peskypippi.comBecause I have a lot to say…

It seems to me that a child ought to go to school to learn. To play. To socialize. To thrive.

And that a child shouldn’t fear for his life when he is adding, writing about his favorite family Holiday traditions, and playing kickball.

A child shouldn’t have to fear shootings and killings. While at school. Or at the mall, when visiting Santa.

Within one week, there have been two horrific happenings in my lovely U.S.A. A shooting in a mall. And a shooting in an elementary school. Folks, several Kindergartners are now dead.

All I can think is: Their parents sent them off to school to add, write about their favorite family Holiday traditions, and to play kickball. Their parents did not send them to school, only to have them killed and to never return. This is the saddest, most horrific thing.

I can only imagine what the families are going through.

We are amidst Hanukkah and counting down the days before Christmas. This is the time for love and family and kindness and peace.

“Peace must develop from inner peace.

Peace is not just mere absence of violence.

Peace is, I think, the manifestation of human compassion.”

– Dalai Lama XIV

At the hospital, the nurses told me to hold my newborn like a football when I fed him.

Now this six-foot-tall young man plays football. With swarms of teenager girls watching.

I was not prepared for this.

I have mothered this boy-man for 13 years. As the years and milestones pass, I try to support his independence, steer his choices, but ultimately let go. And it’s difficult.

One of my favorite parenting mantras is:

“There are only two lasting bequests we can hope to give to our children. One of them is roots. The other is wings.”

I’m better at the roots part. You know, the love and nurturing part?

I am trying to be better at the wings part.

Take for example, football. Do I want my son playing a sport where his body is jostled around and he is required to wear a mouth guard–not only to protect his pretty teeth but to prevent jaw injuries at mega impact? It’s nerve-racking signing all of the concussion waivers. It’s also kinda awesome seeing him in his full gear–with helmet and pads–looking like a man.

He really really wants to play. And he is committed to doing his best.

I am proud of his dedication and enthusiasm. And because of this, I must let go and let him grow. And be his cheerleader.

I can’t help but think of the children’s song, Eagles, which sums up my belief in raising children: letting go.

May this big boy of mine fly down that football field with his mouth guard and his budding wings. I will be watching with love, support, and faith in him. And I may also be sporting a tear or two.

These pictures show me with my son then…now.

Bullies. Suck.

This is my son. This picture was taken on his first day of Kindergarten. Eager. Excited. A little nervous. But ready.

Ready to take on the alphabet. Count by 2s. Learn how pumpkin seeds grow. Watch chicks hatch. Eat apple sauce at snack time.

But not ready to take on a bully. Little did he know that a bully was lurking. Ready to make his Kindergarten life miserable.

I asked my son if I could share his story. He said it was OK because it might help other parents and children.

Not long into Fall, a freckle-faced, fellow Kindergartener started teasing him. Bugging him. Saying mean and hateful things. The bully would twist his arm when they lined up, so hard that it left bruises. Sometimes bloody fingernail marks.

The bully knew how to push buttons and hurt feelings. He made fun of the way my son talked. And imitated him to the point that my son stopped talking at recess, for fear of being ridiculed.

My son had a little delay in pronouncing a few sounds. Typical for a child of his age. “W” for the letter “L.” “Train” would be pronounced “twain.” “Rs” were hard to pronounce. “Car” would be pronounced “cah.” He qualified for speech class with a speech pathologist once a week to help clear things up. (Fast forward one year later, my son “graduated” from speech…no more baby talk!)

It wasn’t only my son who was affected. The bully poked another student in the face with a pencil. Her parents didn’t speak out. I also found out the bully bruised another child’s wrist. The parents remained quiet.

You may think, “Boys will be boys.” But is it OK for your son:

• to come home from school with his wrist bruised?
• to cry before school, saying he didn’t want to go ever again?
• to be scared to line up after recess, always looking over his shoulder?

Enter Mama Bear.

Deep down, I envisioned me transforming into Peyton from The Hand That Rocks the Cradle, who goes up to a bully in a playground, twists his arm, and snarls, “Leave Emma alone. If you don’t I’m gonna rip your f—–g head off.” But I thought turning into a bully would be going against my mission.

Every day, I would talk to my son at length. Prod him with questions. What did you do at recess? Who did you play with? What happened? Did you find a teacher on duty to talk to? Who did you sit by on the bus? How did lunch go? I needed to find out what was happening. How he was feeling. What were his responses to the bully.

I knew that as a parent and mother, I needed to take action. I started by giving him words to say. To empower himself with the bully. Simple words such as “Leave me alone.” We practiced. Practiced saying it loud and strong.

That wasn’t enough.

I talked with the teacher…

I talked with the guidance counselor…

I talked with the principal…and wrote her a letter detailing the incidents and demanded that it become part of the bully’s permanent school record.

Actions were finally taken. The bullying stopped.

Several months later, Kindergarten became more like Kindergarten. My son was ready to go to school in the morning. To cut paper snowflakes. To learn about Martin Luther King Jr. and Eric Carle and Sacagawea. To see the chicks hatch in the Spring. To learn how to say “thank you” in Spanish.

Communication and persistence were key.

Our children need us for support. Our children need us for direction. Our children need us to empower them. And sometimes, our children need us to take action and be their voice.

Because sometimes, little voices are hard to hear.

You know the saying, “Sticks and stones may break my bones but words will never hurt me?” No, silly, not the Rihanna lyrics, “Sticks and stones may break my bones. But chains and whips excite me.” (Oh, what a nice message to send to your young fans and all women alike, Rihanna. Good going.)

Words do hurt.

I am capable. I am strong. But when it comes to insults or put-downs, I am just a big ol’ sponge. And I carry the negative words with me for a long time.

Take something someone said in high school. That was, like, in the Ice Age. I still have this vivid memory: my buddy and I were walking across the courtyard at lunchtime. A mean girl in our grade calls out my name and I heard her say to her friend, “You know, the ugly one.” Why do I still remember this?

Hello? Sponge here.

Sheesh. Carrying other peoples’ mean words with me is a pain in the ass. I’m finally realizing this. It’s like I’m this sponge carrying a gazillion bacteria. How can I tell my kids not to let other people bother them when I don’t do that myself? “Don’t listen to them. Those are just mean words,” I say.

I think it’s high time I listen to my words. Time to lighten the negativity load and toss that bacteria-ridden sponge. For good.

If ever there was a stupid saying, “Just sayin’” tops the list. Tops the hateful list, that’s for sure. It’s a word jab.

The Urban Dictionary defines just sayin’ as:

a term coined to be used at the end of something insulting or offensive to take the heat off when you say it

Take the heat off? I think it does the opposite. It adds heat. Fire. Fire stick. Stab. At the end. So you’re left hanging with, “wow, did she really just say that?”

It’s kinda like when people say:

• “I don’t mean to be mean but…your ass is a double wide.” Uh, mean. But you knew something mean was coming.

or

• “I don’t mean to be rude but…your breath smells like a swamp.” Uh, that’s pretty rude. Does your breath smell like a candy cane all the time?

But in both of those instances, the slap comes at the beginning, so you are prepared for the insult. You can brace yourself.

But “just sayin’” comes at the END. So you could be having a great conversation–or so you think–and then the just sayin’ is dropped at the end. Catching you off guard. Like a stink bomb.

Here are two very mean examples when just sayin’ was intended as a word jab:

• One new mother says to the other: “Breast milk is more nutritious than formula…” Wait for it. Wait for it…  “…just sayin’.”

• Or this one: My tween son was helping with a peanut butter drive for poor children in Mexico who are without food (see related post here). Why peanut butter? Because it is packed with protein, is portable, and isn’t perishable. So I encouraged my kids to donate their money and I would match what they contributed. A win-win for everyone involved. I posted this on Facebook:

“We rallied some PB for the poor children. My kids donated their own $ and I matched it. Small acts of kindness.” (along with this pic):

My goal in my post was really just to blab about my daily life, with a little bit of a hint for others to help #payitforward. And this is what someone posted:

• “Hey, that’s great, but don’t poor kids deserve peanut butter that’s just made from peanuts? Skippy is full of sugar and hydrogenated oil. Just sayin’…”

Yikes! Snap! Fire stick!

So what exactly is the intent behind this comment? Was is to call out someone else’s inferiority? Was it simply a word jab to make the other feel bad?

I couldn’t help myself. Sometimes, you just don’t want to take the high road. And, well, I am pesky and had to respond:

“Yikes, XYZ, when you launch your all-natural PB drive for poor kids in Mexico, let me know. #let’snotbehateful #it’sallgood”

And I think that’s the last time I will utter the words Just Sayin’ because saying that is, well, Just Stupid.

Sometimes we mothers just need a good cry. An overwhelmed-I’m-losing-it-and-feeling-down-and-discouraged-and-maybe-even-having-a-little-pity-party cry.

This usually happens to me in the car. Boo hooing loudly. With tears streaming down my face. And when I look in the mirror, my mascara is running down my cheeks. And my eyes are all bloodshot. And my lips are quivering.

This reminds me of the lyrics from the song, “It’s Alright to Cry” from the CD Free to Be You and Me (see related post about that kick-ass CD).

It’s all right to cry
Crying gets the sad out of you
It’s all right to cry
It might make you feel better

But after a few minutes, you’ve gotten it all out. And you can wipe away the tears and the mascara. And take a deep breath. And you can get on with your day.