What’s In A Name?

Yesterday as I was driving the kids home from school, somehow the topic in the car shifted to names.

Mira: “Mommy, my teacher’s last name is the same as her husband’s last name.”

Me: “OK.”

Mira (suddenly sounding upset): “A friend in my class said that a family is everyone with the same name.”

Me: “Well, that’s not quite true…”

Mira (now more upset): “She said that if you don’t have the same last name as us, you must not be our real mom, and you must be a stepmom.”

Me: “WHAT?”

Mira: “That’s what she said. And it made me mad! But you’re our real mommy, right?”

Years ago when Aaron and I got married, there was a small discussion about changing names. I was in grad school at the time, expecting to make a name for myself in academia (hahaha), and I wasn’t all that keen about changing my name. Aaron was completely indifferent to the idea. He was OK if I took his last name, and he was OK with me keeping my name.

I wasn’t really trying to make a feminist statement with my last name. After all, it’s a paternal surname. But it’s the name I’ve had since birth, the name I graduated from high school and college with, and the name I had for the start of my career. I’ve had to spell it countless times, sound it out slowly when people mangled the pronunciation, and agree with hundreds of people that yes, it is an unusual last name. I’m acclimated to handling anything involving this difficult name now.

Aaron’s last name, while not as hard to spell as mine, is equally as unusual and often mispronounced. I didn’t feel like trading away one difficult name for another. I didn’t want to go through the hassle of giving up my public identity and changing every legal document to become a different identity that was still the same person underneath.

Besides, both of us felt strongly that a name wasn’t what tied a family together. A name is deep on a personal level but superficial when it comes to connecting with others. Your family are the people you love, including some who may share the same surname, but certainly not limited to that group. And names can easily be changed, while the person who carries that name remains the same.

We’ve had a few moments since having children where eyebrows were raised that I had a different last name. Most times a quick “we’re married, I didn’t change my name,” is enough to clear up any confusion. If needed, we have miniature, laminated copies of our marriage license. It’s not a big deal to most people.

I still answer socially to Mrs. hislastname and I don’t mind if I’m called that by others or receive letters addressed to that name. I’ve even said that if the name thing ever became an issue, I’d change my name if the situation required it. But for now my legal name is the same name I was born with, and there are no serious objections (from those who matter) to make any changes to that.

I never expected that a kindergartener would suddenly bring the issue to the forefront of our kids’ minds, especially in a school where there are so many families made up of different names, some married, some remarried, some not at all. Of all of the situations I imagined in my head, I never thought it would be the youngest generation making sweeping statements about what defines a family.

Mira was shaken by the declaration from her friend. She knows I have a different last name – which also happens to be her second middle name – and she’s never questioned it until now. I reassured her that we were just as much a family as any other family, and that having a different last name didn’t make me any less her mommy. My name may be different, but she still grew inside my belly.

She’s going back to school today certain that we are a family, and ready to tell her friend that whether you change your name or not doesn’t define how strong of a family you are. A woman changing her name or not is a personal decision that in no way reflects on the love she has for her family or her dedication to that family. Love bonds families together, not names.



Politics On The Playground

It’s no secret that the political atmosphere is about as thick as it can get at the moment. You can’t watch TV, listen to the radio, check your mail, answer the phone, or drive anywhere without having political ads in your way.

Even schools are getting involved with “Kids Choose the President” type events. This weekend Cordy and Mira told me all about their discussions of the elections at school. Cordy told me there is a website for kids to go to and choose who they would vote for if they had a say in picking the President.

I asked her what her teacher said about the candidates. Cordy rattled off some very basic information about how and why we vote, Obama being the current president and going for his second and last term, Romney being the challenger, two political parties with different ideas for ways to do things, etc. It was very non-partisan, and sounded like good information for the kids on how the political process works.

I asked Mira if she had similar discussions in her class. She then responded, “Mommy, I was told President Obama was a bad man.”

My eyes nearly popped out of my head. “What?? Your teacher told you that?”

“No, mommy, some of my friends said it. Their parents said he was a bad man who spent too much money and wants to hurt us. They said we have to vote for Romney, but I don’t think we want to do that, do we?” She then went on to say some friends have been saying these things for weeks now, with one child even making it clear that kids who like Obama aren’t good kids.

I’m really, really uncomfortable with this. Five year olds. Spewing political hate and propaganda to their five year old friends on the playground to take home and share with their parents. What parent thinks this is OK for their children to say?

My children have asked who we’re voting for, and we’ve told them we’re voting for Obama. They’ve asked several questions about why we prefer him, and we’ve always kept it high-level and age appropriate. We explain that each candidate has different ideas for how to be president, and we agree more with Obama’s ideas, so he’s our choice.

We’ve also told them it’s OK for others to have different ideas, and they’re not bad people because they think a different plan is better. Voting is how we all say which person and ideas we like the best, and the person who has the most votes gets to try out their ideas.

We’ve talked issues a little, too, but they’re too young to understand many of the issues at stake, so we keep it general and non-scary. We’ve also told them it isn’t polite to tell other kids they’re wrong about which candidate they prefer, even if someone tells my kids they’re wrong.

NEVER would I tell my child that a presidential candidate wants to hurt them or is a bad person. Who instills that kind of fear and hate into their children? It’s not OK to make children hate their president or fear the government of the country where they live.

What happens if Obama wins this election? Do these children spend the next four years having nightmares that their president will snatch them from their beds and hurt them? Do their five year old hearts harden towards the president and any who agree with him, turning them eventually into angry, prejudiced adults who can’t see any further than the rage and fear programmed into them?

I have no concerns with our school teaching proper government education to our kids (I respect those who have different views, but that’s not the topic at hand), but I do worry about what inappropriate opinions kids are bringing to school from home. A child telling friends that kids who like Obama aren’t good kids is the same to me as a child telling friends that kids who like Christians aren’t good kids. It’s hateful and divisive and shouldn’t be said at school.

In our home, we believe in the political process and want to make the idea of voting and choosing a new president (and other political offices) interesting and thoughtful for our kids, not scary and traumatic. Sure, I have much stronger political views online and in the presence of other adults, but around my kids that subject is reigned in. At their age, they need to learn about democracy and government structure, not about the negative ads, accusations, hate and gridlock that tries to tear down that system. They’ll be exposed to all of that too soon, sadly.

(Yes, they went with me to an Obama rally in 2008. Mira was just over a year old and Cordy was four and slept through nearly the entire thing. I would not take them to a political rally at their current ages, although I happily take them with me to vote.)

My daughters aren’t hearing attack ads – there are no political ads on Nick Jr, and I turn down the radio during commercials in the car. Our discussions are upbeat and positive so they will like the political process, not fear it. And even when teaching differences of opinion, we still point out that, even if we think differently from others, we’re all a part of the same country and still have to get along.

I don’t understand why any parent would knowingly teach fear and division with the topic of politics. Teach your kids about why voting is important to you and give them a general view of why you prefer one person’s ideas over another, but leave the hate out of your message and don’t scare kids. Instead, emphasize that there are many different ways to approach the same problem, and that in the end, we’re still all one people that need to work together for the greater good.

These are our future voters and lawmakers – let’s teach them to do a better job than we’ve done.



Is My Daughter Being Bullied In First Grade?

Some days, being a parent is more like being a detective. Trying to find the truth between wildly different accounts of a situation can take a lot of time and effort, and in the end you’re still not sure if you know what really happened.

Last week was one of those situations.

It started on Thursday around 1pm when I was jolted awake by my cell phone. Since I work nights, I ask that no one call my cell during the day unless one of my children is hurt or I just won a million dollars. I answered the call and Cordy’s school nurse was on the other end. She said that Cordy had been knocked down by accident during recess and had a scratch on her arm, but it wasn’t bad. Cordy had been pretty upset about it, though, so they let her spend some time in the nurse’s office before sending her back to class.

I didn’t understand why a small scratch on her arm warranted a call home, but whatever. I went back to sleep quickly.

When Cordy came home that day, she wanted some computer time right when she walked in the door. As I sat with her at the computer, I asked to see the scratch on her arm – there was barely a mark there. But I noticed she was talking oddly, without moving her upper lip. A closer look revealed that her upper lip was split in the middle and swollen. The school nurse didn’t mention this?

I asked her what happened to her lip, and she didn’t want to tell me at first. But then the story came out: two boys came up to her in the field at recess and knocked her down. One sat on her while the other threw a kickball in her face. She said they both laughed at her and called her “weird” and that they’ve thrown things at her before.

I made her repeat the story to me several times that night. Unlike when she makes up stories, the details didn’t change and there were more details than she usually tells. She gave us their names. She told us she was afraid of them. And she insisted they called her weird and laughed at her.

You can imagine how furious I was. Just as I sat down to write an email to her teachers, an email arrived from her special needs teacher. In giving us the details of Cordy’s day, she mentioned the incident, although the details were different. She said Cordy claimed she was hit and was very upset, but the recess teachers saw it and it appeared to be an accident. There was no mention of the split lip, only the scratch on her arm.

I replied to her email and gave her Cordy’s version of the story. I said I couldn’t understand how accidentally knocking someone down could result in a split lip, or why Cordy would claim they laughed at her at called her weird. I mentioned that this sounded to me like bullying and I wanted it looked into further.

The response I received the next day provided an even more detailed view of the incident. Her teacher said that a group of kids – including Cordy – had been involved in a lot of play fighting during the week and it had become more rough each day. The teachers had told them to tone it down. Other kids had complained that Cordy was hitting them with her coat. Cordy’s teacher said she spoke with the boys and believes the play fighting may have accidentally become too real.

And then she said that she also spoke to Cordy and advised her to play around the playground equipment and not with the kids out in the field.

So now I’m left to piece all of it together. I believe the adults – Cordy was probably play fighting. I asked her about hitting other kids with her coat, and she said she did it only because they were doing it to her first. I’m not so blinded by love for my kid that I’m unwilling to admit she’d ever do anything wrong. We had a discussion about why it’s not OK to hurt someone just because they hurt you first, and I expect her to apologize to the kids she swung her coat at.

But I also believe what happened to Cordy was real. I don’t think she was knocked down on accident, and whether it was play fighting or not, she still ended up with a split lip and deserves at least an apology from those boys. I also believe that they called her weird and laughed at her. There’s no reason for her to make up something like that. Whether they were saying it “in pretend” or not, it’s still hurtful and should never be said to someone. Getting away with it now could lead to them thinking it’s OK in the future. I don’t want to aide a child on his first step towards becoming a bully.

So where’s the truth? It’s somewhere in between, but the more information I’m given, the more confused I become. I like Cordy’s teachers and her school, and want to believe them, but I also want to believe my daughter. Her part in the rough play at recess has been dealt with by us. But if she feels like she’s being bullied, it needs to be addressed. (And why didn’t anyone notice her swollen, cracked-open upper lip?) I hope there are programs in place to address bullying and the importance of accepting differences, and if not there need to be, even at the first grade level.

I was bullied as a kid for being different. I know how painful it is to feel like you can’t be yourself without someone ridiculing you, but even if you try to be someone else you still can’t ever fit in. Any self-esteem I had when I started elementary school was slowly shredded to pieces by junior high. Even things I should have been proud of – like being academically gifted – were marks of shame to hide once the bullies had their way with me. I never want Cordy to suffer what I went through.

Cordy is gradually coming to the understanding that she’s different. We’re gently introducing the topic of autism to her, framing it in a way to highlight the positive differences as well as the areas she struggles with that other kids may find easy. She still isn’t self-aware enough yet to completely get it, but hopefully the self-esteem building is getting through to her if nothing else is.

We are also teaching her that there are lots of other ways to be different, too. Some kids are great at sports, others can’t use their legs and require a wheelchair, and some kids just look very different from their classmates. All of these things make them different, but just as valuable and loved as any other kid. But hate, prejudice, and discrimination are not differences to value, and should never be tolerated.

For now I plan to keep an open communication with Cordy about this topic, making sure that no one else is calling her names and that she feels safe in her class. I’m sure we’ll discuss it more at the upcoming parent-teacher conferences as well.

Sigh…and people said the baby years were hard. Ha ha ha. Playing the role of Detective Mom has me in far more unpleasant situations than ever faced by even the worst blow-out diaper.



I Will Never Survive Elementary School (Alternate Title: Kids Are Cruel)

With the layer of snow still covering the ground, and two little girls with pent-up energy from being cooped up for days, we ventured out to the mall playground yesterday. (OK, so it was also so I could do a little shopping, but that’s beside the point.)

Aaron watched the girls play for about 45 minutes, and then I took over for the last bit. Not long after I sat down, Cordy came up to me and sat on my lap. “Can we go home now?”

Surprised by this request, I said, “Yes, we can go home as soon as daddy comes back.”

At this point a little girl walked up to us and said to Cordy, “Come on! Your red car is back! Come play!” At first I wondered what red car? She doesn’t have a red car with her…

Then Cordy’s face brightened. “OK!” she exclaimed, taking the little girl’s hand as she led Cordy to the other side of the play area. It was such a sweet scene to witness – this little girl was asking Cordy to come play! My heart grew three sizes in that moment as I imagined Cordy someday having lots of friends and charming other kids.

I watched them go up to an older boy in a brown shirt (he looked about 7), and he then produced a shiny red toy car from behind his back. He took off running, holding the car up high. The group of 4 or 5 kids around him ran after him, including Cordy. The other kids looked around 5 or 6, so I wasn’t concerned that an older kid was with the group.

The thought crossed my mind that this older boy might be teasing the other kids a bit, but I quickly let that thought fall away when Mira climbed onto my lap for some attention. Cordy was having fun with friends, so I was happy.

A minute or so later, I checked to see where Cordy was in the play area. At first I didn’t see her, but I saw the group of kids she was with. They all seemed to be leaning in towards something up against a play structure, crowded together and laughing. I saw the older boy lower his hand, with the red car in it, towards the kid I couldn’t see, saying “Here, you want this?” and then yank it back quickly, shouting “NO!” at the kid and laughing. The other kids roared in laughter in response.

I started to get a sinking feeling, which was then confirmed when I heard Cordy’s high-pitched shriek. I shifted my position and across the play area saw Cordy, sitting on the floor and cornered by this group of kids, reaching up and pleading to play with the car as the boy again thrust it in her face, only to pull it away as she touched it, shouting “NO! It’s MINE, dummy!” in her face and laughing at her as she shrieked again, half-covering her face and looking confused. The other kids were egging him on, saying, “Do it again!” and shouting at Cordy, “It’s not your car!”

At that moment my heart shattered into a million pieces.

A moment later, sensing my heart was no longer in any state to put up a fight, my rage began rising from my gut on a conquering march to my brain.

I stormed over there, with what little logic I still had in my head repeating a mantra of Don’t kill the kids…don’t kill the kids… Not trusting myself to say anything to these little monsters, I simply walked past them and scooped Cordy into my arms, saying, “C’mon, let’s go play over there. You don’t need to play with kids who are mean to you.”

The older kid, realizing the jig was up, and thinking himself smooth and savvy with adults, tried to act like nothing was wrong. “She kept asking for her car, but it’s mine. She thought it was hers.”

Again, I didn’t know what to say in that moment. I didn’t want to tell the kids she has autism – they probably have no clue what that means, and I didn’t need to further alienate her from them. In a pinch, I came up with, “Well, she doesn’t always understand that a toy isn’t hers. She’s not as old as you might think she is.”

“Well how old is she?” the little girl who brought her back to the bullying asked me. “Is she six?”

Apparently my Amazon child had fooled people once again. “No, she’s four.”

The little girl seemed unimpressed. “Well, my little sister is four. And she knows that some toys aren’t hers.”

OK, engaging these kids has clearly failed. Time to just make an exit, I thought. But then the older boy – that same chubby little ringleader who thought he was so much older and wiser than other kids, yet was teasing my daughter mercilessly – had to add one more statement to prove that he understood child psychology.

“Oh, I understand!” he cooed at me. “Little kids and babies don’t get that there are toys that don’t belong to them. You know…like dogs! She’s just like a dog – doesn’t know what is hers and what isn’t.”

At that point my rage was screaming in my head One swing! Just let me have one swing at him!! Meanwhile, I had ceased to breathe or move as I stood there and stared at him wide-eyed, as if he had two heads, one of which was a barking dog. Even my logic had given in, pointing out, Someday that kid is going to get his chubby little head knocked into a wall, and he will completely deserve it.

Finally wrestling my voluntary muscles back to my own control, I turned away from the mean kids and carried Cordy back to the other side of the play area. She buried her head in my neck, asking to go home. Aaron wasn’t back yet, so I checked to make sure Mira was still OK and sat Cordy down next to me.

“I want my red car,” she whined.

“Cordy, that car wasn’t yours.” I reminded her.

“It wasn’t? I want to go play with my friends.”

Damn, she didn’t even realize they were teasing her. “Cordy, those kids weren’t your friends. They were being mean to you.”

Cordy looked confused. “They were?”

“Yes, sweetie. They were teasing you and laughing at you. They weren’t being nice.”

“Oh.”

We’re not even to kindergarten yet and I’m already stressed out about bullies. I want Cordy to have friends and be happy, but as it stands her social skills aren’t very strong and kids, who pick up on any weakness, are quick to exploit hers. The only comfort at the moment is that she has no awareness that people are being mean to her – she is spared the hurt and the pain of being rejected by others. (While I currently bear the brunt of it.)

I know I can’t protect her forever, but the social world of children is a harsh and cruel one, often shaping a person for a lifetime. I should know – I was a misfit child who endured being the outcast, and the scars still burn. It’s probably because of my past that I worry so much about my daughter who isn’t always on the same plane of reality as the rest of us. Winning popularity contests isn’t my goal for her, but I do want her to have friends and know how to handle situations where other kids try to hurt her.

At this point in parenting, I feel lost. We’re entering a phase of her life that I didn’t do particularly well with, and she has additional challenges to make it even more difficult. I can’t be there to pull her out of these situations all the time, and I can’t even think of how scenes like this would end without me stepping in.

(And before anyone asks: No, I don’t know where their parents were. A group of parents sitting right by the gang looked on without any concern. The mall play areas lean towards a Lord of the Flies atmosphere on weekends when older kids aren’t in school. The majority of concerned parents have very young children, and hover over them continuously.)



Haiku Friday: Hai-ku-lujah, Oh Happy Day!

Dear feral neighbors
Foreclosure is awful, but
We will not miss you

No more broken fence
or boys peeing in our yard
No more peeping toms

The cops won’t visit
We’ll enjoy our yard again
In relative peace

So goodbye to you
I’d say I wish you well but
That would be a lie

It’s been a week since we last saw the moving truck, but I’ve waited this long to share the news to make sure they are really gone. And it’s been a week with no one there! No word on what happened, but knowing that they were in foreclosure last fall, only to be given one more chance, I can infer that foreclosure has finally caught up to them. He could never keep a job, and the mortgage was high.

Words can’t describe how thrilled I am. It feels like a giant weight has been lifted off my shoulders. Living next to such vicious, uncivilized people, feeling like we had no control over our own property, was truly stressful. We can now spend our spring fixing up the damage they caused to our property, knowing they will no longer be around to further damage our fence, scratch our car, destroy our lawn, and dump their trash all over our yard.

I have no idea how long the house will sit empty. From what I saw of the house, I know the damage inside has to be massive. (I once watched one of the young boys take their garden hose to the front door and spray water into the living room for at least two minutes.) I’m hoping for a nice older couple to be the next residents. Preferably a nice older couple who like children.

Have a great weekend, everyone! I’ll be incommunicado for the next few days!

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1. Write your own haiku on your blog. You can do one or many, all following a theme or just random. What’s a haiku, you ask? Click here.

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REMEMBER: Do not post your link unless you have a haiku this week!

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