If You Give a Kid a Sword

This morning, I was sitting on the couch savoring a cup of coffee when I overheard Luisa say to Miguel, "Don't shoot her while she's sleeping." She said it casually like this is the type of advice that every parent gives out daily. It was a concrete reminder of how we have changed in the 13 years we have been parents. When Miguel was little, we had a no weapon policy. We made sure that all friends and relatives knew that we would not allow guns or swords in the house and that they shouldn't waste their money buying them.

Every time we bought Miguel a Playmobil set, we removed any weapons that were included. The pirates kept their parrots and barrels of rum and the knight's had their horses and shields. If Miguel ever wondered what they needed those shields for, he never asked. Maybe he thought the shields protected the knights from the parrots.

We didn't allow water guns. We allowed squirt toys but nothing shaped like a gun.

Then, a couple of years ago, we relented on the swords…and then the water guns…and just last year, the Nerf guns.

And that is the slippery slope of parenting.

Since that overheard conversation this morning, I have said the following:

• Do not shoot your guns in the kitchen because I found a Nerf bullet on the stove.
• I'm tired of you guys arguing over bullets!
• If I have to ask you to do your chores one more time, I'm going to take those guns!

I have also taken the kids to Target for more bullets so that Zeca could buy bullets because they resolved their Battle of the Bullets by deciding to share them. Community owned ammo is the way of the future, I guess.

My feelings about guns have not changed, especially in light of the cultural context in which we find ourselves - school shootings, urban crime, the debate of the right to bear arms and gun control. I grew up in a household with numerous guns and remember seeing rifles in a corner of my dad's bedroom. He had handguns as well, some were collector's pieces (a pearl-handed Derringer for one) and some were for protection. He owned a bar and carried large amounts of cash home late at night after closing so he carried a gun. I remember going shooting with my dad and his friends - not at shooting ranges but at farms - and watching as they shot beer bottles off of fences. I even remember shooting the guns myself, my small hands gripping the gun tightly, my dad talking to me about kickback. There are good memories there and yet I hate guns and would never have one in my house. When my dad died, he left me one thing - his 22 Beretta - and I never took possession of it.

I know there are responsible gun owners and I do not judge. I simply do not feel comfortable with guns, even in toy form and yet, my kids spent the morning treating our living room like the O.K. Corral. When Miguel started elementary school, he wanted to wear camo print shorts and we refused to allow it because we didn't like the image of a little boy dressed for war. He asked if I really believed putting on a pair of camo shorts would change him. It was a valid question and I bought him the shorts. This is how it is with parenting. You start out with ideals and things shift and change - you shift and change, impacted by these young people you are raising. Maybe the important part of the parenting is the conversations we have about these things. That's my hope because if you give a kid a sword, he's gonna want a water gun and if you give him the water gun, he's gonna want a Nerf gun and if that happens, remind him not to shoot his sister while she's sleeping.

Perfection and Motherhood

We were at a party, having a glass of wine and talking loudly to compete with the din when she told me she admired my parenting. I wasn't sure I'd heard her correctly so I responded with the articulate, "Huh?" She repeated her comment and I said, "For all you know, I could beat my children…" and then launched into an intellectual rant about curated lives in blogging and the cult of personality. She shifted her weight, looked at me and said, "Can you stop? Can you just say 'Thank you'?" I've thought about this conversation a lot recently, thought about all the factors that led me to so quickly dismiss the compliment. Our friendship is one that began online and has grown through stolen moments at conferences and glasses of wine shared while passing through each other's cities. She hasn't met my kids or seen me parent so - yes - we can talk about careful curation in blogging but she knows enough to judge my authenticity. I think about the difficulty most women have in accepting a compliment so that played a part too. How often do we dismiss them, turn conversation away from them, make jokes at our own expense to avoid the discomfort of small kindnesses? And why do we do that? I can't answer those questions but know that I'm not alone in doing it.

But more than anything, I keep returning to the conversation from that  night because I can't help wondering when perfection became the standard by which I judge my parenting.

When I reflect on my time in high school, I don't think about my accomplishments. I rarely talk about the fact that I spoke at graduation or lettered in Debate but I will tell you about the B I received in Geometry and the fact that it ruined my 4.0 GPA.

When I talk about my time at Grinnell College, I will spin tales of receiving my first F on a Chemistry test and tell you that I spent way too much time writing music, playing the guitar and drinking with the rugby team. I think of college as the time when I learned about failure  yet I graduated with a B average.

Have I ever told you that I worked nights to put myself through graduate school and had a 4.0 GPA? Of course not…unless I also tell you that it was an easy program and I somehow got lucky.

When I think about my 15 years as a county Adult Protection investigator, I remember the first time a supervisor told me that I had not done an adequate job on an investigation and the burnout that marked the end of my time there. I don't think about the people I helped or the fact that I was instrumental in sending an appellate court judge to prison.

Even putting those accomplishments on the page makes me uncomfortable, qualified as they are by framing in the context of failure and falling short. This is beyond an irritating tendency towards pessimism, beyond self-deprecation. This is the legacy of perfectionism - that sense that one can never do enough - and it has crept into my parenting which should come as no surprise. Somewhere along the line, wanting to do better than my parents wasn't enough. Being a good mother wasn't enough. I had to be the perfect mother and I know that I'm not alone in my struggle with this ideal.

I know that part of this is that we know more about children these days, know more about how our actions impact them later in life. Did you interact with your baby enough, show them all those picture books with black and white images? Did you breast feed and introduce solids at the right time? Do you encourage but not pressure? Are you patient at all times, never raising your voice? Did you do enough crafts with your kids, teach them to properly grip a crayon and pencil? Do you read to them? Do you read so they see that behavior modeled? Do you limit their media time? Are you on your phone too much? I could list a million more things that we mothers of privilege think about on a regular basis and yes - there is privilege (education and economic to name only two) inherent in these questions. My own mother used to remark on my angst about motherhood regularly, "You think too much. When I raised you kids…" and then she'd launch into some story about independence with a little pro-spanking commentary thrown into the mix. As she spoke, I'd often think, "Yeah…you could have thought a little bit more about your parenting…" and, of course, there is truth in that too. But my mother grew up poor and raised me as a working class single mother. I am a middle class woman with a graduate degree and a partner of 21 years. I have the luxury of analysis and intellectualization that she never had and increasingly, that luxury feels like a curse as well.

I write so much about motherhood and think I write the truth - the moments when I am exactly the mother my children need and those when I am not. Lately, I think I've written more about those good moments, the ones when the words come easily and I say the right things to my kids or don't but make amends. Maybe I need to write more about the struggles, the days when I raise my voice or use sarcasm to comment on their less than stellar behavior. There are those moments too. Or maybe, I should just stop for a moment and say "I am a good mother" and sit with the discomfort of that declaration knowing that "good" doesn't have to be "perfect."

I am a good mother.

How many of us can say that without giving in to the temptation to qualify the statement?

I am a good mother.

I'm saying it today and resisting the urge to say more, knowing that I might not be able to say it tomorrow.

PHOTO CREDIT: VIKKI REICH

Appreciating the View

Several weeks ago, Zeca asked me if I would chaperone her class trip to the Lake Country Land School. This was her last trip with her class, her last as a third grader and it was important to her. I knew that but I must admit that the idea of spending three full days (and two nights) with 28 kids ranging in age from seven to nine was daunting. The truth is kids scare the hell out of me.

I am good with my kids and the kids who've been in my life for years but I am awkward with kids I don't know. I agreed to chaperone the trip but admitted to Zeca that I was nervous about it and she said, "Mom, you'll be fine. Just make sure to be funny because I've told everyone how funny you are so they're expecting that."

No pressure. No pressure at all.

So, last week, I spent three days on a farm with 28 kids and survived. I moved an electric fence to create a new pasture for the sheep and llamas. I accompanied children to the tree house every time I was asked. I trudged through creeks, comforted kids crying because they were wet and cold and carried the skull of a rodent in my pocket for a kid who wanted it but didn't want to touch it. I peeked into a bee hive and tasted fresh honey. I sat in a bird blind with kids and watched goldfinches and woodpeckers and nuthatches and an indigo bunting in silence. I stood at the edge of a pond - absolutely still - and looked for the tiniest of tadpoles.

I also learned a lot about my daughter while I watched her run through the fields playing soccer with the boys, wading fearlessly into a muddy pond and spinning in circles with a friend under a cloudy blue sky that made the world seem as large as it is. I saw myself in her in the looks she gave me when a conversation with another kid bored her. This reflection of myself was an unexpected revelation but one that will help me support her as she navigates friendship and the inherent frustrations and disappointments. I wanted to tell her, "You are much too young to be over it all, my dear," but I smiled knowingly instead.

I saw her and loved what I saw. This view of our children as whole beings in a  life we often know little about is so different than the one we see day to day. Seeing her in that place with those other children and adults was worth the awkwardness I felt and the loss of sleep as five girls giggled me to sleep each night.

The last night, Zeca sat in my lap and a friend of hers nestled in close to my side and others lay down near me while their teacher told a story in the dim light of the homestead great room. I listened to the story but mostly to the sounds of the room - the sniffles and shuffling and the small laughs - and with my child held tight in my arms and my head resting on the little one at my side, it felt like I was meant to be there.

Of course, the next day that feeling was gone as I threatened to take away sticks and intervened in a shoving match but maybe there is a lesson there too - nothing lasts. Those perfect moments are brief but the hard ones are too.

When we got home, I asked Zeca how I'd done and she said, "Mom, you did a great job. You were nice and funny and everyone liked you."

"Are you glad that I went?"

"Yes. Thank you so much."

Really, that's the review that mattered most.

PHOTO CREDIT: VIKKI REICH