The Lenses in the Pink-Coloured Glasses

At my nephew's recent first birthday party--who, by the way, is enormous; at one year he is already several pounds heavier than Frances is at four-and-a-half, and is almost as tall--he and Frances were playing with his trucks and cars and balls and the rocket-ship we gave him (complete with astronauts, space dog, alien, moonbuggy and crater).

"Look at them," said someone whose anonymity I have decided to preserve: "Frances is such a little girl, and Lukas is such a boy!"

They were playing together with the same toys. Those toys were mostly "boy" toys. It's true they were playing with them differently. Frances formed her trucks into tribes of friends and families and had them rolling across the floor and talking to each other, whereas Lukas was mostly banging them into the hardwood while crowing "duh!" because he's only one.

But Frances was wearing a pink dress and her long hair was left down, whereas Lukas wore a set of blue overalls and his hair--such as it exists to this point--is short.

Not that either of them chose their hair or outfits. I chose Frances's pink dress and I decide how long her hair grows; ditto with Lukas.

Several adults nodded approvingly at the anonymous adult's comment.

I remembered the hour we had spent that morning before the party playing with red Spiderman and black Spiderman, how she had delighted in showing me the way that red Spiderman can shoot webs from his hands to catch bad guys. I remembered her current best friend at daycare--a boy--and the many times I'd watched them play with the big bucket full of dinosaurs. I remembered every time she had pointed out a Ninja Turtle or Transformer in the toystore. I remembered her many complaints that she does not have enough plates to make a fence or a house with her toolset; her delight at catching frogs; her comfort in dirty jeans and t-shirts; her love of lego and other building toys; the way her Barbie lies neglected in the bottom of the toy basket.

And, yes, how she loves to nurture Baby Eloise and turn all of her toys into families sometimes. But, on the whole, I'd hardly characterize Frances as a girly-girl.

Unless you are bound and determined to see her that way.

Based, I repeat, on a pink dress and a haircut.

Why do we put so much time and energy into determining the conformism of each child with gender stereotypes, to the point of seeing it when it isn't there?

At this point, I'd say Frances is a child with an impressive diversity of interests. She likes colouring and painting and craft projects using cut-and-paste and buttons and pipe cleaners and sparkly glue and mummy's scrapbooking leftovers. She likes to take photographs. She likes jumping in mud-puddles. She likes superheroes and picture books, trucks and dolls, naptimes for her Little People and building them houses out of lego and turning her Wedgits into cakes (by the way, Wedgits are a fabulous toy, my new favourite). She likes playing with her Calico Critters in their dollhouse; she likes her long-neck dinosaurs and all their little friends; she likes flowers and stars and planets and mud and frogs and fairies and fantasy stories and knights and horses and castles and amusement parks. I can't categorize her as girly/boyish/tomboy/whatever, and I don't see the point in trying. She's herself. She's Frances.

Why does anybody else care? Why does anyone ever put any time or interest into determining the degree of any child's adherence to gender stereotypes? How does it help us better parent or teach or befriend a child, ever? In what way does it ever benefit them not to simply see them as themselves, as full and complex little people who are still figuring out what they like and who they want to be?

Posted by Andrea at 9:23 AM under Female Trouble
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Frances's Take on Adult Relationships

All of the Experts agree that it is best to be honest about the status of your new relationship with your child relatively quickly, and as we all know, parenting Experts are never ever wrong. So, thinking to myself that Frances and Greg might be spending some more time together over the fall and winter, I decided to come clean with the WBPE, BN, and tell her that Greg is my boyfriend. "So ... what do you think about that?" I asked her.

Frances: I think it's great!

Andrea: You do? Oh!

Frances: Greg is nice. I like him.

Andrea: Awww, that's great.

Frances: Yeah. He's my friend, even when he's big.

Phew.

Of course nothing is ever over quickly and simply with young children, so the next morning over breakfast Frances says, "Greg has a girlfriend!"

Andrea: Yes he does.

Frances: You are Greg's girlfriend!

Andrea: That's true, I am.

Frances: Do you love him?

Andrea: [pause. How much information is too much information at four? Do I need to reassure her that I love her more? Ack!] Yes. Yes I do.

[silence]

Andrea: So ... how do you feel about this?

Frances: I think it makes you expensive.

Andrea: Expensive?

Frances: Yeah.

Andrea: Expensive!

Frances: Yeah.

[silence]

Andrea: Why does it make me expensive?

Frances: Because you love him.

Andrea: Oh.

It was right about there that I gave up. Frankly, I don't think such a conversation could go better at that age, and if a little bit of english had to get mangled in the process, I'm willing to pay that price.

Up until now Frances and Greg have not had much to do with each other. I see Greg when Frances is at her Dad's house, with one exception; they have only met each other twice and both times casually and briefly. The last thing I want to do is expose Frances to more potential loss. She still tells me that she misses the old house, her old daycare teacher, her best friend at that daycare, the little boy who lived next door, the frogs in the backyard. It's been a year. I thought, since I can't guarantee that a relationship I have will be permanent and that therefore I won't have to worry about her losing him, that I'd try something else.

"If we ever broke up, and if Frances wanted to, would you let her stay friends with you?"

"Of course!"

"OK."

"I've stayed friends with all my exes. I even became an honorary "uncle" to Little N, who I adore, almost a decade after her mom and I had dated."

"I know. But I have to ask, I can't just assume."

"I know. And if that ever happened I would tell her that myself. She's a great kid. Why wouldn't I want to still see her grow up?"

"Well, I know I think that way, and I'm not biased at all--but I have to be careful where Frances is concerned."

"I know you do. And the answer is yes, I've thought about this too. But it's not going to happen because, as I've said before, I'm keeping you."

Just over a week ago Greg came over and played Calico Critters with Frances while I made up spaghetti with homemade meatballs and tomato sauce (I even pureed the sauce so Frances wouldn't reject it for having 'plants' in it--aka basil--which has got to earn me a few SuperMom points). Then we played Sorry, as you've already read, and watched an episode of Walking With Dinosaurs on DVD, in which a mommy and daddy proto-mammal ate their own young to escape from a couple of mean miniature dinosaurs. Greg and I exchanged horrified glances over her head. "Isn't that nice!" said Frances. "The brother and sister are sharing!"

Big sigh of relief. Catastrophe averted. Successful day all around.

On another single mom blog I read, MsSingleMama, there was a troll who hung around for a day or two dispensing his invaluble wisdom for romance for the single mother, to wit: you are damaged goods, and if you expect to find love again, you'd better lower your expectations and be ready to be extra sweet, extra forgiving, extra generous to compensate for the innate burden of your children. His girlfriend is apparently a single mother who I suppose must have fallen for this line of horseshit. I happen to think that Frances is a pretty amazing person and anyone who gets to spend time around her is lucky, even if that cuts into spontaneous road trips and seeing new releases in the theatre. It's lovely to be with someone who feels the same way. And now I get to relax a little bit and let them get to know each other a little more.

Posted by Andrea at 9:41 AM under Single Momming
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Anti-Anniversary

(Now is when I meant to publish this. Apologies to those who saw it a few weeks back.)

It was a year ago that I moved out of the house with Erik and into my apartment. I have the same attitude towards that year that most of you do--where the hell did it go?--but also a strange sort of gratitude, that Frances and I have made it this far already and we seem to be doing ok.

Not perfect. OK. This, mind you, is more than good enough, considering how many days this past winter I sat down on the couch and cried, thinking, "I can't do this. Why did I think I could do this?"

As it turns out, I can. I just have to give up on frivolous goals like being well-rested. As it turns out, it's even good for me in some ways. I have 63,000 words written on my novel, a stack of acceptance letters for other writing projects (and a stack of rejections, which I'm proud of if only because it shows that I am working on it), a six-day-a-week working out habit, a freezer full of healthy leftovers for midweek suppers, a new career adventure I'm embarking on in two (ack!) weeks, a boyfriend and a relatively busy social calendar (for me). I try to figure out why none of this happened while I was married (with the exception of the boyfriend, which is self-explanatory) when I had more time, more rest and more help. I think it's because all of my personal goals were construed as selfish within the context of that relationship. As it turns out, being selfish feels pretty good. It's my favourite part of being single(ish--see boyfriend, above).

My least favourite part is the lack-of-sleep bit.

I wish I could say that Frances is as OK as I am. She is happy most of the time, but she misses her Daddy. She misses the old house and asks me sometimes if we will ever move back there. It breaks my heart to say no.

For so many reasons it was the right thing to do, including Frances's long-term best interests. I don't regret my decision, though I often regret that it was necessary. But here we are, a year in. So far so good. Here's hoping for better-and-better.

Posted by Andrea at 9:11 AM under Single Momming
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And now for some comic relief

Frances: Do you know how giraffes hug?

Andrea: No, I don't.

Frances: They go like this [wiggles her head and neck] and wrap their necks around people and animals. And frogs.

~~~~~

Frances: Mabamabamabamaba!

Andrea: Stoogooboodoo.

Frances: [laughs hard] Eenaeenaeenaeena!

Andrea: Flabiffty!

Frances: [laughs harder] Eeyoeeyoeeyoeeyoee!

Andrea: baboobaboobaboodee!

Frances: [face flat] That's not funny, Mummy.

~~~~~

[playing Sorry]

Andrea: So I'll use 4 to move this guy to this slide, and the other 3 to move this guy to this slide.

Greg: Another slide! Your mommy is smart.

Frances: Yes, but I am smarter.

~~~~~

NB: Frances, do you want to play outside?

Frances: No.

NB: Noooo? Oh! But I want to play outside! Will you want to play outside later?

Frances: Maybe.

NB: In how many minutes?

Frances: Eleven?

NB: But last time you said four, so this time you have to say three.

NB's Dad: Maybe Frances just wants to stay warm, NB.

[a few minutes later]

NB: Frances, do you want to play outside?

Frances: No. I just want to stay warm.

Posted by Andrea at 9:03 AM under Beanie Baby Brags
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The Problem with Evil

It's been a bad news week for kids again. Bad enough that my extremely judgmental side is banging on the sides of the box where I'd packed her away and demanding a hearing. I'll uncover her slowly, Dear Readers.

First, a known sex predator abducted and sexually assaulted a twelve-year-old girl in Peterborough. There's enough triggering material in that one article to put at least a dozen people I know out for a week, so be careful--not to mention enough in the family subtext to keep dozens of psychologists (un)happily employed for a decade, and novelists and playwrights mining it for fifty years. Seriously. The whole thing is that bad. The accused's wife and their kids and his mistress and their kids are all sitting in the courtroom together with the accused's mother to watch the trial. The five-year-old daughter is watching her father be tried for rape. And this is just the beginning.

Then, a seven-year-old abused and murdered by her foster family. The mother of Katelynn Sampson was apparently trying to get her life back together and recover from an addiction when she signed her daughter's custody over to a friend temporarily. The 'friend' later went to court to get Katelynn's custody signed over to her permanently. This 'friend' also had convictions and arrests for violence, drugs and prostitution which didn't seem to raise any red flags; Katelynn stopped attending school and no one can figure out whether or not anyone followed up on it; and two months later the little girl had been beaten to death, from what it looks like in the articles. I expect the more comes to light the more I will hyperventilate about the whole thing. Possibly here. Because something like this should not be able to happen. There are safeguards, checks and balances, how many pieces of legislation? How many professionals involved? And the courts signed permanent custody of this little girl over to a woman who killed her.

But there aren't enough details yet--mercifully--for it to be the stuff of nightmares and flashbacks. No. For that, we have this story, The Girl in the Window, which I found over at Rob's blog Fighting Mosnters With Rubber Swords. He didn't know what to say about it; fortunately, I can think of plenty.

Ready for the Extra-Judgmental Andrea? Here she comes:

"Plant City Detective Mark Holste had been on the force for 18 years when he and his young partner were sent to the house on Old Sydney Road to stand by during a child abuse investigation. Someone had finally called the police.

"They found a car parked outside. The driver's door was open and a woman was slumped over in her seat, sobbing. She was an investigator for the Florida Department of Children and Families.

"'Unbelievable,' she told Holste. 'The worst I've ever seen.'"

I suppose the bright side is that if you feed, clothe, or toilet-train your children, you no longer qualify for the World's Worst Mother Award:

"First he saw the girl's eyes: dark and wide, unfocused, unblinking. She wasn't looking at him so much as through him.

"She lay on a torn, moldy mattress on the floor. She was curled on her side, long legs tucked into her emaciated chest. Her ribs and collarbone jutted out; one skinny arm was slung over her face; her black hair was matted, crawling with lice. Insect bites, rashes and sores pocked her skin. Though she looked old enough to be in school, she was naked — except for a swollen diaper.

"'The pile of dirty diapers in that room must have been 4 feet high,' the detective said. 'The glass in the window had been broken, and that child was just lying there, surrounded by her own excrement and bugs.'

"When he bent to lift her, she yelped like a lamb. 'It felt like I was picking up a baby,' Holste said. 'I put her over my shoulder, and that diaper started leaking down my leg.'

"The girl didn't struggle. Holste asked, What's your name, honey? The girl didn't seem to hear.

"He searched for clothes to dress her, but found only balled-up laundry, flecked with feces. He looked for a toy, a doll, a stuffed animal. 'But the only ones I found were covered in maggots and roaches.'"

This is a girl who was seven years old and who had been so thoroughly neglected she didn't know how to talk.

"'The mother's statement was: 'I'm doing the best I can,' ' the detective said."

She did the best she could!

This is what I am getting stuck on.

"So the detective carried the girl down the dim hall, past her brothers, past her mother in the doorway, who was shrieking, 'Don't take my baby!'"

Do you know what this means?

That mother thought that how she interacted with her daughter was love.

She loved her, and she was doing the best she could.

It gets better:

"Her caseworker determined that she had never been to school, never seen a doctor. She didn't know how to hold a doll, didn't understand peek-a-boo. 'Due to the severe neglect,' a doctor would write, 'the child will be disabled for the rest of her life.'

"...The doctors and social workers had no way of knowing all that had happened to Danielle. But the scene at the house, along with Danielle's almost comatose condition, led them to believe she had never been cared for beyond basic sustenance. Hard as it was to imagine, they doubted she had ever been taken out in the sun, sung to sleep, even hugged or held. She was fragile and beautiful, but whatever makes a person human seemed somehow missing."

I suppose that depends on how you define "better." It probably doesn't include this, from after the state found an adoptive family for her:

"Bernie and Diane already thought of Danielle as their daughter, but legally she wasn't. Danielle's birth mother did not want to give her up even though she had been charged with child abuse and faced 20 years in prison. So prosecutors offered a deal: If she waived her parental rights, they wouldn't send her to jail."

Did not want to give her up! She loves Danielle, remember. She did the best she could.

"Michelle Crockett lives in a mobile home in Plant City with her two 20-something sons, three cats and a closet full of kittens. The trailer is just down the road from the little house where she lived with Danielle.

"On a steamy afternoon a few weeks ago, Michelle opens the door wearing a long T-shirt. When she sees two strangers, she ducks inside and pulls on a housecoat. She's tall and stout, with broad shoulders and the sallow skin of a smoker. She looks tired, older than her 51 years.

"'My daughter?' she asks. 'You want to talk about my daughter?' Her voice catches. Tears pool in her glasses.

"The inside of the trailer is modest but clean: dishes drying on the counter, silk flowers on the table. Sitting in her kitchen, chain-smoking 305s, she starts at the end: the day the detective took Danielle.

"'Part of me died that day,' she says."

Because she loved Danielle!

"For hours Michelle Crockett spins out her story, tapping ashes into a plastic ashtray. Everything she says sounds like a plea, but for what? Understanding? Sympathy? She doesn't apologize. Far from it. She feels wronged.

"Danielle, she says, was born in a hospital in Las Vegas, a healthy baby who weighed 7 pounds, 6 ounces. Her Apgar score measuring her health was a 9, nearly perfect.

"'She screamed a lot,' Michelle says. 'I just thought she was spoiled.'"

SPOILED!

Yes, I'm shouting. SPOILED! All the baby's fault, you know.

She loved her, and she did the best she could. Other people had no right to interfere in her parenting decisions. Danielle-the-infant was SPOILED. She feels wronged.

"She goes to the boys’ bathroom, returns with a box full of documents and hands it over.

"The earliest documents are from Feb. 11, 2002. That was when someone called the child abuse hotline on her. The caller reported that a child, about 3, was 'left unattended for days with a retarded older brother, never seen wearing anything but a diaper.'

"This is Michelle’s proof that her sons were watching Danielle."

A) Someone reported it, and nothing was done.

B) Michelle Crocket believes that this constitutes good parenting.

"When Danielle was in the hospital, Michelle says, she and her sons sneaked in to see her. Michelle took a picture from the file: Danielle, drowning in a hospital gown, slumped in a bed that folded into a wheelchair.

“'That’s the last picture I have of her,' Michelle says. In her kitchen, she snubs out her cigarette. She crosses to the living room, where Danielle’s image looks down from the wall.

"She reaches up and, with her finger, traces her daughter’s face. 'When I moved here,' she says, 'that was the first thing I hung.'

"She says she misses Danielle.

“'Have you seen her?' Michelle asks. 'Is she okay?'”

It's the mother's obtuseness that makes me so angry I can't breathe.

She loved Danielle. She did the best she could! And I have no doubt that she means it sincerely, that in her own light she really loved that little girl and wasn't capable of doing better. It wasn't her fault, see? It was Danielle's fault. She was "retarded," she couldn't be toilet-trained, schools wouldn't take her! She was born spoiled. And I have no doubt she means that too, and couldn't be convinced otherwise even if you told her that in the one year since her adopted parents took her in she has already been taught how to use the potty and eat by herself and make eye contact and all of the other things that Danielle couldn't do because she was "retarded."

That's the thing with abusive parents. They don't actually know that they're abusive. Ordinary terms like "good" and "evil" don't apply. They don't enjoy inflicting torment on their kids; they don't know that they are inflicting torment on their kids. They love their kids. They're doing the best they can. And who are you to judge how they choose to raise their children? Could you do any better? Do you know how difficult this kid is? How angry? How out of control? Abusive parents are broken; they don't understand what love means, they don't know what kids need, and they can't give it to them in any case.

So you can spare the parents' feelings or save the kid. Those are your choices. You can talk to them as much as you want. They will blame the kid or the circumstances. If you grew up in a normal family and have no other experience of abuse, then there may be no way that you can understand how an abusive parent's sense of what's normal is so desperately skewed that they can believe they are being loving.

Posted by Andrea at 10:10 AM under Mothers and Anti-Mothers
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