And so it goes, adventures in natural parenting... Life is like a bowl of cherries, some sweet, some sour... just make sure not to swallow the pits, and, avoid at all costs the sugary, dye-injected, candied-to-stay-looking-nice-forever, cherries in a jar. They aren't really real.
My girls AND my boy, until school aged, wore cotton leggings, cotton nightgowns, and bright rainbow colored clothing: I hated the pinks and blues of gender oriented-clothing. I became further enlightened by watching the PBS televised special, called "The Pinks and the Blues" which was about stereotyping kids from birth with clothing, toys, and our adult expectations!
When my children were little my intentions were to protect them every step of the way from being "molded" and indoctrinated into becoming people defined by gender specific roles. I picked play groups, family daycare, Montessori, and like-minded families and playmates -- all sharing in and supporting my philosophy of the benefits of nonsexist childrearing.
Born in 1955, the middle of seven children, five of whom were boys, and growing up in the '60s and '70s, I was truly stunted by the stereotypes of the day, even though my questioning got me into trouble with my mother almost daily. If boys don't belong in the kitchen, why is a guy making our hamburger at Mr. Quick and at the A&W? If girls can't work on cars, play basketball with the guys, become doctors, or be the band conductor instead of boring, old, Lawrence Welk... why do men get to become ballet dancers...? By the time my first child was born a few months before my 24th birthday, I vowed to abolish the sexism demon from the immediate vicinity of my children. I felt steadfastedly invincible in this pursuit. I read new findings, I learned different parenting skills, I grew more open-minded.
And so, my free-spirited kids came into their own, as I championed their strengths and applauded their accomplishments, free from the burdens of sexism and helplessness-engendering rantings heaped on some of the kids we observed at the park: Get down from there you're going to fall! Don't get your dress dirty, you'll ruin it! Boys are always so rough! Sit like a little lady!
I never went anywhere that I wasn't complimented for my children being such delights to be around. But, it wasn't me that made them who they were. I just encouraged them to "become" themselves.
Three year old Sarah tied one of my sized 42-D bras around her chest and carried her naked baby around in it, saying she was nursing her bebe. And, by the way, she was tired of being an only child, me and my husband spent too much time together, and we should have another child to keep her company! Three year old Adam stuffed his gender specific handmade dolls: (Mama with breasts, velcro nipples, and soft pubic hair--baby boy with velcro lips and tiny penis!) under his shirt, so he could be cool like mom when she nursed newborn Molly. I don't think Molly EVER played with a doll of any kind.... but beginning at 14 months old began to insist on taking her "briefcase" with her "paperwork" in it everywhere she went. At age 5 she announced I should just give away all her toys because she only kept them in case a visiting child wanted to play with them. All that SHE needed was in her briefcase!
All three of my children were read to EVERY night and would, at a year old, wake up weekend mornings quietly. And, when I woke up, would be looking through the pages of their books I had left at the foot of the bed, ...after them letting me sleep late on the weekends! By age 10, each of them could read on a college level. Books were treated like family members, and as adults today, each are avid readers.
Dolls, trucks, books, paints, hats, baseballs and gloves, basketballs, frisbees, and costumes of all kinds were available all the time to both, boy and girls. No one teased if Adam wanted to wear a tutu or if Sarah "played" the dad. I taught all three how to pitch and how to use a mitt to catch, beginning at age three. All were strong swimmers by age five. There were no gender specific constraints put on any of them, and they were all encouraged to be soft and loving and strong and rugged, because, as humans, each of us ARE all of those things at one time or another!
The best times they had, I believe, were when they asked for, and I gave them, blankets, bedsheets, clothesline cotton rope, and clothes baskets, and let them construct "forts" all over the dining room.... leaving their creations up for a few days for them to enjoy exploring and creating make believe "worlds". Through tying knots, clipping clothespins, rigging suspenders and belts, and draping sheets over tables and chairs and doorways... they learned teamwork and complimented each other's creative imaginations. Once a day they would tell me to turn "demolition baby" Molly loose to crawl through their forts. She, of course, would gleefully destroy what they'd created, just so they could start over and create something new. Eleven-year old Sarah and four-year old Adam joked that Molly would grow up to own a demolition construction company that imploded old buildings! From the mess, Sarah and Adam would work together to create a "new" fort, even better than the last. Sometimes we would all crawl into the new fort and nap together!
Then things changed. I found myself no longer in sole control of our "safe from sexism" world. When Adam acquired a stepmom at age four, his father told me that his new wife hated me letting Adam's hair grow long, as his curly, white blond locks made him look "like a girl" and, she thought it unfair of me to put him in a position to possibly be teased "in public". I laughed when he told me this, but probably should have recognized the stepmother's sexist opinion as an evil omen of the hell the woman would put me and my children through in the years yet to come. I simply shrugged it off as her being closed minded and narrow.
One only had to spend 15 minutes watching the boy at a playground, run and play and swing and slide, alongside his older sister, to know he was a healthy, happy, well-adjusted, confident-beyond his years, free-spirited KID, delightfully oblivious to gender stereotyping... as he came sailing down the highest slide in his tank top, MC Hammer-type, geometric-print, beach pants, and high-top, pink satin, sneakers with rainbow colored laces.... spinning his body in midair as his butt left the end of the slide and before his feet could touch the ground... lighting in the sand standing upright, with outstretched arms and legs crossed, as he crows, "Ta-dah!" at the top of his lungs...
I snapped photos of his descent on the slide, and of his amazing, mid-air, acrobatics, and of his elegantly orchestrated landing. He was four-years old, and I remember the scene as vividly as if it were yesterday, and not the 17-years that have passed since this mesmerizing little boy captured the hearts of all who set eyes upon him, everywhere he went.
For four more years, it never crossed the minds of my children that girls and boys should be "molded" or steered towards gender-stereotyped roles. In spite of the traumas brought on by divorce and the re-marriage of Adam and Molly's father, I put all my energy into trying to maintain a familial environment of free-spiritedness.
But, it wasn't just about erradicating sexist stereotyping. Being free-spirited also encompassed challenging on a very real, personal level, puritanical beliefs, socio-economic biases, and racial and ethnic bigotry. It meant learning how to embrace multiculturalism. It meant exploring new, or differing attitudes from those commonly espoused on television and represented in the media. It meant rejecting the "just say no" mentally and replacing it with actively developing and using critical thinking skills every day in all situations. It meant knowing who you are and how to be the best person you could be each day, without worry about "how it looks to the neighbors" or "what other people might think" about you. It was about giving back to the community by helping others. It was not about putting on appearances, or avoiding unpleasantness at all costs. It was about redefining what is "real".
When others simply stepped over homeless people on a sidewalk, my children and I would stop and chat, acknowledging them as "being" people, too. When we observed others, adults and kids alike, poking fun at a blind person or some other differently-abled person, it became an opportunity for us to discuss ignorance. We would then brain-storm ways in which we each might set a better example in order to influence others to become more kind-hearted and more understanding of people burdened with special needs.
Nudity on hot days at home provided opportunities to talk about the differences in our bodies, and to use correct names for body parts. A breast was a breast, a penis a penis, a butt ... a butt. No wee-wees or "unmentionables". Shame and embarassment about body size or shape were unknown. My kids simply learned that people come in all sizes, shapes, and skin colors.
One year I took them to eat Thanksgiving dinner at a homeless shelter, to sit next to, and talk with, those less fortunate than us. Another year they learned rituals and customs of Native Americans at an un-Thanksgiving day feast. While other families we came to know would cross the street to distance themselves from groups of people who looked and/or acted differently from themselves, it was nothing for us to go over and sit with and watch or join a group of drummers from Africa, or put a dollar in the instrument case of a street musician trying to earn a living by playing his trumpet for the masses.
Others went to the mall to shop on the weekend. We went to the park to help feed poor people for Bread Not Bombs. Some went to the movies. We went to hear poetry read by throw-away youth, or watch street performers hip-hop on the corner.
Adam, at age six at the home of one of my brothers, breathlessly confronted one of his uncle's visitors, by exclaiming, "You must be a bad guy!" When asked why he thought so, Adam responded, "You are wearing a bad guy hat, a bad guy shirt, bad guy pants, and bad guy boots!" The young man was dressed all in black! Can you imagine the lively conversations that transpired between us all that afternoon? Just another opportunity to discover what it means to see the world through a child's eye, and to learn to think "outside the box".
What may have started, back in 1978, by rejecting the notion that you put pink clothes on baby girls and blue clothes on baby boys, soon mushroomed into my own style of "alternative parenting". Even though it cost me rejection by my family, I realized and took seriously the notion that we are raising the next generation of world leaders. We must become the change we envision.
I was often accused of confusing my children by using adult language and big words when talking with them. My mother thought I was a bad parent because I would not slap the hands of my children when they were toddlers if they started to reach for something they should not have. When they began to walk, I slowed down to a toddler's pace instead of dragging them along by the arm at an adult's pace. I taught them to always stop at the curb and never enter the street without holding my hand. More than one stranger came close to heart failure as I let go of my young child's hand and raced them to the street corner or down the block, always letting them get ahead of me, so as to feel strong and accomplished. My toddlers always stopped and waited at the curb and never once crossed my boundary of entering the street where danger lurked. I redirected their attention to their accomplishment of being a "fast runner" while I caught up to them the few feet I lagged behind them. Alternative parenting became a way of life so welcome and opposite to the authoritarian parenting of my parents, which was being passed down to yet another generation by my siblings with their own children.
I put nurturing first, right alongside safety, being the top rules in my family. I believe successful parenting hinges on learning what ALL your options are and making decisions that help your child develop the best possible self esteem and respect for others. I think children need to know from the start that learning is a life-long process and getting an education too often occurs everywhere BUT in a classroom.
I grieved the loss of my son for many, many, years, and really never recovered. Even now, I cannot even write about losing my son without becoming overwhelmed by sadness and tears soaking my shirt. For so long it felt as if someone had stolen my child and I should see his face on the side of a milk carton, along with all the children missing "for real". I would sink into a deep depression each October, the month of his birth.
If I thought it painful for him to come visit me only two or three times a year, between the ages of nine and sixteen, nothing compares to the agony of not seeing him at all these past six years. He has grown into a man about whom I know nothing. I have recently learned that he does not recall anything at all about his first eight years of life, when he lived with me and his sisters. He only remembers being raised by his father and stepmother.
I also have to believe that someday he will, once again, want to see me . . . and reconnect. Until that time, outwardly I pretend that we are close and he is "just" away at college. But privately? My broken heart keeps on "bleeding love".
I am enormously proud of all three of my children, as they grow into their own. I am ever grateful to have embraced "natural parenting", which I believe gave my children a solid foundation upon which they now build their own lives. And, any other parenting option would not have guided me to access the personal inner strength upon which I draw daily, as I find my own new beginnings.
Born in 1955, the middle of seven children, five of whom were boys, and growing up in the '60s and '70s, I was truly stunted by the stereotypes of the day, even though my questioning got me into trouble with my mother almost daily. If boys don't belong in the kitchen, why is a guy making our hamburger at Mr. Quick and at the A&W? If girls can't work on cars, play basketball with the guys, become doctors, or be the band conductor instead of boring, old, Lawrence Welk... why do men get to become ballet dancers...? By the time my first child was born a few months before my 24th birthday, I vowed to abolish the sexism demon from the immediate vicinity of my children. I felt steadfastedly invincible in this pursuit. I read new findings, I learned different parenting skills, I grew more open-minded.
And so, my free-spirited kids came into their own, as I championed their strengths and applauded their accomplishments, free from the burdens of sexism and helplessness-engendering rantings heaped on some of the kids we observed at the park: Get down from there you're going to fall! Don't get your dress dirty, you'll ruin it! Boys are always so rough! Sit like a little lady!
I never went anywhere that I wasn't complimented for my children being such delights to be around. But, it wasn't me that made them who they were. I just encouraged them to "become" themselves.
Three year old Sarah tied one of my sized 42-D bras around her chest and carried her naked baby around in it, saying she was nursing her bebe. And, by the way, she was tired of being an only child, me and my husband spent too much time together, and we should have another child to keep her company! Three year old Adam stuffed his gender specific handmade dolls: (Mama with breasts, velcro nipples, and soft pubic hair--baby boy with velcro lips and tiny penis!) under his shirt, so he could be cool like mom when she nursed newborn Molly. I don't think Molly EVER played with a doll of any kind.... but beginning at 14 months old began to insist on taking her "briefcase" with her "paperwork" in it everywhere she went. At age 5 she announced I should just give away all her toys because she only kept them in case a visiting child wanted to play with them. All that SHE needed was in her briefcase!
All three of my children were read to EVERY night and would, at a year old, wake up weekend mornings quietly. And, when I woke up, would be looking through the pages of their books I had left at the foot of the bed, ...after them letting me sleep late on the weekends! By age 10, each of them could read on a college level. Books were treated like family members, and as adults today, each are avid readers.
Dolls, trucks, books, paints, hats, baseballs and gloves, basketballs, frisbees, and costumes of all kinds were available all the time to both, boy and girls. No one teased if Adam wanted to wear a tutu or if Sarah "played" the dad. I taught all three how to pitch and how to use a mitt to catch, beginning at age three. All were strong swimmers by age five. There were no gender specific constraints put on any of them, and they were all encouraged to be soft and loving and strong and rugged, because, as humans, each of us ARE all of those things at one time or another!
The best times they had, I believe, were when they asked for, and I gave them, blankets, bedsheets, clothesline cotton rope, and clothes baskets, and let them construct "forts" all over the dining room.... leaving their creations up for a few days for them to enjoy exploring and creating make believe "worlds". Through tying knots, clipping clothespins, rigging suspenders and belts, and draping sheets over tables and chairs and doorways... they learned teamwork and complimented each other's creative imaginations. Once a day they would tell me to turn "demolition baby" Molly loose to crawl through their forts. She, of course, would gleefully destroy what they'd created, just so they could start over and create something new. Eleven-year old Sarah and four-year old Adam joked that Molly would grow up to own a demolition construction company that imploded old buildings! From the mess, Sarah and Adam would work together to create a "new" fort, even better than the last. Sometimes we would all crawl into the new fort and nap together!
Then things changed. I found myself no longer in sole control of our "safe from sexism" world. When Adam acquired a stepmom at age four, his father told me that his new wife hated me letting Adam's hair grow long, as his curly, white blond locks made him look "like a girl" and, she thought it unfair of me to put him in a position to possibly be teased "in public". I laughed when he told me this, but probably should have recognized the stepmother's sexist opinion as an evil omen of the hell the woman would put me and my children through in the years yet to come. I simply shrugged it off as her being closed minded and narrow.
One only had to spend 15 minutes watching the boy at a playground, run and play and swing and slide, alongside his older sister, to know he was a healthy, happy, well-adjusted, confident-beyond his years, free-spirited KID, delightfully oblivious to gender stereotyping... as he came sailing down the highest slide in his tank top, MC Hammer-type, geometric-print, beach pants, and high-top, pink satin, sneakers with rainbow colored laces.... spinning his body in midair as his butt left the end of the slide and before his feet could touch the ground... lighting in the sand standing upright, with outstretched arms and legs crossed, as he crows, "Ta-dah!" at the top of his lungs...
I snapped photos of his descent on the slide, and of his amazing, mid-air, acrobatics, and of his elegantly orchestrated landing. He was four-years old, and I remember the scene as vividly as if it were yesterday, and not the 17-years that have passed since this mesmerizing little boy captured the hearts of all who set eyes upon him, everywhere he went.
For four more years, it never crossed the minds of my children that girls and boys should be "molded" or steered towards gender-stereotyped roles. In spite of the traumas brought on by divorce and the re-marriage of Adam and Molly's father, I put all my energy into trying to maintain a familial environment of free-spiritedness.
But, it wasn't just about erradicating sexist stereotyping. Being free-spirited also encompassed challenging on a very real, personal level, puritanical beliefs, socio-economic biases, and racial and ethnic bigotry. It meant learning how to embrace multiculturalism. It meant exploring new, or differing attitudes from those commonly espoused on television and represented in the media. It meant rejecting the "just say no" mentally and replacing it with actively developing and using critical thinking skills every day in all situations. It meant knowing who you are and how to be the best person you could be each day, without worry about "how it looks to the neighbors" or "what other people might think" about you. It was about giving back to the community by helping others. It was not about putting on appearances, or avoiding unpleasantness at all costs. It was about redefining what is "real".
When others simply stepped over homeless people on a sidewalk, my children and I would stop and chat, acknowledging them as "being" people, too. When we observed others, adults and kids alike, poking fun at a blind person or some other differently-abled person, it became an opportunity for us to discuss ignorance. We would then brain-storm ways in which we each might set a better example in order to influence others to become more kind-hearted and more understanding of people burdened with special needs.
Nudity on hot days at home provided opportunities to talk about the differences in our bodies, and to use correct names for body parts. A breast was a breast, a penis a penis, a butt ... a butt. No wee-wees or "unmentionables". Shame and embarassment about body size or shape were unknown. My kids simply learned that people come in all sizes, shapes, and skin colors.
One year I took them to eat Thanksgiving dinner at a homeless shelter, to sit next to, and talk with, those less fortunate than us. Another year they learned rituals and customs of Native Americans at an un-Thanksgiving day feast. While other families we came to know would cross the street to distance themselves from groups of people who looked and/or acted differently from themselves, it was nothing for us to go over and sit with and watch or join a group of drummers from Africa, or put a dollar in the instrument case of a street musician trying to earn a living by playing his trumpet for the masses.
Others went to the mall to shop on the weekend. We went to the park to help feed poor people for Bread Not Bombs. Some went to the movies. We went to hear poetry read by throw-away youth, or watch street performers hip-hop on the corner.
Adam, at age six at the home of one of my brothers, breathlessly confronted one of his uncle's visitors, by exclaiming, "You must be a bad guy!" When asked why he thought so, Adam responded, "You are wearing a bad guy hat, a bad guy shirt, bad guy pants, and bad guy boots!" The young man was dressed all in black! Can you imagine the lively conversations that transpired between us all that afternoon? Just another opportunity to discover what it means to see the world through a child's eye, and to learn to think "outside the box".
What may have started, back in 1978, by rejecting the notion that you put pink clothes on baby girls and blue clothes on baby boys, soon mushroomed into my own style of "alternative parenting". Even though it cost me rejection by my family, I realized and took seriously the notion that we are raising the next generation of world leaders. We must become the change we envision.
I was often accused of confusing my children by using adult language and big words when talking with them. My mother thought I was a bad parent because I would not slap the hands of my children when they were toddlers if they started to reach for something they should not have. When they began to walk, I slowed down to a toddler's pace instead of dragging them along by the arm at an adult's pace. I taught them to always stop at the curb and never enter the street without holding my hand. More than one stranger came close to heart failure as I let go of my young child's hand and raced them to the street corner or down the block, always letting them get ahead of me, so as to feel strong and accomplished. My toddlers always stopped and waited at the curb and never once crossed my boundary of entering the street where danger lurked. I redirected their attention to their accomplishment of being a "fast runner" while I caught up to them the few feet I lagged behind them. Alternative parenting became a way of life so welcome and opposite to the authoritarian parenting of my parents, which was being passed down to yet another generation by my siblings with their own children.
I put nurturing first, right alongside safety, being the top rules in my family. I believe successful parenting hinges on learning what ALL your options are and making decisions that help your child develop the best possible self esteem and respect for others. I think children need to know from the start that learning is a life-long process and getting an education too often occurs everywhere BUT in a classroom.
= = =
Sarah, beginning as a very young child, was an accomplished artist. Every media she ever touched the very first time was transformed into art often mistaken to have been done by an accomplished, seasoned, artist. At age 12 she was reading 30 adult-reading-level novels every month. She knew all the facts and detailed stories of Roman and Greek mythology, and she did not learn any of it from me. The only thing I knew about mythology, was from a book entitled, "Feminist Folktales from Around the World," from which I had read to her often when she was about 8-years old. She is brave, kind, and beautiful and her heart is as big as Texas. Now, a few months shy of her 29th birthday, she is six months pregnant with my first grandchild. And, for the past four years has been, and continues to be, a wonderful stepmother to 13-year old Holly and 9-year old Joshua. My biggest regret is that we live 1600 miles apart. She is on the East Coast and I am in Texas.
= = =
Molly has been grown since birth. When she was five she had memorized all of our extensive collection of children's books. I would fall asleep in the middle of bedtime reading and she would elbow me, exclaiming, "Mom! You started snoring in the middle of the paragraph!" I would tell her to read the book to me and she would respond, "You know I can't read yet!" Reminding her that she had every book memorized, she would often agree to let me sleep while she told me the story contained in the book. She probably got the short end of the stick, being the youngest, and me being older and more tired at the end of my days, but there was never a doubt in her mind that she could do just about anything she set her mind to. At four, she pulled up a chair behind 7-year old Adam as he sat at the kitchen table learning to write his name in cursive. She would then get her paperwork out of her briefcase and practice writing her own name in cursive. She mastered cursive before he did. In kindergarten, she went to the after-school program until I got off work. I was approached by some of the college kids who worked in this program, who wanted to know how I did it. I had no idea what they were asking, until they explained that none of them could beat Molly playing Connect Four. They wanted to know how I taught her to be so good at it. I told them we didn't even have that game at home and asked them to show me what they were talking about. They pointed across the cafeteria to a large gathering. As we walked over and I got close enough to see what the hubbub was all about, I spied Molly. In the center of the group, she was kneeling on the bench of the cafeteria table playing the game against a college student. And, she won. The loser got up and the next opponent sat down, each one trying to beat this 5-year old. When I talked with her about this on the way home, she just shrugged and said it was easy for her to see "the patterns" and she really did not know why it was not easy for everyone. Years later, in 9th grade she learned that she did not have to study for tests. If she read the material once, it stayed with her. She had a photographic memory. She breezed through high school in three years instead of four.
Fast forward to the present, and I have blinked and they are all grown up. I am in constant contact with my daughters. Sarah and I talk on the phone often, since she is still in Maryland. She now has a child of her own -- my first grandchild, Anna Elizabeth. Molly did not like living in San Francisco, so she moved back to Texas after her freshman year of college. She felt isolated and too alone. She lives nearby, working and attending the community college, forging her way in the world. Sadly, I am estranged from my son, who is about to turn 23 years old.
I last saw him six years ago, when he was 16 years old, in May, 2002, when he came to visit me for two brief days in Baltimore, Maryland. Three months later I moved back to Texas, and his life out in California, where he lived with his father and stepmom, became "too busy" for him to come visit me the two or three times a year that had been set aside for us to stay connected.
He had gone to live with his father at the age of eight, supposedly for one year only. He never again came back to live with me. His father once told me, "Any mother will do," and, he assured me, his new wife was a "kind and nurturing" parent, who treated Adam as her own. I argued that no one could love and nurture my son as well as I could, but he would not listen. Adam never came back to live with me.
I grieved the loss of my son for many, many, years, and really never recovered. Even now, I cannot even write about losing my son without becoming overwhelmed by sadness and tears soaking my shirt. For so long it felt as if someone had stolen my child and I should see his face on the side of a milk carton, along with all the children missing "for real". I would sink into a deep depression each October, the month of his birth.
If I thought it painful for him to come visit me only two or three times a year, between the ages of nine and sixteen, nothing compares to the agony of not seeing him at all these past six years. He has grown into a man about whom I know nothing. I have recently learned that he does not recall anything at all about his first eight years of life, when he lived with me and his sisters. He only remembers being raised by his father and stepmother.
The only consolation I cling to is the belief that somewhere, deep inside his being, the memories linger of being showered with love and tenderness during the first eight years of his life. I choose to believe that the nurturing I gave him as he snuggled in my arms, nursed at my breast, heard my voice sing and read to him, saw my smiles as we swam together, and felt my loving touch . . . has contributed to, in some small way, who he has become.
I also have to believe that someday he will, once again, want to see me . . . and reconnect. Until that time, outwardly I pretend that we are close and he is "just" away at college. But privately? My broken heart keeps on "bleeding love".
I am enormously proud of all three of my children, as they grow into their own. I am ever grateful to have embraced "natural parenting", which I believe gave my children a solid foundation upon which they now build their own lives. And, any other parenting option would not have guided me to access the personal inner strength upon which I draw daily, as I find my own new beginnings.
