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.

Summer loving

When summer break ended, and I packed off my kids to school with their Food, Inc.-approved lunches and backpacks made in China, I thought the year ahead would be a good one for them. Henry would enter into the sixth grade with a belly full of summer, with a nearly-new school ahead, and many, many more friends to meet. John would soon begin his ascent as the soccer star I suspected he'd be; would out-run his nearest competitor for fastest mile time; would outwit, outlast, and outplay as only he can. And Lina wouldn't be that shy, anxious little Kindergartener, when saying goodbye made her cry and clutch and cling.

Here it is, January already, and all the things I hoped would be true have come true, and then some. Though Henry lost his friend Brian to a new school, they still see one another regularly, and he took a chance on a new friend whom I like. Now he has two friends. Two! And all the headaches we went through at the beginning of the year have settled into predictable routines and an easy rhythm that Henry can groove to. He joined the Ultimate Frisbee team and sure, okay, whatever, he's no frisbee star. But he tried something new, and stuck with it until the end. He kept up his grades despite the triple workload, and learned to trust his teachers enough to ask, "I don't get it. Help me." He even got lost on the bus! (No, I don't care to say more about that.)

John and Lina continue to bask in the glory of a life which comes somewhat easy to them. They're charming children (yes they are!) with personality and pluck, grace and athleticism, and an appreciation for the truly finer things in life like friendships, health, and the music that I like. They sing-song their way through the day, trip skipping the earth, flip flopping into bed at night, able to sleep thanks to the wonders of melatonin.

When they arrive home from school, I've learned how important it is to move away from the computer, put down the phone, clear my mind, and try to enjoy these last few months with my kids. We've made up lots of new verbs together: we pilates, and family meet, and snack. And recently, we mourn, which is a verb as old as time.

Two weeks ago, our swimming instructor, Donna, died after a lengthy illness I knew nothing about. Up until this past summer, she was teaching children aged 4-104 how to be Red Cross-certified swimmers in her backyard pool, assisted by her grandchildren and stepgrandchildren. Every July for the past five years, I and my kids have spent well over three hours each day in that backyard, surrounded by friends whom we don't get to see during the school year. A full month of picnics and playdates, with nothing to do but breathe in the sunshine, or hang out on the blue swing. And now, Donna's gone.

Lina spoke today about the things she remembers about Donna: her funny white hat, her clipboard, the sound of the bell under the water (a clever trick Donna used to get kids to at least put their ear in the water), the hoop she needed to swim through (another neat trick). And John was devastated on the day he found out. This is the same Donna whom he had elevated to Titan status in his first essay this year: she was 95 years old, a former Olympic medalist, and her pool was 10,000 deep. (Inches or feet, I didn't ask.)

I don't have much time left for anything, now, save my family. And I'm going to eat them up until I'm full. Luckily for them, I have a big appetite, and I'm almost never satisfied. Nom, nom, nom. Lofstroms!

Storytime

Here comes graduation, for me and for Henry, who's moving into the 6th grade next fall. He says he's ready to go; he says he welcomes the change. Just up ahead, he sees the promise of moving beyond the tiny little world where 40 peers have avoided you since 2nd grade. September brings with it a new, huge bunch of kids who get to know him as he is, not as how he was. Just up ahead, he sees a big break, a chance to start over.

It's the kind of thing he talks about with me, when we're alone and everything's quiet. They are the most precious moments in my life; how lucky am I to be as trusted as that? Plenty of people - especially boys, I think - wouldn't be able to talk about the shame and the sadness of being shunned. But Henry is a self-reflective little cat, who can take the risk of being honest with himself and with me. He doesn't quite get how cool he is, how amazing, how splendid. But he's getting there, with practice. He's getting into his own corner.

Lots of us have been in his corner; we've been waiting there for him. We are the very caring adults who are different ourselves. We look at this fascinating little kid and see someone who will soon be an interesting, exquisite young man. But for so long now, what Henry has wanted the most is to simply fit in and be what he calls "normal." We know, though, that if "normal" means the behavior and attitudes of his peers, then screw "normal." Slowly, slowly, slowly, he's beginning to see what we learned long ago.

There's a person at school who chases me down from time to time to tell me "a cute little story about Henry today." The story typically reveals some quirk in his nature, some misbehavior, some aloofness and separateness. I don't quite understand why this person likes to give Henry that press, when the other stories are so much warmer. It feels very mean-spirited to me. These stories play into what my anxieties have been about my son, and those anxieties are pretty common knowledge. Why put him in that corner?

Last week there was a publishing party in his classroom. The kids had written essays as part of their Making History course, and we parents were invited to come in and celebrate all their hard work and brilliance. Each kid's essay was on their desk, with a sheet nearby for people to write down their comments and share their compliments about the work. Henry took his time with more than half the essays, oblivious to the big deal of lemonade and snack. He made his way around the room, bent over, shuffling his feet in that symmetrical way he has. (The boy does love his symmetry.) I watched him leave encouraging words behind; I followed him to see what he was writing because his comments were so incisive and I was so getting a kick out of seeing that precious insight of his. And how many kids bothered to stop and read his paper, and share a word or two? One, who left behind a very unkind comment. That was it.

Would I have heard about Henry's kindness and thoughtfulness that day from that person whose good intentions I doubt? Would I have been chased down the hall with the picture of a boy who'd shown maturity, wisdom, and kindness, who had stretched himself to look beyond their treatment of him, and who bothered to care about them at all? It's unlikely.

So let me tell you a cute little story about Henry today: Henry doesn't run with the pack. I used to think it's because he couldn't keep up.

I was wrong.

Birthday Wishes

On Sunday we celebrated our son John's 8th birthday, and the Sunday before that we celebrated Henry's 11th. And for the first time ever, each boy had their own party and made their own decisions about what to do and how to do it. I've heard other parents say that their kids like to have the say-so on such things and since they are not me, I listened to them.

I don't really believe that John is eight years old, because he still sounds like he's only three. He says "guhls" instead of girls, "wobbahs" instead of robbers. Perhaps foolishly, and certainly selfishly, I've let that one go because I don't want to see it gone. As long as he sounds like he's three, then he is still three. Still my beautiful little Johnny the Wonder Bee.

And Henry...ah, Henry.

In comparison to my 11 year old self, Henry feels like a newborn. Is he smoking yet? No. Has he heavy petted? I should say not. Does he still walk on tip-toes and play imaginary games with his siblings? Of course he does. His childhood is very much intact. How can he be freaking 11 years old when he's so innocent?

Both boys made their own guest lists for their parties. John checked his over once and then he checked it over twice, just like Santa weighing who'd been naughty and who'd been nice. It was hard for him to put a limit on the number, and so the list grew from just five boys to all the boys in his class plus boys from his class last year.

And like his brother, it was hard for Henry to create the guest list for his own party. And his, also, grew to be double in size. Surprisingly (and sweetly), he took a risk and invited a few boys outside his little band of geek brothers, each of whom nonetheless march to their own tune as well.

As the hour grew nearer to each boy's party, each boy grew more and more anxious. John's anxiety manifested in his prowling the house, drifting from one activity to the next in an endless search for someplace to hold his restlessness. Totally exasperating and totally exhausting, but also easy to help him manage. Henry's anxiety is more painful for me to watch. He collapses into himself, gets broody, becomes clingy, acts oddly.

We sat each boy down in turn to chat about what was troubling them. John's concerns tumbled out one after the other: Would everybody have fun? Who would he play with first? How would he make everybody happy, make everybody feel welcomed, make time to be with everybody. Henry's worry was different; his greatest concern was what his friends would think of him, of his house, of his family, of the party itself. Not whether they would have fun but whether they would make fun.

I, too, worry about what people will think of him. He's been rejected so many times and I am sensitive to it. I don't know what to do about my anxiousness for Henry. I flip back and forth from acting as his champion to sadly being his critic. There are weeks where I think everything is fine, and then weeks where I feel discouraged and even hopeless. The good weeks convince me to let it be, and the bad weeks prove that I need to step it up. For as long as I can remember, I have tried to help Henry understand his anxieties and create strategies to manage them, but I don't know that I've helped.

I freaking wish I knew. I hate not knowing.

Dishonesty

Henry, my beloved, beautiful boy, lies. A lot, I think. And what I'm supposed to do about this has left me totally baffled. So I'm thinking, and writing, researching and talking. I've got to find my way here. I've got to blend what they say with what I know. So much is counting on me.

Of course the experts' advice about how to handle this with kids is contradictory but one thing emerged crystal clear: Do not call it a lie. If you call it a lie, the kid will get defensive and you'll go nowhere fast. Which is perhaps why I'm nowhere fast.

I am, by nature, more inclined to call things as I see them. But I'll never be too old to learn a few new tricks, and so I'm willing to entertain my options. Therefore, I looked up synonyms for the words "lie" and "truth." What I found is this: there are 43 synonyms for the word "truth," but double that amount to disguise the word "lie." Isn't that curious? Are we being cagey with the truth here, telling a little white lie about lying itself?

Lying strikes a deep chord within me; nothing ruins a relationship faster than distrust. My brother compulsively misleads me and my parents, and for as long as I can remember. Some of his misrepresentations are whoppers, but countless more are about insignificant things like what he had for lunch. We can't believe anything - and I do mean anything - he says. When he called to say that his house had burned down, my mom sent her brother to confirm the story; it was a real surprise - a treat, actually - to discover he had told us the truth.

Our middle child, John, is a teller of tall tales but it's easy to see them coming. Everything about him suddenly changes.

The enemies of the truth are always awfully nice.--Christopher Morley

His words tumble out, one after the other, almost in a sing-song way; his voice pitches higher, his body gets twitchy, his eyes widen. They are tell-tale signs of an impending dishonesty - and I welcome them. I can spot the fiction that's coming and steer it back to reality. "Is the teacher's assistant really going to return to the sea and catch more salmon?" "Have you really traveled 'far and wide' and 'always remembered your pillow'?"

This charming little boy, my lovely little boy, recently admitted that he hates his lying but that he just can't stop himself. Tender as the scene was, heartbroken as I felt, there was at least a little hope, too. All addicts need to admit they have a problem, and so must John. Maybe it's never too early to enter into recovery.

But Henry is a different story. Henry has no obvious tells, which is why I haven't learned to spot his "economy with the truth." Maybe he's been baffling us with bullshit because he doesn't believe he can dazzle us with brilliance? That's what I think. His lies are about painting a picture of himself as someone very different than he is. And I can understand that; who can't? But it's that motivation for his fabrications - to appear to be something he is not - that has got me so scared.

I don't know what to do but if anybody has any comments or suggestions, all I ask is this: Please, just be upfront with me, okay?