July 21, 2005
Here We Go 'Round the Mulberry Bush
Last night was a full moon, a storm has blown into Milwaukee and is currently casting a dark shadow over my happy little abode (Maddie: "It's raining again in MilwaukeeLand"), my daughter is listening to the new Chariots Race cd OVER AND OVER again, which is the aural equivalent of stuffing all of the emotions of the last year and a half of this relationship down my throat and in my ears with a pointy stick, and Tippecanoe/Milwaukee Public Schools just sent me a letter asking me if and when I'd like to take advantage of the "Tippe Camp" after school daycare program. Which means my daughter IS GOING TO SCHOOL. SOON.
Last night after work, Greg spent an hour or four trying to prepare me for preparing Maddie for the inevitable shock that will sink its desperate claws into my sweet innocent child's psyche once she figures out that the world does not, indeed, revolve solely around her.
"She's gonna get a reality check. Big time."
"I know."
"It's gonna kick her ASS."
"I know."
"You know I love her. But she's a bit spoiled."
"I KNOW."
"She's gonna figure out real quick that she can't have everything she wants when she wants it, and she's not going to be able to get by on just her good looks."
"I KNOW! STOP IT!"
Ugh. He has a point. A good one. But this is not a military household, this is not The House of Flying Daggers. This is the Land of Puppies and Unicorns, Left Wing Liberalism, nifty little snack packs with cheddar and cracker sticks, crayons, Solomon, and all of our friends' and loved ones' cds playing over and over and over again: the one place on this planet that I can guarantee my daughter is safe in. AND SHE'S LEAVING.
Yes, the harsh reality of the Real World is about to come crashing down on her poor little head, and there's nothing I can do to stop it. Greg kept saying that she needs to be prepared, and all I could think to myself is, She'll be fine. I'm the one you need to worry about.
And how exactly does one go about preparing their child for the sacrifice? Here, Maddie. The lions and wolves are going to tear your flesh apart. But don't worry! I have BandAids! Have a good time!
I don't think it's possible for me to prepare her for the world. Really. I've had some fucked up experiences in life, things I can share with her to help her cope (or at least show that I empathize), but there's a big gaping canyon between Hearing Someone Tell You That Life is Rough and Actually Being Thrown Off the Side of the Cliff. Little boys who pick their noses are going to rub their boogers into her sleeve, little girls with sashes and bows are going to kick her in the shins, and maybe her teacher won't be so cool after all. I can't prepare her for that! All I can do is be there with the BandAids. And furthermore, I don't want to prepare her for that. Because maybe - just maybe - she'll adjust just fine and won't be shocked, and won't be permanently scarred, and MAYBE I've done an okay job thus far and when the fat kid pulls her ponytail, she'll turn around and stick her tongue out at him, come home, and roll her eyes about it. There's a chance that someday my child could look back upon these years of her life and think her childhood was relatively sweet, and who am I to fuck it up simply by telling her, "It's gonna be fucked up." Yes, the world will kick her in the teeth. It is not my job to arm her with boxing gloves; it is my job to arm her with self-assurance, responsiblity, self-esteem, love, humility, compassion, and "the wisdom of my experience." Love conquers all, the good guys don't always win but the important thing is that they stay good. And if you stay good, the world may not bend down to recognize you, but Mommy will give you a cookie.
That is, if she's not curled up in the closet crying into her flowers.
So while my daughter's out there in the great big world getting her face smashed in (or, alternatively, licked with furry sloppy puppy kisses), WHAT THE FUCK AM I GOING TO DO. I am facing the prospect of an Official Big Change and I have no idea where to steer my little boat. I've gotten to the point in my life where I actually want a day job, and what to do? Whattodowhattodo. It seems like yesterday my third grade teacher asked me, "What do you want to be when you grow up?", and I was all like, "Gimme a minute." And someone hit the fast-forward button and I am grown up and Shit! That's what I forgot to do!
While I go figure out what to do with my life, amuse yourselves with the latest manifestation of my current agitation, a panorama Maddie likes to call "I love it when my mom freaks out, 'cause then she cleans my room." Too bad I don't have Before pictures to better illustrate precisely what the right stress level combined with three hours and four garbage bags can do.
