november

As a child, my mother sometimes called me, with amusement, her “little pacifist.” It was more political than personal – I was a hitter and a hair grabber when boys teased me but I couldn’t for the life of me figure out why our great nation hadn’t figured out a better way to deal with the world besides weaponry. My intense political ostriching actually led me to a firm belief that we should not only NOT battle, but we should NOT help, either. Just turn inward, feed our own damn hungry and let the rest of the world figure it out for themselves. My mother, appalled, called me an “isolationist.” Her father was in the navy and, however complicated her politics (she really liked Perot), she still teared up at the national anthem.

I suppose I have evolved enough to want to help the world when possible, but I still can’t help but wonder how much we “help” in our worldwide involvements and I do sometimes wonder if just backing the hell off everything wouldn’t be a teensy bit beneficial. But I digress.

Meanwhile, in other bits and pieces of my childhood, I am constantly reminded lately of my mother’s firm belief in raising children like puppies (and oh, is my child like a puppy with his friends…), backing off as soon as they learn to do things, letting them be as independent as they possibly can, having the goal ALWAYS be to raise a kind and competent grown-up rather than to keep them tiny and helpless.

All of this comes crashing down upon a person when one is faced with one’s child’s parent teacher conference.

There was nothing particularly eventful in the conference, other than the revelation that my child muttered that his teacher was stupid under his breath and got called on it (in a most loving way that resulted in a class talk and, hopefully, no more of that). The revelations, as usual, are selfish in nature. I am mortified by his actions. I hate that he is “experimenting” in this way. I hate that he is rough and physical and interested in bad guy play, ever, at all. And I hate that I hate it all so much, that I can’t detach enough to let him experiment and learn and experience. I hate that I feel an urge to blame the other children, to stick him in a bubble.

I hate that I can’t stick him in a bubble.

But I hate myself for wanting to stick him in a bubble.

I am a pacifist, an isolationist. I’d like there to be no hint of violence, no outside influence. Leave me in my bubble, in my hole, in our house where no mean things ever come and the play is all sweet animal families and kindness. Let’s play penguin baby hatching again. He’ll be the baby, covered by his soft, sweet abba-blanket and I will gently rest my torso on top of him. He will twitch and I will say my egg is hatching and sit up as he pops out from under the blanket and peeps, “Mama!” and we will hug and hug.

Ahem.

I hate that I am sad that he is growing up.

Also, I hate that the world isn’t like me. Couldn’t we all just make a pact to socialize our children in a kind and peaceful way, one that does not allow any toys to turn into guns, one where bad guys can be explored psychologically instead of physically, one where the whole effing world shares our family’s most important rule of Don’t Hurt Anyone? Those other parents think they share that rule but they buy their kids toy guns. I just will never understand. And I feel furious about it, furious that any parent ever utters anything about BOYS WILL BE BOYS. ARRRRRRGGGGGGGCHHHHHHHHHHSZJKLDFGBDSFAS:hudagHGK:GHHGHGHGHHHHHHHHHH!

No. Boys will be people. Boys will be mothereffing people like the rest of us. People with hormones. And maybe there is some part of that hormone that might make them more prone to some aggression or violence or something, I don’t know. But I do know that my hormones make me a raging she-bitch every damn month and yet society has never deemed it okay for me to go punch people in the face when I feel like it. So whatever the hell the hormones are saying, we can say louder, peaceful stuff and change the story. I really don’t think I am going to be able to stay quiet and polite the next time someone pulls that line, that hideous line that I blame a tiny bit for some of what he is suddenly playing and interested in.

Sometimes, just for a second, I almost sort of miss Quaker school (even if it is the Quaker school of my parental fantasy rather than reality). I think what I really wish is for a school where we test all the parents on their childrearing, political, and social philosophies before admitting their children.

And yet… I hate that I am being so ridiculous.

I hate when I get into this place of feeling a feeling and then hating myself for feeling a feeling.