God Help the Racist Nut

The world is a bit nutty right now.

I suppose it's always been nutty. It just feels a bit more desperate and dismal than normal.

There's also a whole lot of hope spreading, and I rely on that feeling whenever I'm hit with waves of panic or anxiety that we'll be subject to four more years of greed-based leadership. Seeing all the political mud slinging these days prompts me to tighten the reigns around my own belief system. It also makes me question my previously optimistic view of my fellow Americans.

I'm not totally naive. I know bigots are still out there. I guess I just hoped that this crud wasn't this deep. I guess I wanted to believe that most folks would rather hold love in their hearts than harbor such raw anger and fear.

I realized today that the divisiveness of some of this campaign, nearly wholly rooted in "the other side," has become deeply troublesome to me because of how it's impacted how I feel about others. In the last four weeks, I've seen the hate-fueled snippets on YouTube of angry mobs of extremists screaming hateful and bigoted epitaphs. I'm assuming my reaction is that of most educated people - Oh my goodness. We're doomed. If this is what lies beneath the surface of our country, we're totally and thoroughly doomed.

So I huff and puff about all this and vent to my husband about such bigoted ignorance and how we need this change and how we can't let these narrow minded racists get the better of us. We have to change the way we parent and educate as a nation so that people aren't raised to believe it's acceptable to believe such racist lies. This is all good, but I notice I'm starting to use their speech. Us vs. Them. And I realize I've fallen prey to the petty but powerful divisive strategies in this grand political theatre.

I write about all this to vent but to also admit my own shortcomings in all this. While I consciously attempt to live my life with an open heart and loving curiosity of those who are different, I'm having the darndest time finding love in my heart for the racist jerk wad screaming "Commie Fag" at a political rally. How am I supposed to offer a cup of tea to an irate women blathering on about terrorism when she has ALL of her "facts" wrong? Honestly, I don't want to associate with these folks. I don't want to know them. I don't want to hear them. And I really don't want my daughter hanging out with the likes of them.

So this is my dilemma. I want to raise Stella with an open mind. I want her to lead with her heart (and a healthy dose of brains) as she interacts with those who may appear or believe differently. I want her to willingly pursue encounters and ideas that make her uncomfortable in order to expand her experience of the world. I want her to know that she is not the center of universe, and the world is vast and rich.

But God Help the Racist Nut Who Comes Near My Child.

Yup, you heard it. Back off, all bigots. Lay off, ignorant racists! Fierce Lefty Mama Bear is here the protect the young.

Oh, I wish it were this easy.

So am I any better than the folks at these rallies? I've certainly written them off as wackos. I really think they may destroy the country. I want nothing to do with them. Hmmmm. I don't know. I think I am better. And this puts me in the awkward position of not exactly practicing what I preach. Or does it? Does moronic bigotry pretty much exempt you from the Love Train altogether? Should it? Or am I supposed to offer them a seat with even more enthusiasm because of it all? I'm going to need a whole lot of help if it's the latter.

Explaining to a child the subtle but oh-so-important difference between accepting that others may hold abhorrent (and falsely based) views and accepting those views as viable or tolerable is going to be tough. It's so tempting to try to protect Stella from all this crud. And I can right now. That's the beauty of raising a toddler. You realize that the world continues around you, in all its politically charged glory, but what matters right now is mastering the art of climbing a chair or chasing the cats with a feather duster. My job, right now, is to push her on that swing as long as she wants. We are, however, going to have to explain this world to her at some point. I'm actually confident we'll do a decent job, but this whole experience has forced me to accept that I really am quite different than those folks. We all love our kids and work hard at our jobs. But at the end of the day, I would and could never spread such hatred.

I guess that's what I want to ask these folks. Are you comfortable spreading this junk in front of your kids? If the answer is no, then they have some good ol' introspection to tackle. If the answer is yes.... I have no answer if the answer is yes. I just know I feel more and more comfortable drawing a line in the sand between me and them on this one.

I'm pretty sure my guy is going to win, and I feel elated at the thought that hope and integrity will assume their proper place in American leadership. We've missed those two buggers sorely. But to counteract the sobering nature of realizing my own helplessness as a parent, I looked to external sources for help. I know. I know. Buying a crunchy love-you-brothers-and-sisters children's book doesn't solve all the world's problems. It sure does make me feel a bit of hope though. I already love the illustrations, and the message is left-aliscious and loving.

My Intrepid Scout

My girl is an intrepid scout. She explores, investigates and examines faster than anyone I've ever encountered. She is definitively precocious and possesses a confidence in her adventures I, as an adult woman, envy and admire. Her middle name, after all, is Scout.

My husband and I have remarked several times over the last fifteen months how she seemed to name herself in this department. Yes, we wanted her to be a curious and compassionate leader, unafraid to walk her own path and to champion those in need. We've talked about how we will encourage this part of her identity as she grows. But we're very aware that she's already got this in her. She's already a Scout and she's barely just begun.

The picture above cracks me up. I take Stella to the park almost daily. She knows our neighborhood playground almost as well as our house. It's her digs, man, and she'll show you around with pleasure. What cracks me up is her sense of poise and confidence as she tromps through the grand expanses of what would be to most a very large park. Stella simply starts walking. She goes for it. And before I know it, she's on the other side of a block-long park without hesitation. In fact, she seems to be on a mission of sorts.

(I know it's tough to see her in these shots. She's so tiny. That's the point: she's SO tiny!)


She could be walking to walk. She might just be enjoying the freedom of running around in the crisp fall air. She may be looking for something fun to hold or examine. In any case, she's off and running before I know it.

And as long as she's safe, I let her.

I really can't hold this one back. I've tried, and I always end up chasing a determined kid in a way that makes me look and feel like an overly paranoid first-time mama. (And I proudly admit to that status on most accounts.)

All of this makes me realize the differences between what I thought it would be like to raise an independent and spirited child and what it's really like. One of my daily mantras is "Nurture and encourage her, Katherine, not some textbook version of your child." Stella the Scout indeed.

This usually comes easy. But I have moments where I fall prey to fretful anxiety. I worry that she'll feel the harsh criticism of those who fear natural leaders. I worry that I might give her too much space to explore and she'll feel disconnected or unsafe. Mainly, I just worry she'll get hurt.

I guess that's the deal with parenting. Beneath all that worry is my legitimate question of whether I will equip my child with the necessary skills to get up and brush herself off after she stumbles. Because she will stumble. And in many ways, I sort of want her to stumble. Not yet, of course. She's got plenty of time for all that. But I know the biggest and best lessons I've learned in life - the ones that have really stuck - stem from my many stumbles.

Intellectually I get all this. But I still worry she'll get hurt.

And then I see her walking in that park again. She's still cracking me up, all bravado and fervor. But then she looks back for a quick check-in.

Yup, Mama is still there. Forge on.

She reminds me of my role from a distance but with grace and finesse.

I Didn't Bake Any Bread Today

I've been reading a lot of mama blogs lately and am consistently amazed by how motivated and energetic my fellow mamas of the world are in their daily lives. They appear to engage in hands-on mothering while crafting, reading, publishing, preserving, cooking and socializing. These are amazing women that inspire me to greater heights as a mother and an individual.

So how come I often walk away from these blogs feeling inadequate or sub par? Is it because I don't bake bread each morning? Is it because fabric that I keep meaning to sew into pillows sits placidly on my couch like crumpled little cat nests? Is it because I tend to fall asleep every time I start reading a parenting book? Is it because I simply can't hack it enough to be super crafty with one child while all these women do it with three and four kids?

In my heart of hearts, I know that I am a good mom. In fact, I think I'm better than good. I'm a really good mom. I am thoughtful, conscious and creative when it comes to the challenges of parenting a fifteen month old. But I still feel less than superb when I look back on each day. And this is just plain silly.

I'm very aware that nobody is perfect. And I've spent countless years working on overcoming my woefully inherited perfectionist gene. But it's still tough to challenge that feeling of inadequacy when standing in admiration of others. Especially others who seem to effortlessly and seamlessly master what you struggle with day to day.

I guess I wish it was more acceptable to simply announce that some days in this mothering gig are really hard. They frankly suck. And the thought of baking bread or mending my toddler's pants while she's teething with a vengeance is beyond absurd. Most of my days revolve around Stella's needs and her desires. Without a doubt, she's the most challenging coworker I've ever encountered, and I often find myself perched on top of a pile of laundry that's been sitting in my living room for three days reading Curious George to a clingy kid.

Having said all this, I wouldn't trade these long days for anything. We have more good days than bad. And I say this genuinely rather than trying to find the silver lining. In fact, there really isn't any truly bad stuff. It's just hard stuff. So the thought of heaping more expectations on myself makes me giggle with delirium.

I realize most of the mama blogs I'm reading are written by women with children who have passed this intense phase of toddlerhood. As my friend Anne says, our job as mothers of toddlers is basically to act as a bodyguard - both physical and emotional - to this little being twenty four hours a day for about three years. I also recognize that these blogging mamas also have really tough days. Mamas everywhere assure me that things get easier. That there will be time for baking and sewing and all that crafty goodness. I have to trust them. And I have to forgive myself for letting that laundry pile sit another day because I frankly need to just linger on the couch with my husband, watch a mediocre movie as the peanut sleeps and fall asleep before 9pm.

I wish I could tackle more. But for now, I simply look forward to the days when Stella and I can embark on baking and crafting adventures together, and I focus on showing more compassion for myself for simply being a really good mom.

Did She Just Call Me A Homemaker?

I often complain that I'm never included in any of these polls we so often hear about during an election year. It seems like those polls take place in some faraway hamlet on the other side of the country, involving folks living very different lives than me and my neighbors.

(Of course, since the current polls reflect my own political stance and party, I am not too peeved about all this right now. But when those polls reflect what seems to be totally foreign, I often question their accuracy. I know, not too fair on my part.)

So I was finally polled last night.

When I realized what was happening, I sat down with great enthusiasm and told The Polite Lady I had all the time in the world for her. My husband was bathing my daughter, and the nightly house sweep could wait. I was ready. Rock and poll, baby. Rock and poll.

We covered countless questions about my political affiliations, opinions and beliefs. It was all very interesting. I felt vindicated that I was finally being "represented" in some way in one of these surveys. Democracy in action, indeed.

When it came time for The Polite Lady to ask me what I do for a living, I didn't skip a beat. I told her I was a full-time mom right now, putting my teaching career on hold to raise my family.

Important Note: I've been working on this response ever since my daughter was born. It seems I've struggled quite a bit with my decision to stay home with my daughter. Let me clarify. I've actually never questioned my desire to be home with Stella. It feels right, and my husband and I have prepared for this financially for many years. We've been privileged and worked hard to make the choices we've made. I have, however, struggled with the judgment I sense from others when I tell them I am still "not working." Rather than delve into a defensive stance about all this, I'll just say when a neighbor recently asked me "What do you do all day long?" I took a deep breath, smiled and said "I spend all day keeping up with the most complex co-worker I've ever had in my life." Judgment be gone.

So there. I answered The Polite Lady without hesitation. I felt proud of myself. Even smug. Yeah, Katherine. That's one more step toward self-acceptance and all that is woo woo.

And then she said this:

Oh! So you're a homemaker!

It's almost like she had belched into the phone. I had no idea how to respond. I started to laugh. A homemaker? Me? Good heavens, no! I'm a feminist. I'm a liberal. I'm a radical. I'm a woman who stays at home to care for her child, cook dinner, look after the cats, pay the bills, clean the house, do the laundry....

Oh crap. I am a homemaker.

After gathering myself as best I could, I graciously answered the rest of The Polite Lady's questions and thanked her for calling me. Sweet, lefty liberal homemaker that I am.

But I couldn't shake this feeling that I'd been pummeled with a rabid insult. Don't get me wrong. The Polite Lady doled out this label with great admiration and kindness. She pronounced the word as if it were the most important job in the world. But it stung nonetheless.

I couldn't shake it.

So I asked my mother-in-law and good friend - both homemakers - what they thought of this title yesterday over tea. All three of our responses were visceral. It's as if many women who have chosen this path feel misrepresented by the very words our culture use to describe us. Why is this? What's the big deal?

I suspect it has something to do with being labeled in general. Because, as most of us intimately know, none of us are wholly or singly one identity. We come from multiple sources, and we live multiple lives. And no, I'm not talking about Sybil here.

My challenge with all of this is how I define myself. My choices sit well with me. I know in my heart that what I'm doing right now as a full-time mama is what I need and want to be doing, just like I know many of my mama friends who intellectually and emotionally need to work outside of the home. And yes, many must work. I'm acutely aware of my privilege as far as being able to make the choices I've made. Lucky mama, for sure.

But I still don't know what to call myself. I often use the term full-time mama, but that is problematic as well. It's not like working moms aren't exactly full-time. I imagine they think about and work for their kids all day long; it's just different. So I'm stuck using a variety of labels that don't really fit but sorta kinda communicate bits and pieces of who I am right now.

In talking and writing about this, I recognize I often find answers to my questions by imagining how I'll explain all this to Stella. I want to explain to her how we often label others (and ourselves) wrongly. That those labels can sometimes be helpful, but they can also be limiting. That it's important to make choices that make you happy regardless of what others think. That doing what you do with love, conviction and passion matters more than your preconceived notions of who you will or should become. Most importantly, that it is an absolute necessity to live your life without apology.

Rock-A-Dee-Da

My Mom used to sing to us when we hurt ourselves.

That's what good moms do. They sing us through tough moments.

What's funny to me now, as I embark on my second year of mama-hood, is the actual song my mother always sang to me. I spent the first twenty years of my life believing that this song, a song that instantaneously soothed and comforted me as a child and as an adult, was a song that every mother sang to their child. It was a universal in my world.

My mom sang this song to my older siblings, to me and to my nieces. And now she and I sing this song to my daughter.

It wasn't until I was about twenty that I mentioned the song to a roommate of mine. I was experiencing a tough spell, and I remember saying something like, "Yeah, you know, it's like I need someone to sing Rock-A-Dee-Da to me even though I'm in college." She delivered a blank stare. Our shared moment evaporated. It's as though I spoke another language.

I humorously assumed that because my parents grew up on the east coast, my friend's ignorance of such a classic stemmed from mere dialectal and regional differences. Even though I essentially grew up in the Pacific Northwest, I said things like soda instead of pop, valise instead of suitcase. There must be some sort of northwest equivalent to Rock-a-Dee-Da.

I sang the song to my friend, hoping she would immediately recognize the tune and suddenly understand exactly what I meant.

See Saw, Rock-a-Dee-Da.
Who's there? My Katherine.

(No glimmer of recognition yet. Give her more, she'll get it.)

What would you like? A glass of beer?

(Hmmmm. This is strange. Why did this comfort me? Really. Who sings about buying a glass of beer to a child?)

Where's your money? In your pocket?

(Okay, this is odd too. And it's down right capitalist. Where does money fit into a lullaby?)

Where's your pocket? In your pants?

(Back on track. This is good. Sweet. Cute. Educational even.)

Where are your pants?
Ooop! You left them at home!

(Full stop. What? Who unknowingly urges their kid to fear leaving their house unclothed? What's going on here? Mom? Mom, where are you?)

It turns out this song is not universal. My mother - nearly thirty years after it's implementation as a soothing song for her babies - insists that she made this song up. We just never knew that. She explains that she spent a lot of time playing alone in the park in Brooklyn as a child and would sing this song to herself when she was on the swings. (It turns out my aunt has a similar story. But her song is a bit different. Was this a family song? Was it a Brooklyn thing?)

All four of us kids have chuckled about this song and it's inception over the years. It's funny how you rarely question these sort of knowns in your life as a child. When your mother sings to you, there's an unexplainable assumption that while the moments in which these songs are sung are special and unique to you and your mama, it's also comfortingly universal.

I suppose that's true. I suppose most mothers and their babies share a Rock-A-Dee-Da of their own. Or, at best, I hope that's true.

What's truly amusing in all this is that this song still holds a certain magical hold over the children in our family. When my mother or I sing this song to my daughter, she completely relaxes. Whether she's stumbled, is scared or is just plain tired, these lilting and absurd words soothe her.

I remind myself of this simplicity often as I find myself steeped in the challenges of conscious mothering. This song doesn't solve every problem, nor will it always comfort my daughter in times of crisis. In reality, it's a bit clumsy and slightly perverse. It does, however, remind me that we all have the ability to self soothe, and soothing others sometimes means simply stopping to sing and hold one another.