Rox and Roll

Petunia has a dream that people will stick together like legos

For the last several MLK days, I've read Petunia a book about the Rev. Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr., and we've watched his "I Have a Dream" speech.  She hasn't learned much in school yet about the civil rights movement or MLK; it seems to me that if they're to have a day off from school to celebrate Dr. King, kids should understand what they're honoring.  This year, I included Dash in the memorial. 

Petunia grew up in a different life context from Dash; our area of New Jersey was not very diverse racially, meaning that it was mostly white.  Dash, however, has spent a year and a half in California attending a preschool where about twelve different languages (maybe more) are spoken.  It seems like the school has kids from every race, creed, religion, culture, etc.  And unlike Petunia, who once noted when we drove through Trenton that "there are a lot of African-Mexicans here," Dash actually knows the difference between African-Americans and Mexicans (not that he cares).  The story of the "I Have a Dream" speech and the accompanying civil rights march left him puzzled and concerned.  I tried to reassure him that "things are different now" (well, at least until you take sociology in college), and Petunia tried to help explain.  Her explanation included the Rosa Parks story and how Obama never could've been President.  She also mentioned which kids wouldn't be in Dash's classroom, and how Mama and Daddy never could've been married.

Wait... huh?

When Petunia was little, she used to draw and color our family quite a bit: peach-colored Mom, peach Petunia, peach Dash... and a brown Daddy.  We've laughed a lot over our brown Daddy over the years.  The Guv inherited his Greek father's dark coloring, and he is, indeed, quite a bit darker than his lily-white wife.  But we didn't realize until this year that Petunia actually thought he was "other" as opposed to just darker than us.  We had a long discussion about it, and she dug in: "he IS a different ethnicity, Mama," she insisted.  "But you're that ethnicity, too," I retorted.  "Yes, but no one would think my skin is brown," she shot back.  "No one thinks Daddy's skin is brown, either," I chuckled, "except for you.  He's European.  Mediterranean.  He's white, even though he's a different shade of white."  We reached a point of agreement, and we talked about all of the different people we know who look different from us despite our shared whiteness; we also talked about Obama's mixed race... and, most importantly, we had a fantastic conversation about finding the sameness among our differences.  It was a pretty exhausting conversation, especially for a mother who'd rather her children focus less on the color of someone's skin than on the content of their character, as Dr. King suggests.

Then we adjourned our lesson, and Dash and I read a few books that helped to reinforce our conversation (e.g. "I Am America") as Petunia drafted her 2010 "I Have a Dream" speech.  Here it is:

I have a dream, that little kids, like me, won't make fun of each other's religion or skin.  I have a dream that angels will bring peace on earth.  I have a dream that war will end.  I have a dream that everyone is happy and healthy.  I have a dream that poor people have a home.  I have a dream that dogs, cats, and guinea pigs will get along.

I have a dream that people will stick together like legos.  I have a  dream that you have a dream.  I have a dream that pets will be happy and healthy.  I have a dream that our future will be great.  I have a  dream that dinosaurs will be in our hearts.  I have a dream that we will always be nice people. 

(I didn't publish last year's speech, but Petunia's 2008 one is here.)

Talking with kids about suicide

Yesterday, I did something I had hoped to avoid until at least my daughter's teen years: I talked with her about suicide.  It's nothing I planned on; I just knew that she'd have heard about our area's fourth teen suicide in six months, and I felt it better to address the situation with facts rather than to try to discern meaning from school rumors.

Broaching the subject, I asked Petunia if she'd heard about another teenager getting hit by a train (this is what she'd heard about in the past).  Her response was that yes, someone at school had said that another child had been hit while sitting on the tracks.  Her question: why would a kid sit on the tracks?  Couldn't he hear the train coming?

Yes, I told her, he could.  He sat there on purpose.

I would like to forget the look on her face as it dawned on her what I was saying, but I'm sure I never will forget that sweet face, flushed and full of awe, anger, sadness and confusion. 

Why?  She wanted to know.  So do I; click here for the post I wrote regarding teen suicide for the SVMB.

In the end, I didn't have to say much at all.  As her under-the-weather brother slept in his car seat, we talked in the car -- our usual place for deep discussions.  She told me that if she felt really sad or "out of hope" (her words), she'd talk to me or to her dad, of course.  She also looked me in the eye and promised me she'd never take her own life.  I didn't ask her to say that, but I'm glad she did.  I looked her in the eye and said that neither daddy nor I would either.  It's a pact, one that psychologists encourage us to make with our kids.  It wasn't hard to do with a nine year-old; I wonder how many parents of teens have heard and heeded that advice, too.

What a screwed-up world this is when Petunia doesn't know about the birds-and-the-bees yet but knows about suicide.  I'm just glad that she and I could talk meaningfully about this without hysterics or fear.  She ended our conversation by saying, "I would never do that to my mom and dad.  What are these kids thinking?"  In all of the despair I feel about this suicide cluster, I have to admit that I agree with her on that front; these kids aren't thinking about their families, or the train drivers, people whose lives are going to be taken, too, to some extent, by their actions.  It's too late for the four who've already passed, but what about the hundreds that surround us still?  How do we convince them that they have worth or that their families are worth sparing that kind of pain?  It breaks my heart that this is happening and that my daughter lost a little bit of innocence about the world yesterday.  It happens; they grow.  I just wish I could have sheltered her a little bit longer.

Petunia on Lytton Plaza

Petunia: "Mom, look, they're redoing Lytton Plaza again!  The fence is back up!  (pause)  Oh no, the egg is gone!"

Mom: "Yeah, remember, I told you that the City was going to redo the Plaza.  They're going to fix it up and then return the Egg, but it'll be in the back of the Plaza next time."

Petunia: "They're not fooling me."

Mom: "What do you mean?"

Petunia: "Lytton Plaza doesn't need to be redone.  They're just tired of all of the people standing on their boxes praising Jah all of the time."

Mom (stifling laughter): "Perhaps, but it was looking kind of ratty to me; it'll be nice to have it spruced up since it's kind of in the heart of downtown."

Petunia: "Whatever, it's good they closed it.  I get tired of the people getting in my face and praising Jah all of the time, too.  I mean, first of all, don't they realize there are Jews and Muslims around, too?  And some people who might praise another Jah?  This City isn't just for people who praise Jah their own way; it's for everyone."

Mom: "True 'nuf."

Petunia: "And another thing!  I'm down with Jah and all, but I'm not about to stand on a box and start yelling at people about it.  Nobody ever listens to you when you do that.  They just think you're crazy."

Mom: "Yeah, maybe it's good that they shut it down for a bit.  I wonder what it'll be like when it comes back, though."

Petunia: "I'll tell you what, I bet there will still be people yelling.  They'll just be yelling in a nicer place."

My daughter: almost-9, and wise beyond her years.

(photo from the Paly Voice)

The Kids and the Hair Bands

Last weekend, the Guv and I went to an 80s-themed 40th birthday party.  Gearing up for the day, we were listening to some 80s while driving around with the kids.  They found the music "funny."

Fast forward to today, when it was unnaturally quiet in the house.  I heard the two of them in the office.  Just as I was about to get up and spy on them, they both came out, giggling. 

"What are you guys doing?" I asked.

"Listening to hair bands on YouTube," Petunia replied.

"Yeah, hair bands!" Dash echoed, LHAO.

"Hear anything you like?" I queried.

"Mom... they were hair bands," Petunia answered.

"And?" I waited...

"And they're really, really funny," Petunia continued, "and bad, really, really bad."

Sigh.  Kids these days...

Petunia explains multiple personality disorder

Driving home from the Ben & Jerry's factory tour, Petunia starts on a rant.  Usually, if she goes on a rant, it's about the injustices that nine year-old girls heap on each other, or how much nine year-old boys suck, or, these days, how unfair it is that Michael Jackson died before she could see him in concert.  (That's thanks to her Grandma, a true MJ addict who has shared the love.)  On rare occasion, it's a rant directed at us: you don't let me horseback ride, why can't I go to sleepaway camp, I want to jump off of the same bridge my friends are, blah blah blah.

In any event, today's rant was on Hannah Montana, and it went something like this:

Petunia: "I can't STAND that Hannah Montana."

Mama, who will soon regret engaging on this topic: "Yeah, I forget, why exactly is that?  A lot of girls you like are really into Hannah Montana."

Petunia: "I KNOW, and I can't believe it!  I mean, first of all, why does one person have to be two people?  It's like, she's Miley Cyrus; why does she have to be Hannah Montana too?"

Mama: "She's acting... you know, like Vanessa Hudgins acts as Gabriella in High School Musical."

Petunia: "That's SO not the same.  It's CLEAR Vanessa Hudgins is acting in a movie that someone wrote.  There's nothing CLEAR about Hannah Montana.  It's like she's trying to be two people and doesn't know who she is!"

Mama: "You mean it's like Miley Cyrus not knowing who she is?"

Petunia: "What's the difference?  They're both the same people!  That's my problem!"

... fast forward HALF AN HOUR ... to Mama wishing she would've encouraged Petunia to nap like her sleeping brother ...

Petunia: "The thing is, Miley Cyrus isn't bad.  She's normal looking.  She looks like Kelly Clarkson or something.. you know, like a REAL person.  Hannah Montana?  She's fake."

Mama: "Because that's Miley Cyrus playing a role."

Petunia: "I can't believe you still don't get this, Mama.  When somebody acts in a role, she doesn't have to put a blonde wig over her brown hair.  She doesn't have to put on make-up and scanty clothes.  She doesn't have to be like that.  She could just be like herself and act."

(Mama confesses that she was a little bit happy with that last statement, while supressing the urge to bring up Vanessa Hudgins' nude pics)

Mama: "Okay, I get it.  You don't like Hannah Montana."

Petunia (far from finished with rant): "And do you know why you shouldn't like her either?  She wears more make-up than TEN Bratz dolls put together.  And you hate Bratz dolls.  So there."

Mama: "So there.  Want to listen to some Taylor Swift now?"

Petunia: "THANK GOD SHE'S ONLY ONE PERSON."

Finally, she's getting it

From my packing down the hall, I heard a rare altercation between Petunia and Dash tonight.

"GET OUT OF MY ROOM!" Petunia yelled.

"NO!" a very angry Dash fought back.  "I WANT TO BUILD A PILLOW FORT UNDER YOUR DESK!"  (This is a frequent activity for them.)

"Dash, I said GET OUT!  I can't build a pillow fort now!  I have to clean up!" Petunia almost cried.

I appeared in the doorway with raised eyebrows.

"Mom, Dash won't get out of my room!" Petunia whined.

"Mama, Petunia won't build a pillow fort with me!" Dash whined too.

"Why can't you build a pillow fort together?" I asked.  Seeing Petunia's complaint coming, I added, "You know, it is easier for me to pack for Florida if you are playing nicely together."  Seeing the whining about to recommence anyway, I made it clearer.  "If I can't pack for Florida, well, then we can't go to Florida.  You feelin' me?"

Petunia looked at me with a mix of "duh" and fiery anger at the same time.  It was weird.  It was freaky.  It was so... so... pre-teen.  God, I am not ready for that.

"Mom," she explained.  "Look at my room."

I looked.  I saw... Petunia's room.

"And?" I asked.

"It's a mess," she sighed as she rolled her eyes.  (GAH!)  "And you and daddy go all batty on me when my room is a mess.  And I just can't have that.  So you need to get him out of here so that I can clean up.  Okay?"

49% of me wanted to absolutely wallop my child, for the first time ever, for the attitude she was flipping me.  But the other 51% understood that she was right; daddy would go all batty if her room were such a mess.  (Would I?  Maybe.  But not the night before a trip... but she doesn't need to know that.)

So I silently picked up Dash and exited the room.  Dash complained.  Dash threatened to "bust everything" if he couldn't build a pillow fort in Petunia's room.  Dash settled for brushing his teeth for half an hour. 

Oh, man, tomorrow is going to be one looonnnnggg travel day!

Braces and spinach and stitches, oh my!

Petunia and Dash visited our new dentist today.  Petunia was shocked that she has a cavity in between two tightly-packed baby teeth; it is going to be filled on Friday, because it is in one of those teeth that you don't lose until you're 12.  It's a huge bummer; she is a great brusher and flosser according to the dentist, but this cavity is so wedged in there that it was virtually inevitable.

That aside, the even bigger shocker was that the dentist recommended consulting an orthodontist about the crowding in Petunia's mouth.  Apparently, the "new" thinking (new since my day, anyway) is that kids with crowding or other orthodontic issues should have braces for about 18 months at this age, and that dental work might preclude the need for braces later on -- or might at least shorten the duration in those teen years.  Here's how our conversation, post-dentist, went:

Petunia: Mama, what was that dentist girl saying about needing to see about orthodontia?

Mama: Well, she thinks that it might be advisable for you to have braces sooner rather than later because of the crowding in your lower teeth.

Petunia (sighing): The crowding that gave me this cavity that I now have to have filled?

Mama: Yes, I think so,

Petunia (super-serious): I do not want braces.  (dramatic pause)  Braces will look cheap on me.

Mama: What huh?

Petunia: Seriously, mama, they're not good.  They don't "go" [and she even inserted air quotes!] with me.

Mama (stiffling a laugh): Well, would you rather have them as a teenager?

Petunia: MAMA!  [hands on hips, walking stopped]  Do you know how serious I am?  I WOULD RATHER EAT SPINACH THAN HAVE BRACES.

Mama: Wow.  I mean, WOW.  We'll have to talk to Daddy about this problem, and, in the meanwhile,  we are scheduling a consultation.  (cutting off protest from Petunia)  Just to get information!

Petunia: Alright, but I'm just saying, it's not cool.

[Mama: OH MY G-D, SHE'S ONLY 8, I'M GOING TO NEED SOME SERIOUS MEDICATION TO GET THROUGH THE NEXT TEN YEARS....!!!!!]

*****

Meanwhile, Dash was mortified by the hygenist touching his sister's teeth with "some buzzing thing" in the dentist's office.  He didn't act up or anything; he just whispered to me that he wanted "that lady" to stop it.  I wasn't sure what to expect when it was his turn in the chair.

Imagine my surprise when he climbed into the chair by himself, looked me square in the eye, and said: "I'm a big man.  I can do this."  I confess that I almost cried.  He is almost 4 I guess... but something tells me that this steely resolve is quite atypical for his age.  I hope he keeps it, because I envy it; I am pretty strong, but not half as much as him!

*****

Flashback to a week ago, when Dash was sitting in the dermatology office with me as I had a mole, and some surrounding tissue, excised.  (My brother is a melanoma survivor; I don't screw around with funky moles.)  I looked over at him as the doctor was numbing my arm, and I wondered if perhaps it was a bad idea to get this done with him sitting right there.  His sweet little deep brown eyes met mine, with a gaze that was neither sad nor scared -- just steady.  It was like he was telling me, "It's alright, and I'm right here if you need me."  I have never had stitches before, and I'm sporting four right now.  I almost cried as I was getting stitched, as the sensation is rather unpleasant -- but instead, I looked at my boy, sitting there with his hands folded in his lap, and I drew strength from him.

You know, sometimes I think that I've spent almost nine years holding children; and other times, I realize that as much as I've held them, they've held me, too.

When I got up from the chair, stitches and all, I thanked my Dash for sitting so nicely while the doctor was working on my arm.  He said, "It's okay, Mama, you're all better now," and he took my hand, and we walked out of the door together.  He is a big man, indeed.

The weekend that'll make my week

Starting out the weekend, there was a chance it was going to be the weekend from hell.  I braced myself appropriately, apparently, since it turned out to be an absolutely fabulous few days.

Of course (WARNING: EAST COAST FRIENDS, AVERT YOUR EYES!) the weather being around 70 degrees and sunny might have had something to do with it.

Saturday morning dawned bright and beautiful as I gathered the kids for a neighbor's Laser Quest birthday party.  Truly, the place was insane.  There were four birthday parties going on at once, and the arcade was in the reception hall.  It would've been easy to lose Dash, who was attached to me while Petunia played laser tag, because of the sheer overcrowding, let alone the poor layout.  Suffice it to say, it wasn't my favorite party ever -- but the kids loved it, and that's what mattered.

The laser tag and arcade party was followed by pizza, etc., though, and imagine the surprise I enjoyed when the party hosts whipped out a gluten-free, soy-cheese pizza!  To some people, this would be far from thrilling, but put yourself in my shoes: I don't remember the last time I ate a slice of pizza.  It has been over a year, maybe two, ever since my wheat allergy became severe enough that I can't even cheat and sneak a bite.  To compound things, Dash's recent diagnosis with a mild dairy allergy has complicated things.  This family eats (ate) a lot of pizza.  So when my neighbor introduced me to Amici's (the one they ordered from is in Mountain View), she greatly improved the quality of my life.  We ordered from there tonight: a soy cheese pizza for Dash, a gluten-free Margherita pizza for me, and a half-cheese, half-pepperoni "normal" large pie for Petunia and the Guv.  The downside was the $53 bill (the GF pizza was $24 of that) -- but my first taste of pizza in over a year made that priceless!  (And it was really, really GOOD too!)

After Laser Tag on Saturday, we returned home to prepare for a visit from my college friend Seamus, his lovely wife, and their two year-old daughter.  Sometimes, these type of visits are more trouble than they're worth -- the work of cooking and cleaning up compounded by constant childcare ("refereeing") can be a real drag.  But not this time!  Our Petunia stepped up to the plate without even being asked, taking over the care of her brother and our young visitor.  Plus, the Guv and I made a very low-maintenace menu of chili, quesadillas, veggie and cheese trays -- that, some wine and beer, and it was a very easy, enjoyable evening.  I don't remember the last time I had meaningful adult conversation with kids in the house.  What a special night!

And then this morning, I slept in... which was actually a problem, since I woke up at 8:35 am and was supposed to be at Dash's preschool from 9-3 for a "maintenance day."  For the uninformed, "maintenance day" is code for "wiping boogers off of toys, tables, etc." and it was totally gross.  My son loves this preschool, but it is just not my bag... too much work, too much cleaning that I don't even want to do in my own house, too much dirt... All that said, the Guv recently figured out that to take my son to the drop-off preschool, I'd have to earn about $12g to pay for it... So we stay at the right school for Dash, the wrong school for me (though I have made some great friends there, so someday I'll stop saying that). 

While I attended Booger Day, the Guv took Petunia, her two friends N and Z, and Dash on a super-long bike ride to Stanford's campus, where they launched stomp rockets, dunked in a fountain (did I mention it was 72 today?) and slurped Jamba Juice.  The Guv is exhausted, and I am hugely impressed that he took that on himself.  When I commented to him that this weekend was like one long playdate for our friend Petunia, he chuckled, "yeah -- just like our life was growing up.  This is how it's supposed to be.  Like the good old days!" 

I'm not sure that I'm up for weekends jam-packed with mutiple others' kids yet -- though breaking it up with some friends and wine sure did help!  And the Guv is right about one thing: these are the good old days, made new again through our young 'uns.  What a fun weekend.  I hope that it's just the start of a magnificent new year in our new California home.