Roxie has this new thing.
She wants to be just like me.
I think it's the magic age - five - or perhaps it's the headiness of Kindergarten, but man oh man, I walk on water to this kid.
I'll be at my desk when I'll hear a rooting around in my purse. She'll be around the corner, perched on the sofa, legs crossed, her tiny hands holding my Blackberry to her ear. "Gurrrrl, I see crazy coming and I cross-the-street!" she'll say, a perfect impression of my tone and cadence. She examines her nails, as I do, and runs her fingers along her legs - a deceptively glamorous move - (though I usually do it to check stubble growth).
She wants to wear my perfume, knots a scarf on herself when I do, and asks me what my favorite song is. I'll tell her, and no matter what the song is, she'll exclaim in surprise, "Me too!".
Me too.
I know that this is developmental and a passing phase; soon I'll be at the bottom of the toy box like last year's Barbie.
It has me thinking, though.
Kids notice.
Kids listen.
Not to stress anyone out any more than they already are, but
they are watching us.
I have been volunteering at M's school for the last month; I helped costume the elaborate all-school musical, and I got to know most of the kids in the show.
Parents, too.
As M goes to a very small private school designed for the child who needs a more intimate setting (sensory issues, learning issues, light behavior problems), you can imagine that these parents are of a different ilk.
What I've noticed that sometimes apples don't fall far from trees, and that social difficulty may be generational. (Am I putting this tactfully enough?) I would sit, prepping costumes with these parents, and wonder and worry for these children as I watched their parents awkwardly navigate through a meeting. How do they model? Where do they get guidance?
Call it volunteer burn-out, but I started becoming jaded.
The day of the big show arrived, and I stationed myself on the third floor, makeup kit in hand, where a small group of volunteers met me to help prepare the actors for their show. I hadn't met this particular group before, and found them sweet and helpful. We positioned high stools around the room, and invited the stream of children in, one at at time. I distributed brushes, and set to work. I can knock out a face in three minutes tops, and I barely glanced up when one mother tapped me on the shoulder. "Drama," she whispered,"what do we do with them?". I looked at the other mothers. They stood frozen, sponges and brushes in their hands, looking curiously at me, their charges squirming in their seats. I called a quick re-group and told them that all they needed to do was get a little color on their faces, cover pimples, and most of all, make them feel like a million.
A freckly overweight boy with a ruddiness problem sat at my station. "Okay. Tell me about your character," I said, mixing some foundation on the back of my hand. "Uh, I'm the writer," he said, looking uncomfortable. "Yes, I know that you're the writer.
Everyone knows that you're the writer, of course," I said, as if he were playing Otello at the Met, "but what about your character? What is he about? How old is he? What is he
feeling?"
The other mothers smiled slightly as they brushed makeup on, listening to my patter.
Unbelievably, the boy answered. "Uh, well. He likes Rapunzel. He listens to rap music, and oh, he's about, uh, thirty."
"Ah," I said, as if he were Brando talking about his method, "Sooo interesting. Rap music? Perfect!" I exclaimed, and gave him the same standard powder-blush-eye pencil that every kid would get in under three minutes.
He emerged beaming.
Soon I began to hear the other mothers follow suit, asking questions about character, complimenting hair, engaging the kids in talk about themselves. Afterward, as we were cleaning up, one mother said, "That was the most fun I've had in a year," and we all nodded, wiping counters, rife with pride.
The show was perfection, each child showcased and confident, rehearsed within an inch of their lives. I watched, as I do, the parents watching their children, and felt the swell of pride for each and every one of them as well.
Afterward, parents and grandparents and friends went out of their way to acknowledge and compliment all of the children, not just their own. Mothers came up to other mothers and said under lowered voices, "Did you see your son? He's doing so well! And he has so many friends now!". In another setting, this might be construed as condescending behavior, but as you know, it is balm for a weary mother's ears.
As you know, we run with a tight posse. We are a formidable mafia of support.
M did brilliantly and hammily, blowing kisses to the audience, holding her final pose with a wide smile. She insisted that we go out to celebrate, and off to the local burger joint we went. Another student, an eighth grader, was there, and approached me with a lone flower, obviously plucked from her bouquet. "Thank you," she said, faint traces of her speech impediment still there, "for doing our makeup and asking about us." I gave her a quick hug, and turned my face so that she wouldn't see my tears.
I thought about my rag-tag-ad-hoc group of mother make up artists, and how good we felt giving to the kids a bit of powder and encouragement.
It matters. Kids listen.
They answer when they are asked.
Sometimes, we don't feel good enough. Speaking from my working-mother standpoint, I am the first to stand up at this meeting and say that I am guilty most of the time; that I overcompensate with fireworks out of my ass on the weekends; that I lose my patience more than I care to admit.
My friend Justine works with me, and our girls attend the same Kindergarten. We take turns picking up and doing after-school things, and sometimes it is a mad rush between us to juggle our jobs and girls. We do a fine job, but the stress of children and work is, as you can guess, palpable.
On the last day of school before break, Justine came down to my office crying. I asked her what had happened, and she marched to my computer and opened up her email.
It was to our supervisor, and it read:
I am going to leave early and take my daughter to the Nutcracker today. I am possibly more excited than she is! I will take care of the observations tonight when I get home.
To which our anal retentive supervisor wrote:
Which is why you are such a good mother, among many other reasons.
This should be mandated by the government, a weekly declaration to mothers.
We need to hear this.
This is why you are such a good mother, among many other reasons:
You might buy store-bought cupcakes and leave them off in the school office just a little too late for the class party;
You hold your breath, smile frozen, in restaurants as your socially-challenged kid struggles to make small talk with the server;
You are the second-to-the-last-person to pick up at aftercare on Fridays;
You can't always drive on the fieldtrips, but send in extra items on the class wish list;
Like me, you crisply turn your child over to Dad when it's time to start the math homework;
You have that second glass of wine after the kids go to bed;
You look at the clock precisely at recess time and wonder;
You go just a little overboard with enthusiasm over playdates;
You think about your child a little more than you need to as you try to drift off to sleep at night;
For all of these reasons - that's what makes you a good mother. Mothers don't have to be perfect models, they don't have to be facile at social skills, or math, or sports.
They have to ask the questions.
And listen.
