Maternally Challenged

Questioning Authority

My husband and I always said we wanted to raise our children to question authority. This, I have found, is not a popular notion among parents, and I can see why: as parenting techniques go, it's a real pain in the ass. But I think it's worth it, and here's why:

There was a long piece on NPR today about the Stanford Prison Experiment which took place in the late 1960s. In it, Stanford psychologist Philip Zimbardo recruited about 24 college-aged young men, divided them into prisoners and a few guards, and meticulously recreated the prison experience--shaving the prisoners' heads, "delousing" them, subjecting them to prisoner counts at all hours, forcing them to do push-ups for alleged "behavior infractions," and so on. The "prisoners"--all paid volunteers--immersed themselves in their new environment; after a day or so of nervously kidding around, they started to act like real prisoners. They even began identifying themselves by their assigned number instead of their names. The "guards," meanwhile, also threw themselves in their roles--becoming increasingly authoritarian, coercive and--when a few of the prisoners staged a short-lived rebellion--resorting to sexual humiliation to keep the prisoners in line. Even the researcher, Zimbardo, became so invested in his experiment that, by his own admission, he began thinking like a prison warden instead of a psychologist. The experiment ended only when his then-girlfriend (now wife) saw the experiment on its fifth day and demanded that it stop.

The study, which is famous in academic circles, has come up in the news lately because of the prison abuse scandals now emerging out of the war in Iraq--the secret CIA prisons in countries that use torture, Guantanamo, Abu Ghraib. The experiment shows us clearly how easily most of us can come to participate in something deeply immoral just because....well, because someone tells us to. Context is everything. Put ordinary people in a hermetically sealed world where they are humiliated and dehumanized, and they are apt to quickly lose their ability to fight back; put ordinary people in that same environment in positions of authority and unless someone holds them in check, many will venture past the bounds of decency. It always starts small; it ends only when someone steps in and says, "Enough."

But who are those people? My theory is that they are people who have a strong internal moral compass that points to True North (however you define that, in spiritual or ethical terms), and which is not affected by their immediate surroundings. How do you instill that? I'm not sure. But I think that learning to question authority--not defy it, mind you, just think about what it's telling you to do--is a vital first step.

This is not something we can expect schools to teach. Public schools, especially, are there to teach kids to abide by the rules; otherwise, there'd be mayhem. And mostly, I think, this is okay--though public education seems to attract its share of Nurse Ratcheds (and if you don't catch that reference, go rent One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest). It pays to be on the lookout for them.

In fact, it pays to be on the lookout for them everywhere. This is why I encourage my kids to ask questions about things they're told to do, and I tell them when I think school assignments are dumb (note to teachers: Science Fair is THE most effective way to suck all the joy out of science). With a five-year-old and nine-year-old who are quick learners on this point, I have to admit there are days when I question myself. ("Why do you want me to sweep the porch?" "Why should I clean the catbox?") There are times when I resort to the old tried and true "Because I said so" or--more ominously--I start describing that great big can of whup-ass I am about to open if they don't hop to it. But on the whole, I'm willing to put up with a little lip if it means I can raise kids who may someday, heaven help us, say "no" to some Big Cahuna who tells them to do something vile.

The Pool

Today the pool opened for the summer, and--just as every year--it seems like we were just there five minutes ago. The months in between last summer and this have not exactly been blank. My mother died last December, and it something I still have to wrap my mind around. And yet, walking in, I heard one mom say to another, "Well, here we are again." Over the years I've come to know a fair number of the kids there by name, and still more by sight. From one season to the next, bellies expand with new babies, or the baby who was barely sitting up last summer is running about on pudgy legs; or the little girl who looked like a string bean last summer is now filling out her swimsuit. All these things seem to happen in a matter of seconds, as if life is some kind of time-lapse photography trick. Which, in a way, it is.

Anvils Falling from the Sky

Last year, my neighbor's five-year-old son was hit by a car and badly injured. That was bad enough, but when they took x-rays at the hospital they found....a brain tumor. This kind of news of like an anvil suddenly dropping from the sky. THUNK. You think, No way. I did NOT just see an anvil fall from the sky. But there it is, right in front of you, large as life and just as inconceivable. So two days ago, when my husband brought our daughters back from their annual checkup, he mentioned casually that the pediatrician wanted our five-year-old to get some blood work done. "He saw some burst capillaries under her skin," he said. "Something about platelet counts." THUNK.

Husbands do not notice anvils falling from the sky. Mothers do. My heart dropped through a hole that had just been created in my stomach; my mind said, "Childhood leukemia." My husband must have noticed something in my face, because said, "You're not gonna freak out about this, are you?"

"Yes," I said. "I am." The next day--yesterday--I took my daughter to get her bloodwork done. She cried some, but she held still and even waved goodbye to the nurse when we left. We came home, ate dinner; I baked oatmeal cookies for my older daughter's class. Whenever I thought about it, I said, "Keep me, God," as in the Iris Dement song, and I kept reminding myself that we are all of us basically okay, no matter what.

This morning at 8:15 there was a message on my cellphone from the pediatrician. Can't be, I thought. Why is he calling so soon? There was that heart-falling-through-the-stomach effect. The minutes I spent on hold were immensely long. I did not think. I stared straight ahead. Then the doctor's voice on the phone: "Just wanted you to know that everything's perfect," he said. "Now you can have a good weekend." He is a kind man.

My neighbor's son made a full recovery; his brain tumor turned out to be benign. This week is the first anniversary of his surgery. My daughter's blood work is "perfect." Sometimes those anvils fall and hit you on the head, the way they did the day the doctor used the word "terminal" when referring to my father's cancer. Sometimes they miss. And you think, Thank you, God. Thank you that I did not have to get to know that particular anvil.

The Latest So-Called Research

This just in--a news tidbit forwarded to me by my friend Sarah, who works at Radio Free Asia when she is not working to raise two lovely daughters. Sarah gets these things off the wires.

"Researchers"--I use the term loosely--at University College London said this week in the Journal of Epidemiology and Community Health that women who were stay-at-home mothers were more likely to be fat than women who work outside the home, and that a long-term study had shown that they consistently gained more weight than women who "occupied multiple roles over the long term."

Okay, so....A) staying home all the time makes you fat. Or, B) juggling (there's that cheerful, circus-y word again) successfully makes you fit. Or--could it be--that C) being fit in the first place makes it possible to juggle?

I don't know from reading this brief news story. But I will bet one crisp $50 bill with anybody who wants to engage in online gambling with me that all the news stories will play it as options A or B, not C....thus piling on more angst and guilt on mothers who a) have health problems or b) face employment discrimination because of being overweight or c) were just born chunky or d) have found it damned hard to work exercise into daily routines that center around taking care of everybody except themselves.I'd also love to see a longitudinal study of what happens to workers whose desks are located right next to the break room, which essentially describes the "workplace" of every stay-at-home mother I know. Do they tend to put on pounds? Hmmmm....

But wait! There's more. An Australian professor is quoted in this story as saying, "We think that women learn skills in juggling roles and one of the important things about having multiple roles is you have multiple sources of satisfaction.I wouldn't want to say that women at home are missing out but generally women who manage several roles have more sources of support and satisfaction."

Holy cow. Who would have known that being lucky enough to find a job that pays enough to cover childcare AND gives you enough flexibility that you actually see your kids once in a while is an incredible find? I wonder if these people have noticed that being beautiful is more rewarding than being ugly? That being rich is more rewarding than being poor?

The research vistas stretch out to infinity...and beyond...

The Grand Old Flag

I took my nine-year-old to Fort McHenry yesterday. She's working on a project about Maryland history, and picked the place where the Americans fought off the British in 1814 during a bombardment that was the backdrop for the writing of the "The Star Spangled Banner." We started at the visitors' center, of course, and then watched a quick movie. When it ended, some music came on--a male choir (a really, really good one) singing "The Star Spangled Banner"--and, as they sang, the curtain slowly drew back along the side of the room to reveal...the flag itself, flying over the fort just the way it had in September 1814. I felt an unexpected wave of emotion....pride in my country, mingled with fear. Are we still the home of the brave? Absolutely. The land of the free? Yeah....mostly. (ADVISORY: These comments are not necessarily the opinions of the National Security Administration, which may or may not be reading this.)

Just Shoot Me

I just went shopping with my nine-year-old, who was in desperate need of shorts, capris, new shoes...you name it. We have so far avoided the Name Brand Bugaboo, which consists of "If it doesn't come from ____________ (Limited II, The Gap, J Crew, whatever), I won't wear it." She's still happy with our local French boutique, Target (the "g" is soft and the "t" is silent). This kid, however, has zero idea of what size she is. We don't have body image problems because we have no body image. Zip. Nada. None. She picks up an extra small (this is a kid who was 95th percentile in height and weight from the day she was born and has continued this trend ever since). "Not gonna fit," I say. "Oh, MAN," she whines. I look for things with the purple tags, which are Extra Large. (Next year, we'll be in the teen department, a prospect I find dreadful). "This might," I say. "As IF," she says, in her best Alicia Silverstone imitation. I sigh. We move on. Somehow, I keep spotting things that would be extraordinarily cute on my five-year-old (who does not need clothes right now), but finding things for her big sister is a problem. Eventually we settle on a sun dress, two skirts (shorts attached underneath, otherwise they'd be illegal), two shirts, one pair of capris and a pair of sneakers. This, plus one or two things for her little sister, two birthday presents, assorted birthday cards and wrapping paper, pretty much fills up the cart. "Guess how much we spent," I say to my daughter. She squints. "$115," she says, an estimate which surprises me because it's actually in the ballpark. I guess $125, tops. We're both wrong: it's $167. Jesus H. Christ on a raft, as my irreverent Southern friends would say....

Then, in the parking lot, she runs the shopping cart over my left heel. It hurts like hell. She's in tears; it's horrible to be such a klutz and to see your mother writhing in pain and know you've caused it...so in addition to nursing my injured foot, I have to comfort her, too. Even so, we almost manage to make it home without a meltdown, until: "I made an 85 on my math test, Mom," she says. "That's great," I say. "I bet next time you can get it over 90." This, it turns out, is the exact wrong thing to say. There are sobs. Tears. Wails. "WHY CAN'T YOU JUST BE HAPPY FOR ME???" she moans. "Do you want me to patronize you?" I ask, but it's no use; she's past reason now. I sigh. We pull into the driveway. She runs into the house, the picture of despair. I am left to haul out her new clothes and limp inside. Someday, I'll remember this fondly. I think.

True Grit

I'm the mother of two highly intelligent girls. With their high IQs (both clearly in the "superior" range), I don't have to worry about their success in life, right?

Oh, but I do. With my oldest, particularly. The fact that she's smart means that she catches on quickly to things. It also means that she's easily discouraged if she doesn't "get" it the very first time. This is especially true in math, where I've heard a couple of thousand times by now, "I DON'T WANNA DO THIS!!!!" (accompanied by kicking, tearing of homework sheets, hurling of pencils, etc.) My girl has smarts, but in the persistence department she needs some work. I was the same way. I distinctly remember throwing my algebra book through my bedroom window (which was closed at the time) when I was first introduced to the preposterous idea that letters and numbers could coexist in the same sentence. I shattered the windowpane that night, but it took quite a while for an essential truth to penetrate my somewhat thicker skull: sometimes you just have to keep trying, and trying, and trying....until you understand.

What made me think of this was an article in the November/December edition of Psychology Today, in which writer Peter Doskoch explores the topic of "grit" and the role it plays in a person's success. Researchers at the University of Pennsylvania's Positive Psychology Center (headed by Dr. Martin Seligman, one of the world's best interviews--I know, because I've interviewed him) have done some analyses that suggest that only about a quarter of the differences between persons in job performance can be attributed to intelligence; the rest can be attributed to personality factors, creativity and luck. And the major factor in personality, they say, is persistence-i.e., grit. Being able to keep hammering away at something, it turns out, is just as important, maybe more so, than any innate gift. Most important, Doskoch writes, "helping children find their passion may turn out to be more important than addressing their academic weaknesses." Sometimes passion fosters perseverence, and sometimes it's the other way around, but however you get there, grit is an essential part of any successful person''s personality.

How do you teach this? Wish I knew. Role modeling helps, obviously, but other than that, I'm open to suggestions. With my oldest daughter, I know that the more I try to force her to go back and try something, the more resistant she'll become. But the other night, when she was clearly unable to figure out how to use a protractor, I let it slide until after she went to bed. Then I sat down and figured out a) the instructions her teacher had given her were confusing and b) the instructions on the little plastic protractor itself were quite simple. The next morning I took 30 seconds and said, "Look at this again," and showed her one example. "Oh," she said. Bingo. I had to lure her back into looking again, but when I did--she got it.

Maybe someday she'll learn to come back on her own.

Reading to my Daughter

It's been 40 years at least since I read Little House on the Prairie,and the intervening decades were polluted with the syrupy Michael Landon TV vehicle by the same name (which my father always referred to, irreverently, as "Little Shack on the Flats"). Still, I remembered it as a good book, so when I spotted it in a bookstore recently I bought it for my nine-year-old daughter. She loves it. She's a voracious reader, but there are still times when she likes me to read to her at bedtime, and I like it too--and so it was the other night that I rediscovered what an amazing writer Laura Ingalls Wilder was.

"Then from the woods by the creek a nightingale began to sing. Everything was silent, listening to the nightingale's song. The bird sang on and on. The cool wind moved over the prairie and the song was round and clear above the grasses' whispering. The sky was like a bowl of light overturned on the flat black land."

This is crystalline prose, unfiltered and pure, beautiful in its plainness. Not a word wasted, and that image of an overturned "bowl of light"--that blows me away. On his best days, Hemmingway might have cranked out a few sentences like that (though to me his writing sounds mannered after all these years) and he is considered a 20th century literary giant. Laura Ingalls Wilder was a mere children's author. Maybe someday someone will explain to me how literary reputations are made...though at least until recent years (and probably even now) it seems that having a penis helps a lot.

Anyway, go get your kids the Laura Ingalls Wilder books. They've aged very well.

How was YOUR Mother's Day

Mine was medium sucky. It started with a meltdown by my nine-year-old, who had earlier promised me as a Mother's Day gift that she would not fight for the whole day with her five-year-old sister. Trouble was, the nine-year-old had a playdate on Saturday which turned into a sleepover. This was fine; I really like her friend and think she's a great influence. What's not so fine is that after every playdate, my little  diva just falls apart. I don't know why. Maybe it's the strain of Being Nice for too long; maybe she's just high strung. All I know is, it always happens. And it always surprises me. You'd think I'd have a better learning curve by now, but no. So: the nine-year-old is screaming that no, she cannot possibly play with anybody as loathesome as her sister; the five-year-old is crying because her big sister has been ignoring her all weekend and now won't give her the time of day; David is grumpy because of all the screaming, and I just want to leave home. I tell David to take the five-year-old to the park and do something fun, which he does. Then I go to battle with the nine-year-old over the computer, which she is on--AGAIN--having racked up a total of, I don't know, two or three hours of computer time over the last two days. When I tell her her time is up, she defies me; the result is a loss of computer access for the next month. By this time I am ready to drop-kick her off a cliff. I get dressed to go to church and get halfway there before pulling over to have a good cry, because of all this and because....this is the first Mother's Day I've had without my own mother, who died last December.

Everything ended okay. The nine-year-old apologized that night, and agreed that she's been spending too much time on the computer. The five-year-old went to bed happy and singing, as usual. I got to go shopping with my friend Ann and see a movie. My sister called and told me she loved me. All's well that ends well, etc. It's just: whenever there's a bad day, I carry it in my body for the next day or two. I have no shock absorbers. So: onward. Tomorrow will be better.

The Choices We Make

So tonight I'm at the neighbors' cookout, and learn from our (childless) friends across the street that they are thinking of moving. They have the nicest house on the block, by far. So why are you moving? I want to know. He replies that they want a bigger house in a more rural county. "We want hardwood floors. We want doors with set-in panels. We want real marble countertops. We want the nice stuff," he said.

That's definitely a couple of steps up from my neighborhood, for sure. I know they both make good money. So why not?

"Because," I passionately want to say to them, "don't you realize you are not just buying a nicer house? You are buying a lifestyle. You are entering into an agreement with the future which says that either children are not part of your life (not my business; I didn't ask) OR that your children will have to fit into the niches of your lives left by your jobs and your house. Because you will be paying for that house for years to come. You will have longer commutes. And you may be surprised--many people have been surprised--that after the kids come along, you wish your days were longer. You wish you had more time on your hands.

"Because kids are about so much more, so MUCH more, than hardwood floors and real granite countertops. Because someday you may wish you had a little bit of that mortgage payment you will be making in your own bank account, to pay for a big trip out West with your kids, or to Europe, or for special music camp. Because, as unbelievable as it now seems, your career may not always be on an upward trajectory; because a year may come when you actually make less than you did the year before.

"Because someday you may have a child who needs special medical care.

"If you know you won't have kids, if you are absolutely certain of this, go ahead. Buy that big house. If you have inherited some trust fund I don't know about--by all means, enjoy your good fortune. But if you're not sure, if you think that children might be part of your life together, for God's sake reconsider. The house you live in right now is better than 99 percent of what the world's population will ever have, or dream of having. Granite countertops are nice; I'd like them myself. But I'll take happiness--real, authentic happiness--over that any day.

"Think about your choice. Think."

That's what I would say. But of course, it's none of my business. (sigh)....