it was not getting eaten.  

The thing that gets me is the unwillingness to admit the lapse in logic between "I don't like it." "Well, have you tried it?" "No." THEN HOW CAN YOU SAY THAT?!?!?!  

After a relentless rotation of mac and cheese, hot dogs, dinosaur chicken nuggets, and pizza, I was forced to resort to a few instances of clever semantics to gain us some culinary flexibility...

"Mommy, what is this?" "Pastitsio.  That's Greek for 'lasagna'." 

"Mommy, what is this?" "Quesadilla.  That's Spanish for 'grilled cheese'."

"Mommy, what is this?" "Pad Thai.  It's just orange spaghetti..."

Her picky eating must be thwarted, so when she started preschool in Chicago, and it was at a school where breakfast, lunch, and snack were provided for all the kids, I decided I was going to force her to eat the free food to simultaneously combat her finicky eating and give our grocery bill some relief.  About a month in, she asked again if she could bring her own lunch, and I said no.  I reassured her that whatever they served would be good for her.  We got to the school, looked at the calendar, and the meal listed for the day was grilled cheese.  I turned to her triumphantly and said, "See, Nancy?  Grilled cheese!  I told you you'd like it."  Only... apparently the school lunch calendar is "subject to change."  And they did not serve them grilled cheese that day.  They served burritos.  And Nancy was none too pleased.  The next morning, I go into her room to wake her up at 6am.  As usual, I gently nudge her, and sweetly coo things like, "Morning, beautiful!  Time to get up, sweet pea..."  The very first - THE VERY FIRST - words out of her mouth to me were:  "Mommy, be careful with the school lunch.  Slooooooowly read the words..." 

And yet, in this swirl of limited choices and dining battles, food centers around some of her most staggeringly funny moments of creativity...  

I let Nancy play with her food. Call me irresponsible, but I am not about to stifle her creativity just because we're at the dining room table. And then I get to enjoy moments like when she bit two strategic bites out of half of a hard boiled egg and announced, "Look, Mommy! I made underpants!" And when she put her gummy vitamin shaped like a princess in her mouth, and every few chews, opened her mouth so the princess' cries for help could escape.

A year ago today, she debuted a "magic" trick for me. Holding two pretzel sticks, Nancy said, "Mommy, I'm gonna disappear this. Close your eyes." (Mommy closes her eyes, hears "CRUNCH CRUNCH CRUNCH" of pretzels being eaten.) Nancy: "Okay, open your eyes! (shows Mommy her empty hands) Where'd they go?!"   

This past March, we had a pizza party, and Nancy ordered a side of veggies. She took a cauliflower, held it against her teeth, and looked at me. I looked at her quizzically, and she said, "Camouflage."

Nancy quote, February 6, 2012: "Cupcakes are medicine to feel me better."

The F-Word

During the summer after Nancy turned 4, I had my first truly complex parenting moment.  It was astonishing to me how quickly SO many thoughts flooded my head in the mere seconds it took me to react and respond, and how that response would come nowhere near encapsulating all the complexity that went into making it.   

Nancy has letter dice, and we were creating words with short vowel sounds. We had "at" on the floor, putting different starting letters down and sounding out the new words. M-at, C-at, B-at... and I put down F. "F... at. FAT! (big gasp of realization) Mommy - you're fat!"

{gulp}

This child worships the ground I walk on. She is also saying this to me at age 4, not age 14... I tell myself not to take it personally. Because I realize: I haven't taught her that being fat is "bad." To her, being fat is the opposite of being thin. It is how Dr. Seuss portrays fat - it is nothing more than a descriptor. Society has assigned judgment to that descriptor, but she is not aware of that yet.

However, at the same time, I recognize that I am expected by society to introduce her to the social morays to which we are expected to adhere. At some point, she has to be told that "we don't say that about people," or else she'll observe someone (and believe me, she observes...), and state that observation loud and clear, and that person may not be as prepared as me to shrug it off.

So if I decide to instruct her in this moment that we don't tell people they are fat, how do I do that without A) making her feel like she just did something bad or hurt Mommy's feelings, and B) without starting the mental conditioning that being fat is something to be ashamed of. Hopefully, she'll metabolize like her dad, but what if she got my genes? If I could wave a magic wand and guarantee one thing for her, it would be that she would never struggle with self-image as badly as I did. And when I was growing up, there was no internet...  Now there's cyber-bullying, social media, people's ability to say cruel, dismissive, hurtful things with a few keystrokes behind the protection of anonymity... How amazing would it be if she could just continue to accept herself just the way she is her whole life. If weight IS just another descriptor, with no judgment.

Why couldn't it have been ANY other descriptor? She could say I'm tall, I'm brunette, hell, even that I'm pale - this ONE thing about me has a stigma. And she did nothing wrong. By comparison, especially to the other moms she encounters, yes, I am fat. According to the health insurance company that rejected me for coverage, I'm obese. But through many painful years, I somehow reached a place of self-acceptance, hence my daughter not knowing being fat is supposed to be bad. But of all the things converging on me at once, what won? Social morays.

And I said, "Honey, we don't tell people they are fat." And she burst into tears. 

She looked around frantically, and quickly said, "Mommy! My big toe is fat..."

Seeing her sensitivity broke my heart.  Hearing her try to justify that it was JUST a descriptor made me feel terrible.  I was mad at society for allowing weight to be an "acceptable prejudice" necessitating this kind of teaching moment, and I really contemplated what it meant that social conditioning won the battle in the moment.  I reassured her that everything was okay and she hadn't done anything wrong.  And we branched into creating sentences with our letter dice.    

I remembered back to the Christmas when she was 1 1/2 years old, and without hesitation, she had recognized me in two photographs that were a good 75 pounds of weight variance.  Not only was I recognizable to her at both sizes, she saw me with the exact same love and enthusiasm: "Mommy!" and "Mommy!" not (skinny) "Mommy!" and (larger) "(tsk) mommy..."  Weight being just another descriptor with no judgment is how we all begin, and it is conditioned out of us, and that "us" as a group becomes Society.  Each member of a new generation has the power to change that equation.  Which made me realize: the teaching moment here today was not me teaching her.  It was the other way around.

Making sentences with our letter dice.

Words, words, words

One of my favorite things about Nancy is her eagerness to use an expansive vocabulary and communicate with as much flourish as possible.  She is blissfully influenced by Fancy Nancy, the wonderful character created by Jane O'Connor, and I have encouraged that from the beginning.  Nancy loves to add the addendum, "That's a fancy word for _______" when she has just selected a word with great purpose.  We are still working on the repercussions of her having grasped the concept of past-tense before earning the vocabulary to do so - so she adds "-ed" to EVERYTHING.  "I made-ed this for you."  "We had-ed a snack." "I saw-ded a bunny!" "Remember when I save-ded the day?"  Regardless, she is a stunning verbal communicator, and listening to her go on and on about anything will amuse, bemuse, impress, and exhaust you all at once.

As is the case for most parents, I derive great joy from my child's word mix-ups ("I want to learn to jungle THREE balls!"), mispronunciations ("I sneeze-ded.  Can I have a twoshoe?"), and the surprise word selections she'll make ("(sips some water from a fancy tea cup): Mommy, I feel GLORIOUS!").  Here are my top six Nancy Word Moments since the start of this year:

4/8/13 - We made cards for Nancy's classmates to say goodbye, and I was working off an old class list. Mommy: "Next is Hrida."
Nancy: "(somberly shakes her head) No, Mommy, she passed away."
Mommy: "(taken aback, but assuming I would have heard this news before...) I don't think she's passed away, Nance."
Nancy: "Yes she did. That's a fancy word for leaving."

 4/1/13 - Daddy: "Did you tell your class about seeing the Eiffel Tower?"
Nancy: "No, I was feeling shy..."
Mommy: "You were what?"
Nancy: "I'm just kidding! April Accident!"

3/8/13 - Apparently, Nancy liked Luke's friend in STAR WARS... Olee on Cannoli. It is almost cruel how many times we've made her repeat it for our amusement.

2/28/13 - We're at Great Clips for Nancy's haircut, and she complimented the kid who finished before her: "I like your hair style. That's fancy for hair-looking."

1/16/13 - Nancy sometimes repeats things as she has misheard them. Tonight she melted my heart with her mix-up, obviously mishearing "to serve." I came out to the table and she had dished up the food onto my plate for me. I said, "Aw, thank you, honey!" She said, "You're welcome. At school we deserve ourselves, and I wanted deserve you."

1/8/13 - Mommy and Nancy, working on a sticker mosaic together, and Mommy goes before it is her "turn." 
Nancy: "Mommy! You need to wait your turn!" 

Mommy: "I'm sorry, I thought I had." 

Nancy: "If you don't wait your turn again, you're going down." 

Mommy: "... Excuse me?" 

Nancy: "If you don't wait your turn again, you're going down." 

Mommy: "Nancy, that is not a nice thing to say to me." 

Nancy: "Ms. Weiss (her teacher) says it." 

Mommy: "How does she say it?" 

Nancy: "If you make a bad choice, you go down from 'Yippee Yellow' to 'Uh Oh Orange' and if you make more bad choices, you go all the way down to 'Bad Day Blue'." 

Mommy: "Ah. Sorry, I misunderstood you." 

Nancy: "How did you misunderstood me?" 

Mommy: "It means... something else outside of schoo... Is it my turn yet?"

Interestingly enough, the word for an item that became iconic with her was omitted from her early vocabulary.  In October of last year, she and I and my mom were driving to the mall, in final preparations for moving from Florida to Chicago.  I said, "We're going to the mall to get you a coat."  Nancy said, in earnest, "What's a coat?"  

Nancy in her iconic pink coat in front of the Eiffel Tower.

Smarts

Every parent thinks their child is smart.  And in so many ways, every parent is right.  Early development is truly remarkable.  Watching a brand new human being open their eyes to the world, absorb it, react to it, and then interact with it and eventually manipulate it is, in my opinion, one of the greatest blessings of parenthood.  One day, your baby goes from crying to communicate primal needs to figuring out the triangle toy fits through the triangle-shaped opening all by themselves...  Genius!

As Nancy's development continued beyond shape sorting, we began to suspect we had a smart child on our hands.  For real.  When she was 2 1/2, we were playing with a toy that featured six instruments from the orchestra.  It had sliders for each so you could customize the levels and the blend of instruments in various pieces of classical music.  Well...  MOMMY was playing with the toy...  Nancy was busy with something else that I guess I decided in that moment was not enough of a brain-stimulator for my wee genius.  So I was trying to direct her attention to this toy.  I pointed to an instrument and said, "Nancy, what instrument is this?"  (no response) "That's a violin.  Nancy, what instrument is this?" (no response) "That's a clarinet.  What - " and a little voice interrupted me.  "No, Mommy.  Dat a oboe."

(silence.  Mommy checks the toy closer...)  That was indeed an oboe...

When it came time for potty training, being smart and even grasping the concept did not equate to readiness.  I was soooo ready - I read all the stuff on the stuff you do and we had a SYSTEM.  And I took 2-year old Nancy and showed her the beautiful hand-made potty chart I crafted and said, "Alright.  You get one star for sitting on the potty.  You get two stars for going peepee on the potty.  You get three stars for going poopoo on the potty.  And then we'll count up the stars and you'll get treats!  Do you understand?"  She said, "Get de staw, and get de staw, and get de staw, and get de treat."  My eyes bugged out of my head.  I grinned ear to ear.  "YES!  That's right!  Can you show Mommy how you sit on the potty?"  Nancy said, "No" and turned and walked out of the bathroom.

Speaking of bathrooms...  There was February 10, 2012.  The day Nancy's smarts saved the day.  Literally.

Nancy and I were home together and it was time to get her ready for bed.  I really had to go to the bathroom, and we had two bathrooms in the house, so I left Nancy unclothed in her bathroom to use the potty while I ran into mine.  I shut the door, went to the bathroom, washed my hands, grabbed the doorknob, and it broke.  Locking me in the bathroom.  With my 3 1/2 year old naked and unattended in the house.  I quickly searched the bathroom and could find nothing to jimmy at the door.  I jiggled the handle, stepped away from the door and came back to it like maybe I was just an idiot who couldn't operate a doorknob, but nope.  The internal mechanism had broken and I was not getting out of that bathroom.  So I called for Nancy.  She came to the door and said, "Yes. Mommy?"  I said, "Nancy, I need you to listen to me very carefully and do what I say, okay?"  "Okay."  "Do you see Mommy's phone on the table by the bed?"  "Yes."  "I need you to get the phone and bring it to the door."  Nancy unplugged the phone from the charger, and came back to the door.  I asked her to try and slide it under the door.  It wouldn't fit...  I concentrated very hard on visualizing my smartphone, and how to explain operating it to someone who can't read, and began talking her through various steps.  She successfully unlocked the screen, and I got her to a menu where she could see a picture of Daddy and touch the picture to dial him.  He didn't answer his phone.  Twice.  She touched something that made that menu go away, but brought up the keypad.  And I talked her through dialing my parent's phone number, one digit at a time.  With each number I spoke through the door, I am thinking this is never going to work.  And then I hear her talking on the phone.  My mom answered the phone but chatted with her for a minute, thinking she had dialed them for fun, and hung up.  So I successfully talked her through getting to the call history and she called my folks back.  And I quickly told her what to say.  And this very calm 3 1/2 year old says to my folks, "We have a emergency.  Mommy is stuck in the bathroom."  I had assurance they were on the way (luckily living 5-minutes away), and I sunk to the floor and leaned against the door.  I kept Nancy next to the door with me by exchanging Knock Knock Jokes with her.  She was in a phase of making up her own Knock Knock Jokes, inspired by things around her.  "Knock Knock."  "Who's there?"  "Lamp."  "Lamp who?"  "Lamp the telephone!  bwwwaahhhhhhh!!!" My parents arrived, and broke me out of my bathroom prison with a nail file and my dad's pocket fishing tool.  As the door opens, and I hug Nancy, I realize...  she's wearing a nightgown.  I said, "Did you get that yourself?" glancing at my mom.  She said yes, and my mom added, "She was dressed when we came in."  Nancy then threw her hands up in the air and said, "I need to get a family picture!"  She came back in the room with her kid's digital camera, and said, "Say cheese!"

Almost a year to the day later, I recounted this exchange in a Facebook status:  Nancy is learning about animals that migrate as opposed to hibernate, and yesterday, they learned about salmon. Mommy: "Salmon is also very delicious to eat and is good for your brain." Nancy: "I keep remembering in Florida when you were stuck in the bathroom and I call-ded Grandma and Grandpa and save-ded the day." Mommy: "... What made you think of that?" Nancy: (pointing to her head) My fishy brain."

I try not to get ahead of myself and dread things way down the line, like the peer pressure not to be smart, and the likelihood of both an increased penchant for mischief and possession of master negotiating skills.  I have plenty to combat in the moment.  Like her bent towards bossiness.  This past October, at age 4 1/2, we had been living with my folks for a while, and she was very comfortable with that as her home.  I heard her taking what I felt was a disrespectful tone with my mom, saying, "NO, Grandma, you're 'posed to..." I said, "No, ma'am.  You do not talk to Grandma that way.  Please go apologize."  She burst into tears, turned to my mom, and said, "I'm sorry Grandma. (pause) It's just that you're wrong..."

So for the time being, we are erring on the side of confidence with her.  The world will do plenty to knock her down, so hopefully, if she starts up really high, the knocks won't be as detrimental.  I think it is working thus far.  Back in January, Nancy had a lengthy conversation with the woman at the JoAnn check-out.  As we exited the store, Nancy said, "She liked my name!"  I said, "Well, your name IS lovely.  She also said you were smart."  Nancy replied, "Yes, but EVERYONE says that..."

                                             Nancy's photo of us after she "save-ded the day."

Welcome

To those of you who have been gently suggesting, forcefully nudging, or bludgeoningly berating me for this... you're welcome.

To anyone else who may have stumbled on this blog, you're Welcome :o)

In a matter of days, my daughter will be turning 5, and if the years to come are anything like the years that have been, we are in for a ride.  She is a "one and done," off-spring of two working professionals in the entertainment industry.  An old soul with a tremendous facility for language, and a wicked sense of humor, she has astonished me with the things that come out of her mouth (and mind) since she was first able to communicate.

At 18-months of age, she received a turtle night light that projected stars on the walls and ceiling.  She turned it on and off and on and off and on, stepped back, looked around and said, "Wow..." Throwing both arms in the air, and slapping them on her thighs, she added, "Amazing!"  Just shy of her 2nd birthday, playing with HAMLET finger puppets, I held up Hamlet and said, "Who is this?"  Nancy said, "Hammet!" I asked, "And what does Hamlet say?" and she replied, "To be-ah-to be."  I placed Hamlet and Ophelia on my fingers and Hamlet told Ophelia, "Get thee to a nunnery!"  Nancy said, "Nooo!," yanked Hamlet from my finger, and threw him across the room.  Two months into preschool at age 3, she could write her name on her own.  On November 19, 2011, I recounted this exchange in a Facebook status:  Mommy: "Nancy, can you write your name on this paper for me?" Nancy: "No thanks, Mommy. There are no "N"s in this pen."

This past winter was Nancy's first in Chicago, and she experienced it bundled in a bright pink coat with a neck frill, which is iconic now in the family photos.  It always made it particularly priceless when she would, while wearing said coat, get something pink, and say, with genuine amazement, "How did you know pink was my favorite color?"    

Her other identifying accessory is Buhbuh.  Buhbuh is a doll, which Nancy will be quick to correct you is ACTUALLY a love bug, that was given to her at birth by her grandma.  Her attachment to it is mighty, and Buhbuh is now a doll only its mother could love.  Thread-bare, Buhbuh has doll clothes pants sewn on over her legs to contain the breach in her... breeches.  Buhbuh has already had a complete stuffing transfusion, now sporting fluff we pilfered from an unsuspecting Build-a-Bear.  The varnish on her plastic face has been rubbed, resulting in the embarrassing appearance of blackface.  But Buhbuh is FAMILY.  Part best buddy, part pillow, and part scapegoat... About 6 months ago, we're walking to the bus for school, and she starts singing a song she is making up as we go:  "My Mommy is the most beautiful and she is smart, too..." Mommy: "Aw, Nance! I like that song!" Nancy: "It wasn't me. That was Buhbuh singing..." Mommy: "Who is Buhbuh's Mommy?" Nancy: "I am."

In addition to clear verbal skills, she is an already gifted artist and avid photographer, so we are very fortunate to see the world from her perspective so clearly.  And I hope you will enjoy seeing it through her eyes, too.  Because, let me tell you, it is a joyful thing.  At the beginning of this year, donning her pink coat, Nancy was waving as we were waiting for the bus at the cars passing by.  She wasn't getting any return waves, and dejectedly, she said to me, "Mommy, no one is waving at me.  I think they don't like me..."  I said, "No, honey...  Sweetie, sometimes, grown-ups forget their joy, like little kids have.  But maybe, if they see you wave, it will give them some of that joy back, so you should just keep waving."  And she did.  While we waited.  And from her seat on the bus.  And finally, someone noticed her and smiled.  Nancy said, "Mommy!!  That man has joy in his heart!  He smiled-ed at me!"

May our little SheNANCYgans put joy in your heart and a smile on your face.

 (Daddy, Nancy, Mommy and Buhbuh on a sunshiny day, under Nancy and Buhbuh-shaped clouds)