On rejection, regeneration and your very first kiss.

Dear Kid,

And just like that you were five, a kindergartener in a brand new school alongside third-graders who looked like grown-ups. You waved goodbye to your parents at the gate, walked yourself to the nurse’s office when you needed a band-aid. I tried to imagine it. I tried not to. (How’d you know your way around? What if you got lost? Who would help you? Would anyone? Would you know how to help yourself?) You learned to read, to write, to spell small words correctly sometimes, then more than sometimes. You learned the names of a dozen teachers and over 100 kindergarteners across homerooms. You made friends. You made “best friends.” You attended a school dance, joined ballet, Girl Scouts, Ukulele Club. It was a brave new world of people and possibilities.

You were growing up so fast.

I dismantled your first train set which you hardly ever played with anymore to make way for Lego kits you put together yourself. Your favorite board books were packed into boxes for…I wasn’t sure, but I kept them because I wasn’t ready to say goodbye. I tried to remember the last time we watched Mickey Mouse Clubhouse. You wondered if it hurt to grow breasts and how a baby “gets outside a parent’s body.” We talked about it.

Today? You kissed a boy.

You said it wasn’t an accident, but also it “wasn’t romance.” You were saying goodbye after a play date, he’s a good friend, he makes you happy kind of like your mom and dad and you kiss them sometimes unsolicited, so why not?

But the thing is (and this isn’t so much an overgeneralization as an accurate description of the facts at hand), this kid is six. You are maybe the last girl besides his own sister he still tolerates, likes even (though he probably won’t admit it for much longer). And he thinks kisses from girls are the epitome of ick.

But you didn’t know any of that. You couldn’t have known, couldn’t even have speculated, because, before today, nobody told you your kisses were gross.

The grown-ups didn’t see it, only the aftermath. One minute you were playing a board game behind his sister’s dollhouse while the adults made plans to catch up again soon. The next minute we saw you standing on the other side of the room from where you started. When we asked what happened, he was mum and you wanted to go home. You offered something about the board game. (I suspected a tough loss.) And that’s when he wondered out loud why you had to go and do something so… “disgusting.”

It’d been so many years since we grown-ups thought the opposite sex had cooties that we couldn’t have imagined the truth. We presumed you broke wind – at worst, maybe had an accident on his playroom floor. So, it took a few minutes of pestering to get at it and, by then, you fled downstairs to cry in the corner, reeling from rejection. You threw on your coat and boots in a special kind of hurry and told us it was time to leave because you were soooo sorry. It was the first time in your entire life you wanted a play date to end, the first time you insisted upon it, the first time you were this classic combination of embarrassed and sad.

It wouldn’t be the last.

Sure as I’ve been there, I knew it.

You might forget this one, but there’d be one (more than one?) someday that you wouldn’t forget.

I know it because those too-familiar tears reminded me of my own. I was in high school when a boy broke my heart so I wouldn’t forget it. This boy and I, we’d dated for a while, and I was genuinely head over heels. I was the one who planned our last date, not knowing that’s what it was. We had dinner and a movie, took a walk along the Susquehanna River in the dark, stopped for a breather on a bench overlooking the water. He thanked me for a fun night out – and broke up with me.

I couldn’t possibly really love him, he said. He actually said that. “You couldn’t know what love is. You don’t love me. You just think you do.” Reading between the lines: How could I possibly have any real grasp on my own emotions? My own experiences? He knew better. Except of course he didn’t. And I wasn’t woke enough in those days to call bullshit on the mansplaining. All I knew is that, with little forewarning, the boy I thought loved me as much as I loved him, never loved me at all. And it hurt.

So I get it.

The thing is, though, it gets better. The heart is like a starfish, baby girl. That piece rejection rips away comes back as something better than before. It comes back as wisdom.

You stop paying mind to the boy who broke your heart, which – after a while – doesn’t hurt so much, come to think of it. And you internalize the lesson.

For me: Don’t ever let somebody tell you what you don’t know.

For you: Ask first.

For the both of us: By all means, keep it moving.

About six months after that break-up, I took myself to dinner and a movie: a movie that boy wouldn’t have liked, by the way, but I did. I went for a walk along the river and returned to that very same bench. I took a deep breath. I got back in the car and that U2 song, “Stuck in a Moment” was playing – G-d’s voice to Mama’s ears! – on the radio.

“You’ve got to get yourself together. You’ve got stuck in a moment, and you can’t get out of it.”

Before I went home that night, I stopped by a mailbox with my application to an out-of-state women’s college I’d been on the fence about attending because I’d only ever known one small town in Pennsylvania, where the boy still lived, and because, well, all women. But I had a good feeling about that school, and as sure as I loved the boy, I knew I was holding my future in my hands.

All was as it should be: The boy, the bench, the college application that resulted in an acceptance letter that led to a move and my introduction to a veritable sisterhood of women that uplifted and inspired me to be my truest self and who always loved me for it.

See, the best friends will see you and love you for who you are; the best lovers will do that, too – and they’ll like your kisses.

Chin up,

Mama

The leprechaun, the lesson.

Dear Kid,

A few weeks back, following so many months worth of assertions that you already knew everything Pre-K had to teach, your parents and teachers agreed: You were up for a challenge. And so you transitioned to a Kindergarten classroom one half-year ahead of schedule, the youngest child of the lot. When dad dropped you off that first morning, he asked you whether he should stand with you as your class lined up in the lining-up spot and prepared to head off to the classroom, a new classroom. No, you said. “I’ve got it.” And you did.

Overnight – literally, overnight – we learned things are different in Kindergarten. Some of it we read about in that note from your new teacher. Some of it we knew because you told us, “Things are different now, Mama. I’m big.” And just like that there was an average-sized backpack, less free play, more academics, 300-piece puzzles, friends who are six. (Was I aware that Delia could make a French braid and had a boyfriend?! I was not.)

One night, as I was tucking you into bed, I noticed it: Your feet. Yesterday (or was it the day before that, or had it been years?) they were pudgy, triangle-toenailed baby feet. You weren’t fooling. You were big now. Or bigger. Not a baby, in any event. And so we took pains to follow your lead (Oh, right, right! You don’t play with that toy anymore! Unless you do, and then you should!) and we gave you new, age-appropriate responsibilities: Make your bed, tidy up the playroom, fold the towels – and do your homework. 

Do – To take constructive action.

Your – Of or belonging to you.

Homework – Academic exercises meant to reinforce classroom learning.

In our house, we believe homework has its place: That it encourages focus, discipline, creativity, problem-solving, that it enables you to apply a skill, explore a question, grapple with how you feel about an issue or a whole subject, to practice (because practice makes better) and, most importantly, to fail (because that’s how you learn stuff). So dad and I made clear from your very first assignment: Homework was one of your responsibilities, one of your opportunities.

Big kid that you are, you embraced your opportunity, too. When your teacher assigned that special project timed to St. Patrick’s Day – Build a leprechaun trap! – you started engineering right away. Per her instructions, you fashioned it yourself from ordinary household materials and with limited assistance from your parents. I helped hot glue an edge and tied a couple of knots, but that was it.

And you embraced the fun. Hell, we’re Jewish and about 1/10 or less Irish on one side of the family but, for two weeks this February, you knew absolutely everything about baiting leprechauns. Step 1: Rainbows. Step 2: Glitter. Step 3: The ruse (i.e. It’s not a trap! It’s a lovely little leprechaun house! Come right in! Bam.)

We were proud of you and your stringy/packing tape/finger paint/foil-lined/glittery monstrosity that used to be an Amazon box. We were especially proud when you took it to school to share with your class and situated it right alongside traps constructed out of plywood and nails, constructed from kits purchased specifically to attract actual leprechauns, constructed by prodigies (or, more probably, by grown-ups).

“Oh,” you said (only half out loud and the rest in your subconscious), “maybe mine’s not that good.”

You were right and you were wrong all at the same time. You were right: It was the worst cell in the leprechaun jail, the one that looked pretty much like nowhere any leprechaun would be caught dead or alive. You were wrong: It was the best. It was the f’ing best.  

I told you that latter thing. I said I loved the way you used that big brain, worked so hard, pressed the tin foil into the corners and scrawled “Your House” on one side. The point wasn’t that you caught a leprechaun (they’re impossible to catch – impossible! – and your teacher knew that when she gave you the assignment). The point was that you saw the project through, that you took ownership, that you embraced your responsibility, your opportunity to learn something, to learn something about engineering, something about art, something about yourself. See what you did? You did it. You. And it’s awesome.

You’ve got it. You said so yourself. And I believe you, big kid.

Love

Mama

I voted for you.

Dear Kid,

You won’t remember the election no adult who’s alive today will ever forget. You’ll read about it in the history books, and I’ll explain to you why I voted for her, the way I wiped away the tears when I filled in that oval next to her name. She was flawed – and utterly competent. Of the candidates on the ballot that year, she had the most experience. (When I select a surgeon, I select the one who’s performed surgery before. Preferably lots of times and successfully.) And even as I, like so many people, liberal and conservative, would agree – a third party really would add an important degree of diversity and discourse to our political system – I learned my lesson the hard way. I voted for Ralph Nader once. (Among my only real regrets in this life: Nader. I liked the guy, and he represented my own politics better than anyone else on the 2000 ticket, so I ignored the math – and it was a mistake. Ultimately, the person I least wanted to become president became president that year – and my favorite candidate never stood a real chance. Hindsight is twenty/twenty, they say, and, besides, wouldn’t I give anything for the good ol’ days of Bush, Jr. as my worst case scenario? You bet.)

But don’t get me wrong, I’m actually kind of grateful to my least favorite candidate of all time (ever) for his inspiration, for re-awakening my feminism, growing my comfort with speaking up, speaking out, challenging and being challenged. You’ll be surprised to learn I wasn’t always just like this…always bucking that assertion that it’s sound practice to keep one’s politics to oneself. But you’ll know, because I told you, that sometimes the stakes are too high. Donald Trump was my line in the sand.

This is what else I hope you know…

1) Speech is action. Think about it: To speak, even just one word, one uses about one hundred different facial and neck muscles simultaneously. Speech exclaims. It states. It commands. It questions. One’s speech can uplift. It can denigrate. It can say a lot about you, about how you think, what you stand for and what you stand against. Very often, you’ll find – if you’ve proven yourself even reasonably trustworthy – that others around you will rely on the things you say as a statement of your belief and intention. And they’ll hold you accountable. That’s how it works. And when those words get you in trouble (and they will because you’re human), remember there are two very useful words you learned when you were just a kid: I’m sorry. Not: I’m sorry, if… Not: I’m sorry, but… Not: But look what you just did! Simply: I’m sorry. That was wrong. But only if you think it was. Only if you really mean it. Baseless apologies are pretty easy to spot.

2) “I’m sorry” doesn’t unsay. It doesn’t undo. It’s just a start. And so it’s necessary to take into consideration the sum total of one’s other actions, his/her track record, to decide if or how to engage with the apologist moving forward. Because you can’t unhear, unsee, unfeel. That’s fortunate, actually. It means you’ll be better positioned to make smart decisions about your path forward.

3) Some people call it political correctness. I call it respect. It is respectful to approach others with deference to their narrative, their lived experience as people who are gay or black or Muslim or what not. Because, as it pertains to their own experience, they are the experts. Plus, it’s really not that difficult to speak in a deferential manner. There’s lots of good guidance for it from both individuals and whole communities of people who have organized around their experiences. So if I tell a dude how I feel about that thing he just said – if that thing he just said is offensive to me as a woman – he should take my word for it. It is.

4) Men behaving badly isn’t a defense to sexism or misogyny. Or harassment. Or sexual assault. Ever. You’ll never hear me take the side of the preschool kid who teases a classmate “to get her attention” or pulls her hair because “he likes her.” Bullshit. If that’s true, maybe he should stop harassing and start complimenting his classmate about how well she knows her alphabet. Applied to the current state of affairs, I just can’t get behind a candidate who passed off as “locker room talk” what sounded to me an awful lot like the definition of sexual assault. That’s trivializing something far too serious.

5) If someone applies a scale to your body, s/he best be your physician – otherwise s/he’s probably a jerk. I’m flat-chested. And I’m a babe. Take my word for it. Mine is the only opinion on the subject of my appearance that really counts. Haters gonna hate, so please, by all means, love yourself.

6) The people in your corner say an awful lot about you. Ergo, I’m always gonna be that mom who cares if you’re hanging out with a lot of riffraff. And I’m always gonna be that voter who thinks it’s mad suspect when white supremacists (plural) think you’re the right person to run my country.

7) Your mother is an ally – and she votes like one. My vote is a stand against racism, xenophobia, homophobia, transphobia, ableism, fat-shaming… My vote is a vote against bullying. My vote is a vote against a bully. Bullying behavior represents immaturity and insecurity on the part of the bully at best and, at worst, a characterological failure. More importantly, my vote is a vote for acceptance, equality, and inclusion of people who are different from me.

8) Your mother is a feminist – and she votes like one. Separately, I could tell you all the reasons this is so. But, in short: I survived girlhood. I am a grown woman. I am a working woman. I am a colleague of working women. I am a friend of women. I am a mother. To a daughter. Advancing the experience of girls and women is important to me. And, even if you don’t know it yet, it’s important to you, too. So I vote feminist. And the feminist on the ballot this year happens to be a woman. If she wins this election, it’s no longer just theoretically possible for a girl to grow up to be the president of the United States. It’s actually possible. I’m genuinely excited about that.

9) Your country is great already. More on that right here.

10) Today, I voted like your life depended on – which, in may ways, it really does. Politics actually is that important. The decisions our leaders make have direct bearing on our everyday experiences. So I thought about you – my most precious thing – and I made a decision. I filled in the oval next to the name of the candidate I thought could do the very best job by you. Not a perfect job. But the best. (And someday you’ll tell me how I did. I really hope you’ll tell me. Do it with mind and do it with measure. I want to learn from you.) Meanwhile, somewhere out there – maybe in the ballot box next to me – somebody else was thinking of her kid and filling in a different oval.  No doubt whatsoever, she loved that child as much as I love you. If we had nothing else in common, it was that.

That right there? That’s called freedom, kiddo. And it’s a beautiful thing.

May you always embrace your liberty.

Mama