Acceptance, Tolerance, And Empathy: Things my kids have learned from Voldemort and other villians.

Recently I was given reason to take a step back from my own situation and examine my own parenting and the lifestyle in which my children are being raised. I was made to feel guilt and doubt, and I wanted to take some time to reflect upon the choices I make regarding my children. The attack came from someone I don’t know, leaving me to wonder if the opinion was rather more unbiased than that of friends and family, who wouldn’t normally criticize how I do things, for fear of hurting my feelings. It was specifically in regards to the movies and literature I choose to expose my children to. It was suggested that perhaps some of the content I allow my children to be privy to were perhaps too advanced, too mature, too terrifying for their small, maybe even weak minds. It made me wonder, what it is, I really am exposing them to?

            I have always had a specific genre of books, movies and shows on TV I am especially drawn to. I devour every fantasy book I can get my hands on, I become absolutely enthralled with movies and television series set in magical, fantastical lands, future, dystopian societies, and anything that revolves around people with special abilities, cast aside by society as “weird”, who end up “saving the day”. In the same way fathers sometimes enjoy sharing their favorite sport with their child, I too, enjoy sharing my favorites with my kids. The question now becomes, am I doing this for selfish reasons? Am I forcing something on them they shouldn’t be a part of, just yet? I took a deeper look at the specific literature and movies they’ve heard and seen so many times in their short lives, they nearly have every line memorized.

            Among some of our more beloved works are Harry Potter, Lord of the Rings, The Chronicles of Narnia, we’ve even watched The Divergent series together, and most recently, after having read all three in as many days, we went to the movie theater and saw Miss Peregrine’s Home for Peculiar Children. On the surface these types of books and movies are nothing more than pure fantasy, plots revolving around magic, nothing that could ever happen in the “real world”. There are however, plenty of violent scenes described and/or shown. I have decided though, that not only is the surface level a bad thing, but neither is the violence or the deeper meanings weaved into the stories. As far the most simple of layers to these works go, the root lesson being taught is imagination. Albert Einstein said, “Imagination is everything. It is the preview for life’s coming attractions.”

            Child experts unanimously agree imagination in a child’s life has benefits that are to be celebrated. Children with active imaginations are more creative, happier, more alert, more likely to cope with life’s twists and turns, and usually grow into well-adjusted and secure adults. Imagination is the younger sibling to creativity and innovation. All of which are traits I would be proud to the point of bursting to have instilled into my children. The fantasy books and movies I allow, and encourage my kids to hear and see foster within them a sense of magic. It teaches them to see the mundane, and use their minds to make the boring, the tepid, and the tedious parts of life a truly wild adventure. When we, as people, become complacent and bored we lose our passion. The potential that is always hidden beneath a layer of bland, humdrum regularity, ignites a passion within us to uncover what could be. I don’t want my children to ever lose that, that feeling that makes our hearts skip, that which makes us wonder with curiosity and the passion that drives us to work until the mystery underneath is discovered. When we lose our passion, we lose the ability to truly live.

            As mentioned earlier, there is some violence within many of the fantasy series we love. I am against the gore. There is no reason for children to see blood and guts. It’s just gross. If and when there are scenes that portray anything bloody and disgusting, we fast forward, or close our eyes. My so-called righteous quest for enlightenment for both myself and my kids is not at the cost of their innocence.  I think, as a parent it is within my job description to discern what is too-much. My line is drawn when the fake blood starts to spray at the camera. There are though, instances of death that can be used as a learning experience that aren’t accompanied by graphic and grotesque bodily injury. In Harry Potter, when Dobby dies, we learn there is evil in this world, and we learn the virtue of loyalty. When, in LOTR, we see what we think is Gandalf’s heroic and sacrificial death, we learn the same thing. I would much rather explain and discuss the bad things that do happen in this world through fantasy. When it gets to be too heavy, too deep and too scary, we can turn it off and know it’s just pretend. It does though, prepare them later in life for the moments we can’t shut off and close our eyes too. But throughout all of the death portrayed, there is a glimmer, a beautiful, shining spark that never fails, and that which we cling to even in real life. HOPE.

            I believe I am teaching my children to always have hope. No matter what evil comes their way, there is hope and we see it the way the heroes in our stories fight fiercely for good. The underdog, the underprivileged, the cast offs, they are the ones who come forward and do what is right. With hope comes tolerance and acceptance. These types of stories show us that despite illness (Remus Lupin), despite mental illness (Jake, the peculiar child after his grandfather dies) you can still persevere. The oddballs, the freaks, they are the ones we learn to love and understand and have a deep empathy for. I would be thrilled to know my children have the same attitude towards the “freaks” they encounter in the real world. Another important aspect I have come away with and encourage my children to see are the overwhelming amount of female empowerment within the fantasy genre. Maybe someday it won’t be a fantasy?  

            Many of these movies have a rating of PG-13. I was told there are ratings for a reason. I agree. PG stands for parental guidance and I absolutely believe if you as a parent are too inept and unequipped to guide your children through what they are seeing than you do more damage than good. I understand that some parents just don’t understand what they are truly reading or seeing and those are the types I would strongly caution against movies with PG13 ratings. But if you can see the bigger picture and can turn it into a life lesson then perhaps this genre is for you and your kids. The “G” refers to guidance as there is a large range of movies within this rating. LOTR, Avatar, Pirates of the Caribbean, Harry Potter, X-Men, Bruce Almighty, Indiana Jones, Jurassic Park 3, The Avengers, Starwars, Spider Man and Batman are all rated the exact same as Drag me to Hell, The Ring, 6^th Sense, Insidious, The Woman in Black and World War Z, amongst many other horror flicks.

            Above all, though, I hope I am fostering a sense of joy and creativity. The same way in which the God I serve, and am teaching my children to serve, fosters joy and creativity in me. He is the ultimate in creativity but He has never shied away from violence. He was murdered brutally, but God, Himself, is the hope all these works of literature palely try to imitate. There is bad in this world, and sometimes, yes, I let my kids see it in movies, that they may know how blessed they are to have both parents and a secure setting to grow up in and turn to. For those who don’t, just remember, JK Rowling said, Hogwarts will always be there to welcome you home. <3

Help me, I'm Poor.

I have a confession, guys. It’s not a good one. It’s ugly, really ugly. I found something out about myself this past week, and it’s enough to make me sick. This whole time I thought I was Annie, maybe even Megan, from Bridesmaids but I am absolutely, 100% Helen. There it is. I am Helen. I’m competitive, slightly arrogant, I have a mean streak, and I am insecure to top off the old self-hate sundae. I might not be planning a bridal shower, but I am planning a preschool Halloween party, and this whole thing has brought out the she-wolf in me.

I have “mom-ed” so hard this week I popped a blood vessel and my left eye is doing this permanent, irritating twitch. I can’t make it stop. I look like I forgot my medicine. When my son started school, I was literally the first to sign up to be Room Mother (all caps, it’s a super important gig), so there’s my stupid name, on the stupid list, front and center, CAITLYN SHITHEAD GEORGE. I thought I was being a super present, awesome mom. Look at me go, I thought, first in line, I’ll make some cute Pinterest fail pretzel skeletons, and stand around and “assist” the teachers. I have never been so wrong.

I walk into school last week and the teachers pull me aside to tell me they usually have a craft, some games, snacks, treat bags, and story time, and I will need to organize the whole thing, and make a sign-up sheet for the other parents to donate things towards this dumb party. WHAT?!? I am already on edge having to do my make-up every day for drop-off, and now this?? I smile so hard wisdom teeth I had pulled 8 years ago are showing, nod like I knew all along what Room Mother meant, and pat my son on the head, and walk out backwards, two thumbs up, winking at the teach. “You got it sister, I’m good to go!” I think she thinks I’m manic, I don’t know.

I immediately go home and cuss out my husband, it’s obviously HIS fault as he insisted on sending our son to this pretentious, over-priced, elitist, college prep, DAY CARE, and it’s his fault I am now in charge of making sure no one asphyxiates when I accidentally organize a party with peanuts everywhere for the allergic kids.  After I calm down, which for me, means voraciously chain smoking for an hour while crying to my mom, I take action. And here is where Helen comes into this sad story.

            I made an actual agenda, down to the minute, every second of this party is meticulously planned out. I made this over the top photo booth, a wooden pallet sign; I used chalk paint to write the name of the school as a prop, as well as some rustic pumpkins, a back drop, I even got hay bales guys. Hay. Bales.  I’m going to snap everyone’s picture and run down to the one-hour photo, so for craft time they can decorate a frame with their Halloween costume photo sesh pic inside. I have 14 pumpkins to paint and decorate, games, cutesy Halloween snacks, and I am ashamed to admit, 14 signed copies of my book.

I have a book published. “You Dooooooooo?” – (Annie) Everyone. I even wrote every parent a letter, detailing the party, what I needed donated and a rage-inducing poem I wrote called The Invitation, about a Halloween party at a spooky, haunted house. I know, I know, it’s so damn obnoxious! Guys, I titled the poem and did this at the end: “ –Caitlyn George”… I HATE ME TOO!! Like, why? Last, but certainly not least, I made every mother who is helping me some homemade, organic goat shit soap, I mean milk, PRINTED OFF A HYMN, SOAKED IT IN COFFEE TO MAKE IT RUSTIC AND WRAPPED THEM, DECORATED THEM WITH EFFING BIRDS, AND PUT THEM IN A BAG THAT SAYS “YOU’RE A TWEET-HEART.”!!!!!!! I literally have never wanted to punch myself so hard in the face. I may as well go all out, like Helen, and hand out puppies at the end.  

            I wanted so hard to show everyone what an amazing mother I am, how thoughtful, clever, witty and creative I am. I write poems, I make my own soap, I’m published, and rainbows come out of my ass, meanwhile, like Helen’s step children in Bridesmaids, my own kids are like, “we hate you.” I was so desperate to crush all the other moms, and walk away with them wondering, what CAN’T this bitch do, that I am the exact type of person, or rather, I am behaving like the type of woman, I cannot stand. I want to be friends with Megan, who hits on Air Marshals and takes 9 puppies home. Instead I am acting like Helen, with her giant cookie and bleached butt…

            Every day I tell Dominic as I send him off to show the other kids in his class who is in his heart. I mean Jesus. I am sitting here staring at this box of party supplies, ashamed at how passive aggressive, competitive and insecure I was being. I don’t need to prove myself to anyone, I don’t need to be perfect and 4 year olds don’t give a rip about rustic autumnal décor vs. tacky plastic ghost figurines. I may have put together a cute party, but in doing so I will have made every single woman I have to work with, hate my guts. I know I would. I can whip up some handmade soap, but am I nice? Am I kind? My poems might be okay, but am I funny? Can I poke fun at myself and be humble? These are the things that matter, and I think with that being said, tomorrow, when I drop my kid off, I’ll be true to myself and show up in pajama pants, and let them all hear me screaming into the backseat, “KNOCK IT OFF YOU LITTLE SHITS!”.  I tell my kids constantly that it’s better to put yourself down, and let someone else raise you up, than to do it yourself and allow the world to destroy you. I am who I am. And that alone should be something to be proud of, there is no reason to try so hard to show off. My kids love me, and they are happy and healthy. Be an Annie, not a Helen.

Saying GOOD BYE to my baby

     This morning I was met with some very unexpected feelings. They come as a shock to me, I had no idea I would suffer such an intense, emotional identity crisis. Since April 7th, 2012, 4 years, one month and one week today, I have been in a particular season of life. My entire existence since that day, my whole schedule, everything about me, has revolved around diaper changes. Every place I've gone to, every home I visit, every doctor appointment, dentist appointment, and church nursery has been a place for me to change dirty diapers, discard them discreetly, or not so discreetly, a place where I've gently and carefully wiped precious little bottoms clean. Poop isn't something most come to find endearing or special, our own, or anyone else's. As mothers however, we have been charged with total care of these little people from the cute and adorable down to the most revolting of tasks. In all actuality it isn't the poop that's important, it's the meaning behind it. They need us for everything, without us they'd be hungry, sick, and soiled. In the same way nursing a child is an intimate and bonding experience, so is being the one person in this world who will wash from their delicate skin that which most wouldn't even come near, without huge sums of money involved and at the very least a wrinkled nose. It may be disgusting, but we do it, without hesitation because they need us. We are everything to them and in turn, our every moment of life from the day they're born until the day they don't use diapers anymore, all aspects of our being orbits around ensuring they never have to feel discomfort.
     When my first born became potty trained, I was elated and proud. Everything he does is new and exciting. A new frontier, a new challenge, I never once felt any sort of loss. I didn't mourn the stage he was leaving, because his little sister was still in that familiar territory that I had grown so accustomed to. No matter what my first does, I always have his sister, still a baby, still needing me for everything. I can enjoy his independence, while still clinging to her babyhood. This morning, though, marks 24 hours wearing Frozen undies in various shades of pink, with not one accident. She even went the entire night without a diaper. She walks herself to the potty, climbs up a step stool, does her business, and then patiently waits for me to come in and wipe her little bottom. She hops down, pulls her pants up, says "thanks mommy!", and runs off to continue whatever it was she was doing when nature's call interrupted. I am beaming with pride over this development, I cannot believe how quickly she figured it all out. However, I had no idea how sad it would make me as well. I didn't mentally prepare myself, I didn't say good bye to my baby girl, I didn't think to cherish every moment I would never get back of her and I alone somewhere, changing diapers. She always talked to me in her little voice, she used to pull on my hair, I remember when she'd lay there and chew on her toes while I rummaged around for the baby wipes. Once you begin to potty train, you can never, ever go back. Once they've learned it, that is the utter end of that season.
     Diapering not only consumes your life from the moment they're born, it also brings with it a sense of identity for momma, and an entire community of diapering mothers welcome you to the sisterhood with open arms. Who am I without my gigantic, obtrusive, bulky, 600 pound diaper bag, that is the bane of my existence?  How many times have I complained about needing to take it with me everywhere I go? How many photos have been taken of me with it on my shoulder or in the background, marking me as a new mother? What will it be like to grocery shop and never again need to steer my cart towards the baby aisle? What will summertime be like without my go-to staple of swim diapers? For so long, this has been who I am, and what I do. I grieve the loss of her baby years, and I grieve the loss of my identity as "mommy-to-babies". The sense of community too, that I have so grown to love and appreciate feels as if it's slipping. How many times have I easily started conversations with other mothers who have children the same age with jokes about diapers, blow outs, baby poop and so on? We all share that, and you could be anywhere, run out of baby wipes and someone in the vicinity in the same stage as you could offer up a few of her own.
     I have started a whole new phase, and don't get me wrong, the thought of how much money we will save alone, has me absolutely jumping with joy, not to mention the insufferable bragging rights I now have as far as having both kids potty trained and out of diapers, but there is still a persistent sense of loss I can't seem to shake this morning. I am no longer a mommy to infants. I am no longer ever going to change another diaper ever again. I will never frantically search for a changing table out in public. My regret is not paying enough attention to each and every second I was in charge of babies. After so long, I started to be set on auto-pilot and now that that task is forever a part of my personal motherhood history book, I can't help but feel grief. When one stage ends, an entirely new one begins, bringing with it, it's own set of hardships and joys. I am so looking forward to this second part of mommyhood, I am thrilled my bag will now be considerably less heavy, I am pleased for her, watching her beam with pride over her own accomplishments, but allow me this small moment to say good bye to my babies. I will genuinely miss the smell of warm morning diapers, the fluffy butts inside tight, baby pants, the bow legged toddle of a full diaper, and the chubby bunny look of a little girl, in just a diaper, running around the yard or house. You were a pleasure to care for baby girl, and I can't wait to see what this new season of life brings us! So long baby, and cheers to officially being a kid!
     My only advice, as trite as it may be, to new moms is to enjoy every second. As exhausting and inconvenient as it all may be, once it's over, you will never again see your child in diapers. Some things you can't get back, so take lots of pictures, try to soak in that special time between you and baby as you clean them up (not literally, that's gross) and know that someday they won't need you for that anymore, and that is a special, God given honor to be the one who they rely on for everything. <3