What a Young AcadeMama Was Like

Since IntlExptr (from Here, There, and Everywhere) posed the inquiry in the comments to my last post, and since I'm in a writing mood, I thought I'd offer a little description of a young AcadeMama in the making. What was I like at 11 years old?

Well, my parents had just divorced, and my Mom got full custody after a very long, drawn-out, nasty court battle. At the time, in my head, I thought this was a horrible thing because I saw her as the disciplinarian. You see, while my Dad was off in the Middle East on an oil rig for a month at a time, my Mom was raising my brother and I, and she didn't have a lot of help. Shortly after the divorce, my Mom was diagnosed with a rare disease, Guillain Barre Syndrome (pronounce gee-YAN bah-RAY)...a rapid sickness, mediflight to Home State Capital City, and within a matter of hours, she was paralyzed from the neck down. One of her lungs collapsed, and she was on a ventilator for weeks. So, my brother and I "got" to go live with my Dad, who'd found himself a young, little barfly to act as stepmom/babysitter for us, while he continued to work. Oh, and he also told my brother and I that my Mom had a form of AIDS because she was, essentially a slut.

So, how does that affect a young girl like me? Well, I thought I was ugly, and thus adored my father's attention, despite the fact that he literally put the fear of God into me with his voice when he was angry. I was smart, I liked to play independently, but I knew more about adult things than any 11-year old should know. People around me didn't think that I was listening, but I was. I didn't always understand, but now I do. I felt horribly ugly and awkard. I was very tall, slim and athletic build, with no chest (things that resulted in me being tormented about for years). Add to that the fact that my stepmother decreed that I was not allowed to wear make-up or shave my legs, and I was virtually the laughing stock of 6th grade. I desperately sought attention from boys, even though I didn't "chase" them, if that makes sense. But never, I repeat NEVER, did I speak to my father or mother with the kind of disrespect with which Hannah speaks to me. If it were my father, I would have been hit with a belt...this was, after all, the man who headbutted me for opening a can of soup for breakfast. With my mother, and once I was a teenager, I was a smartass and sarcastic, and I thought I knew everything. I was shady and tried to break all sorts of rules (usually with great success...stealing her car in the middle of the night, drinking and smoking at friends' houses, etc.). But I always knew where the line was with her, and I never crossed it. Hannah? She jumps right over the line and doesn't even realize it.

I didn't have to try to do well in school. Basketball was the one thing that made me special because I was good...really, really good. But it wasn't enough to make me popular or pretty or rich enough to buy cool clothes (another hard thing to find when you're 6' at about 13 years old). I was non-confrontational because I had no self-esteem. I had an absent father, which simply added to my desire for a male voice that confirmed my worth. I thought I knew everything I needed to know, and I actually was mature in some ways. I always managed to balance my mischief with very clever deception, good grades, and the appearance of "normal behavoir."

Much of what I see from Hannah didn't come with me until I was well into my teens, and I'd decided to move back in with my mom (after she recovered and got out of the hospital). When I told my Dad that I wanted to move back in with Mom, he told me to take every picture of me in the house with me because he didn't want anything to remember me by. What does that do to a 12-year old?

I'm still trying to figure that one out...but none of it was good, which is why I have lots of baggage. I don't know how to be the parent Hannah needs me to be, the kind of wife and co-parent Hubby deserves, and carry all this baggage around too. Obviously, I had a fantastic mother, and my father taught me everything I needed to know about what *not* to do. I know what I need to do for myself, but I just don't have time to fit therapy in my schedule right now. There are some skeletons I'm just not ready to deal with right now, and taking care of my kids is my priority. For now, I pray....I pray for patience, strength, less swearing, less anger, the ability to distinguish between enabling a poor work ethic in Hannah and offering the opportunity for her to learn from failure. I pray with thankfulness, though, for all the gifts we have: health, each other, and the willingness to get through this together, no matter how long it takes. I literally fall asleep in prayer most nights, and I hope God understands.

Mothers and Daughters

Yeah, so as a caveat, you can tell I completely forgot about the whole Mae West quote thing...as I was fairly certain I would. Anything out of the routine doesn't fair well, and it takes a lot to actually become part of the routine. C'est la vie!

Today is Baby E's first day at the Montessori! Hubby and I tag-teamed her drop-off this morning just to make things easier. And, since she has more of a tendency to cry when I do the drop-off, but I couldn't stand to not be there, I left first but Daddy stayed for a bit longer to comfort her in case she got upset after seeing me go. He's really such a fantastic father!

Mother's Day was uneventful - just like I'd hoped! Church was nice, lunch was equally nice, and I even got to watch a movie (Last King of Scotland) - whoohoo! (Note: An aside, great movie, but lots of violence! If I'd known it would be that brutal, I probably wouldn't have put it in the Netflix queue.) Like a total loser, though, I didn't get/take the time to call my OWN mother until 9:00 p.m., by which time she was already in bed. Aside from movie time, I spent the whole day with one child or the other in my arms or in front of my face (I gave H a manicure), so I just kept saying "As soon as I get done with ___, I've gotta call my mom." Yes, I'm sure you see how this works.

Speaking of H, I see the Hurricane coming. I mean, she is the Hurricane - Hurricane H. Somehow, I've managed to reproduce what is almost the exact same dynamic between her and myself as what existed between my mother and I. People say H is just like me, and that I'm just like my mother, so this should come as no surprise. And many of the ways my mother parented, I've also adopted (because, hey, I think she did alright for the most part). Hurricane H is more sensitive than I ever was as a young child, more social, and not nearly as sneaky and manipulative, but she has my head-strong nature, a mouth that won't stop, and a reason, excuse, and/or explanation for everything (especially why she should get what she wants or isn't doing something she's been asked). This creates a storm effect, and I foresee it getting worse as she gets older.

This weekend, in preparation for going with a friend and the friend's family to a local outdoor & family-friendly concert, I caught the Hurricane trying to "sneak" clothes out the door!! GASP!! Yes, she had on a black tank top and jeans, but was trying to sneak out the door with a denim skirt, which I'd already told her wouldn't be appropriate because she'd be outside playing (skirts are not play-friendly). Then, she came out in the same black tank top and a long black peasant skirt!??? It was like 90 degrees outside?!! She didn't care...The only thing she cared about was looking "a certain way" (my emphasis). I don't know what "way" this is, but I'm pretty certain it has something to do with boys, and I'm absolutely sure that I don't like the idea of this already. Her third outfit - the same black tank and some denim shorts - was approved, and off she went.

Is this inevitable? Are mothers and daughters just born to do this Dance of Emerging Identity and Independence? Or is this something I can chalk completely up to the early onset of "tweenness?" Not that it's an either/or scenario, but I want her to value herself (and others) outside of appearances. I want her to not be interested in looking "cute," especially if she's just trying to look "cute" for boys damn it! Should I be worried? Frantic? I'm bordering on frantic thinking about this... I don't want to be an over-reactionary mom, or a Puritanical, Carrie-esque mom either, but this is way too freaking young!! Isn't it?

I'm fairly radical when it comes to my own feminist beliefs, especially in terms of recognizing and respecting my daughter's body and her right to control it. I have no issue with her piercing, coloring, tattooing anything on her body - those are battles I have no intention of picking. And generally, she goes to school in mismatched outfits (usually just a t-shirt and jeans) that she chooses for herself. So how do I explain the ugly fact that in this culture, in today's world, if a girl dresses "a certain way" people (especially boys) will think "certain things?" They will assume "certain things" about her, and whether or not those "things" are true, she will be treated differently. Differently in a way that may even appear good or positive, but is not so in reality. How do I explain this to an 8-yr old girl?