Girl-on-girl bullying

Last night, I went to see "Finding Kind," a film about girl-on-girl bullying. As she entered, I asked my friend if I could sit with her.  She joked that I could, yes, but only if I wouldn't sit with anyone else, a wink we shared together.  The auditorium was too chilly, so my friend and I leaned against one another, hoping to share a little of the warmth we feel for each other.  At one point, early on, my typical tears tumbled out, and she patted my face; when her jacket slipped off her shoulder, I drew it back up for her. 

As I snuggled deep down into the warmth that is this woman, I looked out into the dark at all the other women, many of whom were my friends, and I cozied up.  All that warmth, and all that love, filled the space.  I could feel it deep down in my bones, and I thought:  how fucking lucky am I to have lucked into this?   
Growing up, I was the perennial new girl.  My parents moved nearly every year, and even when we stayed in one place for five whole years, I went to two different schools. I was a quirky, serious kid, much like my older son, and as intense then as I am now.  Desperate to make friends, and needy by nature, I was vulnerable to the whims of whatever social scene I was only negligibly a part of.  At best, my friendships were fleeting, but with each new friendship, I felt (a tentative) hopefulness that this one would be the one to endure.  And then, for reasons I couldn't understand, I would be out, and my social standing would suffer for the rest of the year, until some girl who was in an even worse position than I would reach out to me.  Only to reject me a little later, when I would sink even lower in the pecking order.  I was a terrifically easy mark, and there was that terrible year when I had no friend at all, and missed 46 days of school. 

My parents didn't know what to do about bullying; in fact, they didn't take it too seriously.  "They're just jealous," was the best that they could do.  But now, I'm the parent, and I have to take it seriously.  I have to figure this out for my daughter, but not just for her; I have to get it right for all the other daughters who my girl sits with at lunch, or at the table in the classroom, or on the playground.  We each have an obligation to them, to save them from the bullying bullshit that may ruin their self-esteem in the decades to come.  We have to be kind towards them and do them this monumental favor, because they need us.  It's the message of the film:  be kind.  Teach your kids to be kind.  Just that.  It will make the single biggest difference.

My daughter, Lina, had a contentious group of girls who made no sense to her in the first grade.  Though they were a great group of little people, being shepherded through their day by the best teacher I've ever known, they played the "You can't be friends with me if you're friends with her" game of hearts.  And it broke mine.  At only six years old, my daughter was being bullied. At only six years old, she knew it, too.l So we sat down together, and this is what I told her:

I told her that sometimes, you have to allow other girls to have the space they need to grow up, and screw up.  Friendships ebb and flow with the tide; what goes out will likely come back, and if it doesn't, you can catch another tide that helps you swim more strongly.  Never forget that when someone screws up with you, you can forgive them, and then find your own way until things settle down.  Keep in mind that another person's drama is only yours if you buy a ticket to the show.  Let people go about their lives with grace, don't expect too much from them, and be your own best friend.  These are the ways that "being kind" makes sense to me and, I hope, to my daughter.  Whether through this magic, or because she's just this way by nature, Lina is perfectly herself with her friends now, perfectly at ease in her skin.  She doesn't ride the tide:  she is the tide.  And she's always throwing lifejackets to those who look like they're in trouble.  Her kindness will save someone somewhere down the line, I know.

Cameron's did that night.

Juggling act

Parenting three children is so incredibly time-consuming, and I sometimes have so many balls in the air that I drop quite a few. And man, when they land, they seem to always land on my head.

Launching a business while parenting three children has made it even harder to keep up with my Threestroms. For most of August leading all the way through most of November, there were soccer practices, soccer academies, and soccer games nearly every day. Henry had tennis lessons, and his homework increased two-fold. The twice-weekly grocery shopping, coupled with the daily housecleaning, and the endless errands, had to be squeezed in where they could. Trying to find time to connect with my friends got squeezed in even tighter. Managing the playground project meant that everything got positively squished. And the one person I needed to connect with the most - my husband - almost became lost to me.

In the meantime, the kids continue to grow. And quickly. This is what my friends with older children meant: enjoy them while they're young, because they grow up so fast. In the blink of an eye, they're gone. I didn't believe it then; in fact, I longed for them to grow up so the constant caretaking would end. But it isn't ending - it's merely changing. The perils of parenting are even greater now, for their needs are growing, not shrinking, and I have to constantly try and keep up with where they are at in their lives. They need me more now, in different ways, and I'm learning (sometimes so slowly) to meet them where they are.


One happy sign of how our family perhaps came together alright was how my kids' teachers spoke of them during family conferences. Lina's teacher so clearly enjoys having her in class; she is his "old soul, the grandmother who takes care of everybody without losing herself." My mother says that Lina will be the one to take care of us all - and she said it when Lina was only three. (Although I hope not - I want that girl to go everywhere she wants to go, and be supported by us, not the other way around!) Lina's brightness, her bubbliness, and her brilliance is a gem; she shines like the sun.

John's teacher, so quiet and composed, was waiting for that moment in our conference when John identified what his goals were for the rest of the year. She practically pounced on him when he shared his first one: to become "an expressive writer." She said, "But John, you already are. You're meeting that goal; you're doing that work." Turns out that he's meeting other goals as well: making new friends outside of his soccer gang, becoming more respectful in class, and demonstrating mastery of math. Just the fact that he uses phrasing like "more expressive writer," or "demonstrating mastery," slays me. Her beaming, shining eyes said to me what Lina's teacher's eyes said: this kid is special, and he's going far.

Thanks in part to our wonderful school, my kids are getting what I most wanted in my life: they're being tracked. Other caring adults are following their lives; other caring adults are helping them grow. Our good fortune is such a blessing that it's just a little bit difficult to accept my faith that there is no God.

And then there's Henry. Luckily, he's finding his way as a middle school student, in ways which he couldn't when he was in the elementary school. He was very difficult for his primary school teachers to connect with and, since the acknowledged philosophy in his school is that students must take charge of their own lives, he was pretty much left to his own devices. He didn't stand out in ways that make teaching in the primary grades so difficult: he didn't act out, he didn't misbehave, and his grades were sufficient. He was learning how to read and write and compute, and wasn't a disruption, which was enough in a classroom of 28 kids, many of whom struggle with the basics. Which is just a basic fact; learning the basic stuff is hard! In comparison, the teachers in the middle school think that he does stand out; in him, they see leadership. They see mastery. They see brilliance. They see the boy I know, and my gratitude is immense.

But perhaps the single greatest joy for my husband and I during the past many months has been watching as Henry developed a sincere, warm, appreciative relationship with a girl. Not his girlfriend, but a girl who is a genuine friend. Yes, they have a crush on one another, but they are "not going to become romantic, because (they're) only twelve." Watching Henry reach out to other people, need other people, see other people, relate to other people, is a mother's joy. For many, many years, his unwillingness to become vulnerable to others held him back in countless ways. And yet. And yet. Just at the point where he's finally reaching out, he's pulling back from me.

And then there's my husband. My Markus. For nearly two years, I've been a solo act, and people noticed. My bond to him was nearly severed by distractions and self-involvement and blindness. But it seems that the worst has passed, which is so clear to me now that he's been gone for two weeks. His absence has cut through me like a knife; I think of him all the time, wonder what he's doing, how he's feeling, whether he's sleeping, whether he's getting what he needs. I remember now all the things that made me love him so: his humor, his intelligence, his curiosity, and his creativity. When I met this brilliant Austrian, I fell hard; he was such a good listener, such a good lover, such a good friend. Through all those early years, he tried to bring out the best in me, which was pretty hard in the face of my undiagnosed and untreated depression, and yet he tried to keep me from sinking. He was, and is, the most wonderful person I'd ever met. How nice to meet him again.

And so I'm trying to juggle less, and let the balls fall where they are. There are really only a few I should catch; if I stop throwing the rest, they'll stop hitting me on the head. I guess I need to get out of my own way. With love.

Flutterbudget

Lina: Who do I remind you of, Mom?
Me: Laura Ingalls Wilder.
Lina: Because I'm wild and free?
Me: Yes, Flutterbudget.

For about forever now, I've been reading the Little House series to the kids, first to Henry, then John, and now Lina. Despite the boys ages and their interests in things like maurading bands of cat clans and comic books, they will stick around for their favorite parts: devastating locust plagues, decades-long blizzards, that sort of thing.

Lina listens as intently now as those boys of hers once did, only she seems more invested by the story. Underneath our cozy cuddling, she rolls away from me, looking off into her own private prairie, where I am not in the way.

When she does look at me, it's usually to make sense of how different her life is from theirs: "But why, Mom, why does she have to be a teacher? Why does she have to wear wool when it itches? Why does she have to be so good?" I look down at my little Half Pint, and temper my 10 minute answer to her one second question. She says, "She's always obeying, even when she doesn't want to."

And it's true. In nearly every book, Laura Ingalls Wilder (as a writer) tries to convey that underneath her obedience was a little girl who longed to give that Nellie a comeuppance or two. And it's also true that, despite the good press about her sister, Laura resents her sister, but would never say so out loud. It's hidden, but it's there. If they were alive today, there would be much therapy for them both. "Ma always liked you best."

Lina's wild childness is due, in some part, based upon the order of birth. How could a wee little child not learn to be steel-willed and independent of her brothers, especially these two? She is a constant explorer, with ideas springing from her head all the time, with questions always on her lips. She's the child who writes Zombie Mouse books, tearing at the pages to prove the mouse was "zombiefied." This is the little person who, when she was four, was pegged by our school's principal as being poised, one day, to run the joint. (And she will, you just wait and see.) She brokers no nonsense; she suffers no fools.

"Tell me again about the day I was born," she asks all the time. She loves herself and her wild child self. May it ever be so.

I wish I were like her.