Some Days are Diamonds; Some Days are Stones

There’s a counter-saying in there somewhere – something like, “If life gives you stones, make a Zen garden.”  My Zen landscaping skills are leaving much to be desired, because I’ve got a stone quarry in my hypothetical yard.  Perhaps I should turn to feng shui. 

But really.  Two weeks ago, a considerably long and intense battle with Ellen occurred (over whether or not it should behoove her to get in her car seat), and I emerged the victor by juuuuust a hair.  (Hair idioms are quick to pop in my mind, since these days I deal with frequent bouts of insubordination, during which Ellen loves to spout her favorite response to my requests, which is “Mom, not by the hair of my chinny-chin-chin.”)  After she was finally in her seat and strapped down, I realized that I forgot something in the house, which I had locked already.  Exceedingly annoyed, I went inside, found said item after a search that took waaaaay longer than it should have, and when I came back out and locked the door, I was muttering something under my breath (or maybe not so much), which was probably self-deprecating, but certainly peppered with color.  I looked over and my nice neighbor Mary, who is a brand-new young mom, was retrieving her mail and looking over at me with a grin.  “Are you having a moment?” she asked.  There is just no masking of my moments anymore. 

Last night, my mom and I took the girls to watch my brother-in-law’s game with my sister.  My car is newly leaking radiator fluid, so we had to do a car seat shuffle and lots of moving of stuff from one trunk to another so that we could drive my mom’s car to the game.  This resulted in my leaving my own keys (including my house key) on the wrong side of the front door, which of course I did not realize until after the game.  45 minutes past bedtime, I was in the backyard with the girls and my sister, waiting for Dave to return from his soccer game.  Mary came outside to her own backyard with her two-month-old son, Drew.  “Another moment?” she asked.  Mary is privy to some very winning portrayals of my darker side.  I’m not sure if she should feel privileged or terrified.

It’s not all bad, though.  Stones AND diamonds, right?  Here’s a diamond moment – one for the ages, I think.  It’s the kind that we’ll be telling when the girls and their cousins are in high school and sure to be completely embarrassed by our laughter.  My little unborn nephew Charlie (coming soon) may feel especially sheepish after the future retelling of this little gem.  I almost hesitate to include it in my blog, but it has to be recorded somewhere.  So here it is:

Ellen was taking a bath and my sister was helping her (though at 35 weeks pregnant I don’t know why I was allowing her to do that – must have been a special request from Ellen for Auntie’s help).  I could hear them from the dining room methodically washing all the body parts.  “Arm,” my sister said.  “Armpit.  Tummy.  Bum.  Legs.”  Ellen’s little voice piped up: “It’s vulva time.”  I could hear my sister stifling laughter as she took the opportunity to practice boy and girl differences with her niece.  “Charlie won’t have a vulva, will he?”  “No,” said Ellen, “he will have a vuh-JIN-yah.”  Trying even harder to stifle that laughter (and beginning to fail), Rachel said, “no, he will have a penis.”  Ellen responded, “Oh THAT’S right,” as though she had known the answer all along.  “A tiiiiny penis.”  (Sorry Charlie).

De-clawed

To be fair, I should disclose that I haven’t read Amy Chua’s memoir Battle Hymn of the Tiger Mother.  But since she’s all over the media, it’s nearly impossible not to have some knowledge about her experience being raised by, and then raising her children by what she calls the “Chinese method”—a method that is considered “strict” at best and “abusive” at worst. 

            I respect Chua’s passion for raising her kids exactly how she sees fit, and I do believe that love for her kids is behind all her decisions.  She’s gotten a great end result – two daughters who are academically, athletically, and artistically leaders of the pack, and who are destined to be very successful.  For some people out there, that end result might just be tempting enough to make them consider taking notes while reading her book.  I know that since my children are very young, my parenting style may still be somewhat malleable – subject to the latest research, or at least the latest chatter at mom hot spots.  However, I also know that I am and will remain unwavering in my resolve to encourage my children to reach their highest potential with methods that do not rely on shame as a motivator.  You could call me a Tiger Mom, minus teeth and claws.

            I do agree with the philosophy behind the method – basically, that kids shouldn’t be allowed to take the easy way out all the time, and that they often need heavy encouragement (maybe even pushing) in order for them to find their greatest potential.  I believe that kids should be held to high standards.  They should be allowed, actually expected, to feel disappointment, discomfort, embarrassment, frustration – especially when those feelings are a direct result of behavior in which they chose to engage.  I believe that we should praise kids less for being “smart” or “talented” and more for “working hard” and “persevering.”  I agree that it isn’t always right to unabashedly applaud a child’s work if it is the result of poor effort and a lackadaisical attitude.   But some of the incidents in Chua’s book, which she’s either employed or been subjected to, make me wonder if this way of parenting toes the line a little too closely between pushing kids to be their best, and pushing them completely away from their parents due to debilitating pressure to perform and extreme fear of rejection.    

            If my girls are Nobel Prize winners, but are afraid to share with me their failures as well as their successes, their shitty moments as well as their shining moments, then I have failed as a mom.  I think it’s far better to join the ranks of mediocrity and be able to bask in the glow of unconditional acceptance, than to be at the summit of achievement and live with constant worry that there will be no one to love you if it all comes crashing down.