Ballerina feet are not like regular feet. They are strong and flexible and can shake hands, crack walnuts, and count beans. Fold themselves in half like something from The Good Earth. They are amazing and I love them, but oh, wow, do they smell.
One thing that irritates me about ballet is they are always talking about her body. Behind her back, mouthing to me, so I think that is acceptable, if we have to talk about a 7-year-old's body, that we not do it right in front of her. But, still, it makes me want to smack, all this objectifying yap about her "perfect body." I have to always repress this urge to call them pornographers and burn the place down.
I work very hard to conceal my animus toward the whole ballet situation. I am fairly certain I succeed, and to Fille's eyes, am just not any more or less interested in ballet than any of their other pursuits. Mari and I admire her discipline, very much, but ballet? Eh. It is what it is. We drive her and sign checks. It is not our life.
During the DNC, watching in particular Michelle Obama's speech, I became concerned that my parenting was woefully lacking in inspirational rhetoric. Work hard. Your word is your bond. Reach for your dreams and the like. "What will they say?" I wailed to Mari and many of our friends. "What if they win something important? Then they will say, 'Our mother, she used to tell us, Do whatever you want! It's your life, I don't care!' That sounds awful!"
Mari told me that they will of course say that I was supportive in whatever way they needed, "She drove us, and signed all the checks. She was always there for us, and she is here tonight, way in the back -- she may have already alienated some of you -- knitting and texting on her BlackBerry. Mom? Femme? Hi! Let the people see you, OK?" It was really hilarious, and this is why I love him. Also, because when I was crying the day Daisy had to go to Paul Newman, he made some really awesome, bewildering, and endless analogy meant to be reassuring and which was based in a parable from Fannie Flagg's Fried Green Tomatoes at the Whistlestop Cafe.
Also, in the intersection of politics and parenting: Sarah Palin is crazy. Ok, agreed, moving on. So, I say one day, back in August, when Fille asked about a photo in a magazine, "She is Sarah Palin. She wants to be the VP and she is crazy." Fille asks, reasonably, "Why is she crazy?" Oh, shit, that just slipped out.
So, I said, truthfully, "Well ... for one, she thinks that you should not tell children the truth about sex." This was more than zany enough for my daughter, who said, "Really? Wow." Also,the children's babysitter pointed out to them that she does not believe in evolution and the 6,000-year-old Earth thing. I hear both children responded as, "Um, that seems weird, yeah. Whoa."
We have never again spoken with them about anything attached to the general election in this house. There is not any reason to; I do not spend long (any) hours as an FDR Democrat in front of the radio listening to endless NPR analysis. We don't have a television. And because I am having difficulties expressing myself extemporaneously of late, I find that most detailed, same-side, "Oh, yes, and, but also, this" discussions are happening by way of emails.
The children's friends, however, are endlessly talking about this election. Who knows why. They come home from their afterschool program with vast misinformation, which I patiently correct, but I find bewildering. Today, I was minding my business, buying groceries in a Whole Foods Market, located in an (even for WFM) ultra-ritzy township. So, we are standing in line, and Fille asks about Bristol Palin. In a really loud voice, too.
"Mommy," she said, "I don't understand something. If Sarah Palin doesn't tell her children about sex, how is her daughter having a baby?"
The Whole Foods, the section where we were, the line in which we stood, became very quiet. I was reminded of times when the children were very little and the sexy animals in the zoo would be sexing it up. The children, usually Garçon, would ask what they were doing, the crowd would get very quiet and I would say, nonchalantly, "Making baby [whatevers]." The children would of course nod sagely and then I would hear hearty and relieved sighs all around.
This time, I looked at her and said, "Well." I took a breath. "Do you remember when we talked about birth control?" I heard, I think, the sound of people falling to the floor, heads of organic cabbage being lighted aflame and rolled down the aisles, and scandal. I thought this extremely ironic, given the characters we were discussing. I mean, children get pregnant because they do not have good information, because they are not told the truth, because if they don't buy condoms, their moms will never find out they are doing It. What a good idea! Except that it is so not!
Kowalski was giving me a little hell recently for he wanted to know why it is that I will "send the kids to the abbatoir to get their cat executed," but I will drive all over town to get the right bubble gum to preserve the fable of Ermentrude Diaphony, US Tooth Fairy, Region 6: Guam, USVI, Mid-Atlantic States. ( I did do this, two weeks ago. All over town.) Um, duh? Because the Tooth Fairy is for children and they will never have to grapple with an appropriate and healthy regard for the Tooth Fairy as grownups.
But, death will come, it is a part of life, and they need to get square with that now. Just like sex and their bodies. I cannot tell lies about it all, I cannot let people go on about it in inappropriate ways where they can hear. (Ballet! You chassé on thin ice!) I want them to be able to say, when they grow up, "Our mom, she gave us tools and information and let us make use of them our whole lives, and she is here now, in the back, sullen, knitting and texting."