UnchartedParent.com

I live in the space between Big and Little.

Big and Little: a basic “opposites” concept we begin to teach to our children before they turn a year old.  Yet sometimes, even as a grownup, I’m not sure I’ve nailed down the difference.

Once, I was a junior aide to a U.S. senator.  Everyday I encountered matters of national and international import that affected thousands, sometimes millions of people.  Very Big.  My primary responsibility was to reply to letters written to my boss from his constituents.  Little.

Later, I went to law school and became a nonprofit lobbyist advocating in the halls of Congress and the White House regarding civil rights, civil liberties and public education.  Big.  One of my Biggest successes was keeping three words out of a 1000-page-plus bill.  Little.  Those three words potentially affected thousands of people’s lives.  Very Big.

Now, by choice, my days are filled with diapers instead of documents, and macaroni and cheese instead of meetings.  I debate toddlers and kindergartners instead of lawyers, and I watch Little Einsteins instead of C-Span.  Instead of drafting legislation, I draft rules for a small, select audience of Little people, such as, “We use tissues to wipe our noses, not your sister’s hair.”  My world has shrunk to be very Little.

This was my decision.  I gave up the world of the Big to live in the world of the Little.  But sometimes, I remember my youthful ideals, my earlier ambitions, and I wonder if I have some obligation to “Big” that I am not meeting.

I see hunger, refugees, victims of sexual assault, people denied the potential of their humanity because of their race or their sexual orientation, war of every stripe, natural disasters, even the occasional genocide.  And I, who grew up in the latter part of the 20^th century, earned three degrees, have never gone hungry and actually know how to move some bureaucracy—don’t I have some obligation to this Big world?

But then I look at my children.  Little.  Two Little people.  And though they are Little now, I know that before I know it, they will be Big and defining their own lives.  They are Little, but it is my responsibility to protect, guide and shape these two human beings to the extent nurture will allow.  Big.  To them, I and their father are everything.  Very Big.

I still relish policy debates when I can find a good candidate or cause here in my Little New England town.  And I do get nostalgic for the Big debates in Big Washington, D.C., and for the Bigger policy jobs I never got to try.  But now, when I am reminded of my desire to change the Big world—usually while I am folding Little laundry and watching CNN—I try to focus back at my Little kids and maybe see if I can do something Little for a friend or find a Little niche in a much Bigger project.  In this way, I hope to find just the right place between Big and Little, between raising my family and fulfilling my obligation to the world.

And I try to teach my children the difference between Big and Little.

We’re a political family, which means that we’re talking about politics and the presidential election a lot these days.  As I’ve mentioned before, my six-year-old son, “Jack,” is fully on board the Obama bandwagon with us, and he likes to be kept apprised of the latest developments in the race.

I was watching the coverage of the primary results out of South Carolina Saturday night and I excitedly shared the news of Obama’s win with Jack.  “That’s good,” he replied, then went back to his snack.

A minute or two later, one of the commentators reported on a statement allegedly made by a supporter of another candidate.  I found this statement to be highly offensive and I shouted this to my husband.  Jack then wanted to know what all of my fuss was about.

“Well, Jack,” I began cautiously, because I was about to tread into waters that could form his opinions for the rest of his life.  “Someone suggested that Obama won in South Carolina only because there are a lot of black people there.  What that person means is that she thinks white people would only vote for white people and black people would only vote for black people.”  Now it’s time for the punch line of the lesson, I told myself.  “And that’s silly, isn’t it?  Because black people and white people and most people of all colors are really interested in figuring out which person is the best one to be president.  That’s who they’ll vote for.  Right?”

Jack contorted his face in derision without looking up from his snack.  “I’m white and I voted for Obama,” he scoffed, seemingly annoyed at having to state the most obvious truth in the world.

Would that it were so.  If only everyone found the idea of judging someone first and foremost by his or her race to be such a ridiculous notion that it didn’t even warrant time away from one’s bedtime snack.

Jack doesn’t need any lessons from me about race.  Maybe we grownups could learn a few things from him.

Six-year-olds are terrific dramatists.  Nothing is bad; it’s “horrible.”  And “horrible” comes with eyes that spin nearly 360 degrees in their sockets, body twists that would cause most adults to sprain something and a tone of voice designed to convince the adult listener that no one understands oppression like this child who has just been denied or commanded to [insert injustice here].

The only thing that saves our small, would-be thespians is that for kids, the theatrics are actually often not an act.  Kids really, truly feel like that lost Lego piece or that order to clear the table represents the end of their world.  (We learn perspective as we get older.  Or at least we like to think so; remember the sense of outrage you felt the last time the cable went out just as you sat down to watch the football game or that episode of Lost you’d been anticipating all day?)

Take six-year-old “Jack,” for instance.  Two-and-a-half year old “Emmie” thinks there’s nothing better than having her superhero big brother read her naptime and bedtime stories to her, and Jack is usually happy to oblige.  Not long ago, I got Emmie ready for her nap and told her to pick out the story she wanted her brother to read to her.  She quickly selected the book-of-the-week: a slim volume from the I Spy series.

It was The End of The World.

“Oooooooooooooh,” Jack groaned, so heavily weighed down by the burden of his persecution that his shoulder nearly sank to the ground.  “Not that book.  I’ve read that to her a hundred times!”

Oh, Jack, I feel your pain.  No, really, I do, because two years ago, I must have read that book to you a thousand times!  I contemplated running it through the shredder, throwing it in the snow for the snowblower to find, tossing it into the fireplace.  I learned to hate that book!  And let’s talk about all of the toddler books I can still recite in my sleep: not only can Mr. Brown Moo, but he never stops.  I say Goodnight to the Moon, but it never leaves my head.  And Sandra Boynton?  Well, surely by now I’ve memorized enough of her words that I could write her books myself!

Sometimes it’s tough to be a parent—uh, I mean, big brother.  When that little girl is staring up at you with those big, adoring eyes (with the fluttering eyelashes), convincing you that not only would your reading of this detested book be the best thing since sliced bread, but it would actually be better, what can you do?  What did Jack do?

He did what the rest of us do.  He sighed and accepted his responsibility.  He read the damn book.  Again.

Time for a little commercial.

What did you hate most about the holidays last month?

Was it the frenzied rush to shop?  Was it finding a good photo of the kids and turning it into 100-plus holiday cards that had to be in the homes of every one of your family and friends before the clock struck midnight on your holiday of choice?  Was it the extra pounds that came with the eggnog, fruitcake and sixteen varieties of chocolate confections?

Or was the worst part of the holidays removing the packaging from your kids’ new toys?

You know what I’m talking about.  Your child receives a sweet-looking new dolly from a well-meaning relative, or you gave in and bought that obnoxious pimpmobile of a monster truck your kid was begging for.  Your kids’ eyes opened wide with excitement when they ripped away the red, gold and green wrapping paper.  “Take it out!  Take it out!”  They jumped up and down as they shouted these words, unable to contain their excitement.

Half-an-hour later, they moved on, bored, because you were still trying to extract the toys from the darn packaging.

You’d think you could just puncture the shrink wrap and rip it away, maybe remove a little scotch tape, and let the fun begin.  But no, it turns out that you need skill, strength, and a tool box containing screwdrivers and wire clippers of a size nobody ever uses—and therefore no one owns—to remove toys that are better protected than our nation’s currency at Fort Knox.  In the absence of the appropriate tools, you resort to brute force and cursing.

Enter Duracell. 

When I purchased some toy-friendly, AA batteries prior to the holidays, the package included a small, Philips-head screwdriver (with a cute, battery-shaped handle).  It was the perfect size for removing bolted-down packaging from children’s toys.  We used that silly screwdriver multiple times over the holidays, with a corresponding reduction in impatience from the kids and in four-letter words from the adults. 

My husband can’t understand why it took someone so long to think of this.  I don’t care to question it; I’m happy simply to appreciate it.  It seems a little absurd to be so excited about something so seemingly frivolous, but sometimes the little things can make a big difference.

Any semi-regular reader of this blog knows that I am not a baby person.

I was delighted on each of my kids’ first birthdays; even happier on their second.  Now both of my kids walk, talk, tell jokes, make demands and display their own, unique personalities.  I love that they have become little people.

As you might imagine, I am also not attached to the trappings of my children’s babyhood.  Two-and-a-half year old “Emmie” sleeps in a bed now, and I shed no tears when my husband took apart the white, wooden crib that nestled both of my children in their infancies.  I’ve got boxes of toys in the basement waiting to be given away, and bins of tiny clothing that I’m more than happy to remove from my house.  Laying aside these items doesn’t inspire me to shed bittersweet tears; rather, getting rid of these things means that my kids are continuing to develop as people, and it’s as exciting to me as measuring their heights on their growth charts on each of their birthdays. 

But recently, as I was folding up baby blankets and crib sheets for the last time, I looked down at my hands and discovered that they held an object I just couldn’t part with: my daughter’s crib skirt.

It’s a pure white cotton rectangle, embroidered with the outline of a few delicate bright pink flowers that hover above an ultra-feminine pink-and-white candy stripe ruffle.  I fell in love with its elegance and its simplicity (and thus paid far more for it than I had previously thought acceptable for a crib skirt).   So much of what decorated my daughter’s room was passed down from her brother’s nursery, but I purchased this item just for her.  Adorned with this skirt, Emmie’s crib announced to anyone who happened by her room that the visitor was in a girl’s room.  This room would be a room for dreaming, for giggling, for learning strength and charm, for sharpening intelligence.  Friendships would grow here, female alliances woven and probably broken, blossoming romances would be fed by abuse of teen phone privileges, and plots to annoy the big brother she really loves would be hatched here, too.

None of this has changed, of course.  The pink-and-cream striped walls of Emmie’s room still surround her when she sleeps, the gauzy butterflies still take flight above her dreams.  Books on all topics are stacked in the white bookcase and baby dolls—without clothing, of course—are scattered across her floor (along with the occasional race car).  All of the things I imagined for baby Emmie are still possible, even though I suspect that she has begun to replace my visions with one or two of her own.

But that crib skirt sits next to me as I type this post.  It’s not going into the bins with the other baby items to be given away without a single nostalgic thought.  For some reason, this crib skirt has grabbed me, and I can’t let it go.  So I will instead tuck it into a recess of my closet, a secret spot where I very occasionally stash other reminders of my children’s mind-wearying, soul-challenging, nerve-destroying earliest years.  Because the truth is that though I couldn’t be happier watching my children grow into the adults that they will one day become, somewhere inside of me lives the mommy who wouldn’t mind holding her two little babies again—but only for a moment.

There’s a woman I know whom I think of as “über-mom.”  I first made her acquaintance a few years ago over brightly colored mats and bouncy, clown-themed music at our local Gymboree outlet.  Since then, we’ve frequented the same playgrounds, sung and danced together in preschool music classes, and now our oldest kids are in kindergarten in the same school.

Sue (not her real name) is amazing.  She’s incredibly nice, never seems to lose her temper with her kids and brings new meaning to the words “parental involvement.”  If there’s a bake sale, she’s made the brownies, set up and manned the table and successfully sold every last crumb.  If there’s a hole to be filled at school, she’s on top of it.  She also works in a demanding job, organizes and spends time with her friends and holds everything together at home while her husband travels a lot in his own career.  She’s enthusiastic and always willing to talk, she looks good all of the time, and I sometimes wish for my kids’ sake that they could have a mom as positive, patient and fun as she is.

So just imagine my reaction when I received the following in an email from her yesterday:  “[My daughter] well, I was ready to sell her on eBay last night (and I would have paid the shipping!)!” 

My immediate, deep-in-my-heart reaction to Sue’s words was satisfaction—and relief.  If my friend the über-mom could write them, then I could feel a lot less guilty about the times I feel like writing—or doing—the exact same thing.

A strange, hushed sound has descended over my state.

It’s the sound of yard signs carried by winter winds to destinations unknown.  No one cares; they are no longer needed here.  It’s the sound of fingers tapping keyboards and phones ringing as political hangovers are nursed through analysis of what transpired here on Tuesday and why.  It’s the sound of hotels emptying unless they are in ski country, diners serving coffee and burgers instead of sound bites and people trying to remember what it was they talked about before every word uttered in a public place might mean one more vote for this candidate or one less vote for that one.

There’s a lot I could write about the primary as we return to the three-year portion of our four-year cycle—the one where most people couldn’t find New Hampshire on a map even if you offered them money.  (Contrast this with Tuesday, where I was approached by a Washington Post reporter and a delegation from a Danish nonprofit organization studying American elections to give my perspective as a volunteer on the day’s events.  I obliged the Danes, but was prohibited from giving information to the reporter.)  But as this is a blog about parenting, I’ll try to keep this post on topic by discussing one aspect of the past several months that has left me proud to call New Hampshire my home: young kids discussing politics.

Stop grimacing.  This is a good thing.

For months now, my own kids have known that this is an Obama household.  My six-year-old son has asked a litany of questions about my candidate and why I support him, and about the other candidates whose signs he’s seen and whom he’s heard discussed while out and about town.  His curiosity reached to analysis of campaign slogans, consideration of the purpose and procedure surrounding democratic elections and why Mommy thought it was so darn important that I drag him into the voting booth with me.  He even baked cookies that spelled out “OBAMA” for my house party.  And when he did accompany me to our precinct to vote, a “Kids Vote” booth was set up and he got to fill out a ballot himself.  (Don’t tell him that you have to be eighteen for your vote to count; I think he thinks he really voted in this election.)

He also learned about the election at school, where the kindergarten and preschool classrooms held their own election.  The kids discussed the candidates for months, influenced both by the support and opposition they heard from their parents at home and from the not-always-coherent rationales they offered to each other.

And the younger kids got in on the action, too.  Yes, that’s right, the younger ones.  My two-and-a-half year old daughter knows who Barack Obama is, and her route to school displayed enough John Edwards signs that she knows his name as well.  She doesn’t understand what any of it means, of course, but she knows that whatever happened on Tuesday was important.

This involvement is the beginning of civic participation; the foundation for understanding the value of our democracy and of making your voice heard.  I’m grateful to live in a state where so many people take their vote seriously and really, truly consider how they want to spend that precious resource.  In a place where adults are so engaged in the democratic process, a little of that can’t help but filter down to our kids.

So now, as we return to our ordinary lives, I’ll keep pulling for the candidate whom I believe will best improve this country for our kids.  But it’s nice to know that at least in some small way, my kids have already won.

Happy New Year!  To celebrate this holiday, Uncharted Parent is on hiatus this week.

Actually, that’s not true.  I’m not writing this week because:

• My children have been home (or with me away from home) for nearly two solid weeks, which means that I have had approximately 5.3 minutes to devote to writing during that time;
• My brand new, fifteen-month old computer is finally up and running, and I am attempting to switch from the old computer to the new one; the transition is going as well as all technological experiences tend to do;
• My house now harbors more germs than a hospital; the only one fully healthy here is the two-year-old (and boy am I tempting fate by writing that);
• If men with colds are children, six-year-old boys with coughs are simply nightmares;
• I’m still trying to figure out where to put the 2,374 new toys that showed up in our house as a result of Hanukkah, Christmas and my son’s birthday;
• I’m helping my husband train for his new sport of snow-wrangling, which became necessary after our December snowfall easily broke a record set in the 1870’s; he has often had to clear the driveway and the walk (and sometimes the roof, and a path to the wood pile) twice per day;
• I’m having trouble keeping up with the fifty or so emails I receive each day from the presidential campaign of my chosen candidate (FIRED UP!  READY TO GO!  OBAMA 2008!);
• The laundry piles that accumulated over the holidays are threatening to ooze out of the guest room and expand into the rest of the house;
• Our living room television fried last week in a power surge (with the smell of burnt wires and all), thus sending my husband and I into the dizzying world of purchasing a new television in the twenty-first century (LCD?  Plasma?  Tube?  Size?  HD?  Cable setup?  Move to digital?  Widescreen?  Furniture to put it on?  Don’t tell me we need to get the cable company to come out here!);
• College break means our favorite babysitter is back in town, so my husband and I are trying to squeeze in a couple of date nights; and
• I am trying to come to grips with the fact that I consented to let my six-year-old son take archery lessons this semester in school.

So that’s all that’s going on here.  Kind of boring, really.  Come back next week when I am back to my “normal” schedule.