Collecting - Issue No. 5
THE HELICOPTER PARENT
OF HALTED FRIENDSHIPS
One of the most interesting parts of watching my kids grow is seeing the ways in which they are exactly like me, and also the ways they are so starkly different. My daughter has begun going up to any girl on the playground and saying, “Hi, what is your name?” She has these exaggerated hand gestures with open outstretched palms that look like she is trying to imitate a whole adult in her tiny kid body. Then, once the other child introduces themselves, she says, “do you want to play?” With what seems like full confidence and certainty. I don’t know when the blanket of insecurity and self-doubt sets in, but I would do anything to keep her unencumbered by those unnecessary obstacles. Her success rate with kids her age is nearly 100%. There are a couple of things with this that are notable to me. Firstly, how is she already so aware of gender? We’ve done everything to not impose the restrictive nature of binary gender on her, and yet, she still only wants to go meet “girls.” When she asks, is that a girl or a boy, I say, “I think that’s a girl, but only they can tell you how they identify.” I’ve felt like this response, among others, has been my attempt to help her begin to understand the complicated nature of gender. And yet still, she’s already splitting people into categories.
My second thought with her approaching strangers is, how did she get such bravery and such an outgoing disposition? When I’m at a happy hour with strangers, a big part of me fantasizes about sprouting a full-on turtle shell to hide in. One time I was so uncomfortable, I took a glass of wine to the bathroom, poured it in the sink, and then came out, only to proceed to the bar for another glass of wine, just so I could look like I had a purpose. So, needless to say, I am so impressed and proud of this little socialite who couldn’t possibly have come from me. But, I also feel like I would be remiss to not acknowledge my biggest fear with her approaching strangers: her lack of awareness of how mean people can be. This part transforms me from a proud observer to a hovering, obnoxious helicopter parent. The first time I butted into her business was about a month ago. She went up to two 10-year-olds, (seven years her senior) and did her normal introduction. Unbeknownst to my daughter, these two older girls laughed at her when they told her their names and then said, “let’s try to find another place to play,” doing their best to subtly avoid her. Most heartbreakingly, when she tailed them, they laughed, said “she’s following us” and proceeded to run away from her. I can’t blame them. They didn’t want to babysit, they were there to play together, and the emotional maturity of many 10-year-olds is limited. Maybe I should have left it. Maybe it would work itself out. But instead, I approached my resolutely-eager daughter and said, “Sweetie, they’re quite a bit older than you, and I think they’re just wanting to play together. Let’s give them a little space and try to find a friend that’s your age to play with.” In my world of unrealistic fantasies, she would reply, “thanks, Mama, you always have my back,” give me a big kiss, and then proceed unphased with her friend-collecting-escapades. However, the ideal is rarely the reality. So, instead she cried and screamed “why are you keeping me away from my friends” in the middle of the busy playground. You know, earlier, when I spoke of the “growing a turtle shell to escape discomfort” scenario, this would be one of those moments. Eventually, she calmed down, thankfully those girls had left, and she rebounded quickly by playing “family” with another like-minded 3-year-old. That night, I obsessed on whether or not I had done the right thing, a game I like to play when I’m flirting with insomnia. Should I have just let her figure it out or not? Was it my job to impose? Did I do more damage than good? How can I ever step back enough for my kid to get hurt? She started from within me, folded into me safely, and now she’s a part of this dubiously cruel world. How can I accept that wrapped up in her growing interest in independence and finding her path in the world, is the inevitability of feeling pain?
COCONUTS IN BARBADOS - WHEN MEMORY FAILS US
I’ve been thinking a lot recently about how powerless we are at choosing which memories stick for our children. We create and they collect so many moments in a day and yet we have no say on which ones they’ll recall later. My first memory was when I was an 18-month-old, the same age as my son is right now. My family was in Barbados, and my father climbed a ladder and picked a coconut from a tree. In my memory of the event, the coconut slipped out of his hands, fell on his head, split in half, and then the two halves swirled in circles on the sand and we all laughed for a long time. There are so many things that don’t add up. For starters, coconuts are too hard to break on one’s head, and if one did, it would likely be no laughing matter and would certainly not swirl on the sand. But this is the first imperfect imprint I have in my catalog of memories. I remember my mom smelling like chamomile face cream, her hair soft and curly, the feeling of her lips kissing my palms, so that I could press my hands to my face whenever I needed her closer. And, my dad smelling like the oranges we’d eat while sitting on the kitchen floor, me curled into his lap, time melting away. I don’t have any memories from when I was little of them getting mad at me, or being too tired to parent to their potential, or fumbling for the answers to my impossible questions. To me, their footing was steady, their intention clear, their knowledge endless. This is the best comedic interpretation I’ve found of what I’m trying to say. And now I’m left with such big shoes to fill and no control over what moments my children file away. Sometimes, I step out of the present and think, I hope this one sticks, riding bikes together along the beach, having a dance party in the kitchen, our family sweetly synced. But, like most other things, I’m left to just do my best and hope that the faulty and fickle nature of memory works in my favor for preserving this fleeting time.
BURYING THE KING CAKE BABY IN THE BACKYARD
Every December, growing up, I used to cut a branch off of our Christmas tree and stash it under the carpet. To me, I suppose, it was like storing dried flowers in a book, except a more festive nuisance. People would tromp across my hidden treasure all year, probably questioning the uneven floor. Sometimes, and always in private, I would lift the carpet and admire my collection, the different colors the trimmings turned over time, and their varying textures. Eventually, while visiting us, my step-grandfather vacuumed the living room and in the process mistakenly, but understandably, sucked up at least ten years of my christmas tree clippings. It was time, but I was also still very disappointed. In retrospect, the fact that my mom supported this strange tradition at all is admirable, I struggle to offer the same grace as my daughter brings in a new rock, stick, acorn, or perfect tulip blossom pulled too soon from our garden, to add to her various stashes. We have indoor rocks now, that’s where we’re at.
I don’t know if it is commonplace or just the case with my children, but they have a similar propensity for hiding little treasures. When we moved into our new house last March, it took us months to convince my daughter to stop packing all of our belongings back into the boxes and bags from which they had been removed. At one point, we lost a beloved Moana figurine, and after months of searching and my daughter asking where it was nearly every day, she pulled it out from a shelf (that I didn’t know existed) inside the back of our couch. Before my daughter could string sentences together, she would ask “where’s heart?” Referring to this pink plastic treat from her tea set that she magically made disappear at Nana’s house, never to be found again. After we got a king cake, she buried the baby in the backyard and then was devastated when I couldn’t find it with the shovel she handed me. Often, when we can’t find something in our pantry, we’ll look in my daughter’s extra lunchbox. It’s usually packed with the essentials: chocolate chips, a packet of crystal light, a keurig cup, and some dates. My son has started doing the same thing. Before I run the washing machine, I have to pull out MagnaTiles, some acorns, and a lego or two. Who am I to say what is to be treasured? What I do know is that if they team up, all will be lost for sure. I suppose, we covet things at different times. Finding money in a pocket never gets old, and I suppose digging up a King-Cake-baby in a backyard doesn’t either. If we don’t lose it, then we never get the joy of discovering it again.
SOMETHING THAT
DID WORK
The other day, this woman, who does not have kids and who I had seen a couple of times around my neighborhood stopped in front of my house as I was chasing my kids around my yard and said, “It looks like you have a whole team there.” A doubles tennis team, I thought, as I politely answered “Just two, but they’re busy.” “Oh really? I could have sworn over the last few days that I had seen at least four” she said. “Yeah, I totally feel the same way,” I replied and then she walked away and I was left unsure of if I should be offended or laugh it off. One kid was picking all of the flowers from our garden prematurely, and the other was trying his luck once again with not falling face-first down the stairs and getting another set of symmetrical giraffe-bumps on the crest of his forehead. This is my life now. And I try as often as I can to keep my sense of humor about me. My 17-month-old son has begun to discover his sense of humor as well. While his comedic timing and repertoire could use little polishing, it is definitely working for him. Right now, he has three jokes. The first involves him putting various things on his head, then looking at us and saying “hat?” with arms outstretched and uncanny resemblance to a blonder and arguably much cuter Danny DeVito. The second joke involves him fake sneezing “ah-choo” and then us replying, “bless you.” That’s it. The joke isn’t great but his anticipatory expression makes up for what the joke lacks. His third joke is to hide things (pacifier in a school bus, bottle under the couch, apple in a drawer) and then slyly smile as he exclaims “uh-oh” and runs, his feet leading his gigantic head, all over our house, fake-searching for the lost object. There are many moments worthy of tears, but then our daughter tells a fart joke, and somehow it lands just right for every one of us, and laughing feels more important than ever.
SOMETHING THAT
DIDN’T WORK
Recently I heard a podcast about the founder of Girls Who Code Reshma Saujani’s new book Pay Up: The Future of Women and Work (and Why It's Different Than You Think). She highlights the catastrophic impact of the Pandemic on working moms and how far women in the labor market have been set back because of it. Saujani explains how the pay gap isn’t as much between women and men as it is between mothers and fathers, with the biggest gap actually being between mothers and women without children. Many of us are personally familiar with the millions of women — particularly mothers with school-age children — who pared back their hours, took paid or unpaid leave, and left or lost their jobs during the pandemic. (AJC) According to Saujani, 11 million women in the United States left the workforce for some period of time during the pandemic, and 1.1 million women are still missing. This doesn’t account for those who have downshifted or changed their careers during this time. According to the 2020 Women in the Workplace study, co-authored by McKinsey and LeanIn.org, 1 in 4 women considered leaving the workplace or downshifting their careers. According to the survey, 40% of mothers (compared to 27% of fathers) also added 3 or more additional hours of caregiving a day to their schedule over the past 2 years. The pandemic was the largest exodus of women leaving the labor market in the history of our nation. According to Saujani, it erased 30 years of progress nearly overnight. And women of color were leaving the workforce at two times the rate of white women. The impacts of a “mom penalty,” an issue that far predates the pandemic, can be severe. Stepping down the career ladder puts promotions, future earning power, and leadership opportunities at risk (NPR). Saujani has created The Marshall Plan for Moms to address a lot of these issues. She highlights many areas of the workforce that need significant changes to better support women, such as: more autonomy with schedules, more paid maternity leave and incentivizing men to take paid leave, provided back-up care, subsidized child-care, more on-ramps back to work after maternity leave, and more training in workplaces to ensure that the motherhood penalty vs. fatherhood premium isn’t unintentionally imposed. There’s a lot to reflect on, and this little piece just scratches the surface, but clearly how we support mothers returning to work and being successful at work deserves serious consideration and change.
SUSTENANCE SUGGESTIONS
Green Smoothie
Green continues to be a tough color to get my kids to eat. They love cucumbers and they’ve warmed up to broccoli, but that’s pretty much where it stops. This is one of my favorite ways to get some nutrient-rich spinach into their diet. Add a colorful silicone straw for fun, and you have a drink that surprisingly pleases all parties.
Ingredients
1 Tbsp Peanut Butter
1 Tbsp Chia Seeds
1 Cup Milk (Your choice on kind)
⅓ Cup of Greek Yogurt
1 Tsp of Honey
1 Frozen Banana
1 Heaping Handful of Spinach (approx. 1.5 cups)
Directions
Blend it all up and enjoy!
