Pink hair and the "chubby" insult

Six years ago my husband and I went to the ultrasound appointment where we would learn our baby's gender. I was 20 weeks pregnant with my first child,

"I don't care if it's a boy or girl, as long as the baby is healthy," I said, not for the first time, on the way there. I didn't realize I was lying until we saw that we were having a girl.

I know that this is a controversial and awful statement. Hear me out.

The first picture of our little girl.

It wasn't that I didn't want a girl - most of me really did mean it when I said I don't care about the gender. And now I can't imagine life without this amazing kid and I am the better for her. But back then the idea of a girl seemed so much more difficult. I should have been thinking of the fun of dressing up, the inherent gentleness, the tendency toward cleanliness and fewer broken bones that comes with girls. Instead, the angst of my own teenage years (and, I'll admit, the majority of my 20s) flashed to the foreground of my mind. Body image issues. Unworthy boyfriends. Mean girls. Break ups. Tears. Questionable fashion choices.

I took a deep breath and told myself to take it one day at a time. She was healthy. Plus, she hadn't even been born yet! All of this was so far in the future that it was ridiculous to think about it. That would happen when she was a teenager!

(Tires screech. Needle scratches on a record.)

It happened last week. WHEN SHE WAS 5!!

We were at her boyfriend's house. Yes, she refers to him as her boyfriend. No, she doesn't mean it in any other way except that he's a boy and he's her friend. The kids were playing downstairs, parents were having a beer upstairs, and all was right in the world. Until my beautiful daughter stormed upstairs and sulked on the couch. Like a teenager.

"What's wrong, Honey?" we asked.

"They're being mean. They said I was chubby," she said.

The two offenders, including my 3 year old, came into the room. When confronted, her boyfriend said, "yeah, I called her chubby." And it was with venom and the knowledge and the intent of being hurtful.
Every adult was silent in the room for a beat. I was surprised that they all didn't hear my heart break.

This was not supposed to happen at 5. This is not something kids this age should even know is a hurtful thing to say. And this is coming from a good kid. I know him and his parents. He's raised to be respectful and kind. And it still happened. I had to remind myself that it was not okay to punch a 5 year-old in the pie hole.

We parents sprang to action after that, and I feel appropriate measures were taken. Boyfriend and Younger Brother were given a talking-to. Stella was given a pep-talk and hugs.

That words associated with weight have become insults thrown around by young children is one of those troubling things that I feel stymied by: this is how people are, they come in all shapes and sizes and we do not make fun of any of them. But if they open their eyes and ears as they move through the world around them, they see negative images and words about overweight people. Do as I say, not as the world around you does. How do I effectively combat this? Particularly when it comes to her own self-image?

Until we could talk on our own, I used the reassure and distract method. I told her that she wasn't chubby and everyone made up by putting pink stripes in their hair.

As the kids were getting ready for bed that night, I asked my daughter if she was feeling okay after getting teased earlier.
"What?" she said, having already forgotten about the incident.
I should have known that my strong and strangely mature daughter would not let this be more than a blip of an incident in her big life. Still, now I was in a dilemma. Was it better to let it go? Or better to bring it up so that I can make sure it was properly, adequately addressed? I went with the latter.
"You know those are just words, right?" I asked. She nodded. "Sometimes people say things just to be mean and we have to remember that they are just words."

"Why do they do that?"

"I don't know, Honey," I said. And then I had to ask, because I wanted to know if it was getting under her skin the way it was getting under mine, "do you think you're chubby?"

"No," she said, "I'm just right."

"Yes, you are," I agreed. "And I am. And daddy is."

"But not Zachy. He's too skinny," she said. At least we're part way there. We talked more about how unique each of us are, and that we all have things that make us special, and you know what? Sometimes people suck, too, when they're mean.

Even though I can't stop thinking of this a week later, I'm kind of glad it happened. Partly because we got both the first body image insult and the first questionable hairstyle out of the way in one evening. It also reminded me that we are both equipped to handle those angsty years that I dreaded as I saw my baby for the first time in that ultrasound. Even if they have already started. We just need to take them one day at a time. Pink hair and all.

I Love Your Eyeballs. And Fire.

Last night, Z sweetly professed his love for me. At least that’s what I chose to hear. Now, with the perspective of time, I’m wondering if it might have been a warning that certain body parts are the only thing between me and a puncture wound. He delivered the love morsel via the following unintentional haiku:

Looking a little tired, but still not stabbable.

I love your eyeballs.
I love your tongue and your hair.
I will NOT stab you.

Fitting, as SJS is now going to a Japanese immersion school. His accidental poem inspired the following, also in haiku. These are actual phrases uttered by my kids. They needed a little poetic adaptation to fit the form, but not much.

Lookit! Lookit dis!
I need to show you dis! Cool!
It came from my nose.

(Get a tissue. And if you don’t stop, you’re going to get your finger stuck up there.)

Have you ever seen
a guy with a face on fire?
That would be cool.

(This is from a kid who says he wants to be a “flamer guy” when he grows up. Whatever makes you happy, dude.)

And one from SJS,

Shoes worth begging for.

I need those new shoes.
Please! I only have 4 pairs.
Well, you have a lot.

(Touche)

And finally, me,

No, no! I said truck!
You must have heard me wrong.
I’m sure I said truck.

(I don’t think I need to explain myself. We’ve all been there.)

Do you have any of your own?

The Littlest Realtor

My son came with me to view a home with some friends this morning. He ran around and checked out the vacant house, but mostly he was just concerned with running around in circles with his friends,.

It made me think of how different the two kids are. At about the same age, my daughter was more interested in the house itself and playacting that she was just like Mommy. She was also much more verbal (first kid and girl, you know the deal). Her perspective and interest have since changed. Or maybe I should say disinterest. She declined to come with us to the house and instead stayed at home, snuggled in with her Daddy. Perhaps mommy's job has lost a bit of its allure. Perhaps she agrees with those who think it wll take nearly a decade to recover and doesn't see it as a great career option. Anyway, here is a re-post of something I wrote on Active Rain a while back. I thought it was interesting given the differences in the two kids...
I've been a working mom my daughter's entire 2 ½ years. It's part of our routine. She came with me to preview homes when she was only two months old. Every summer my husband will walk her by houses that I'm holding open.
Being able to work around and with my daughter is part of what makes real estate a great career. It provides my daughter with some special insight into what mommy does, too.
The other day I heard her playing in her room with her dolls.
"You like this house," she said to her baby.

My ears perked up and I tried to listen in without interrupting. In her little two year old voice and pronunciation, she was showing a house.

"There is a master bedroom and that's your bathroom. And you like the closet." Around Portland's East side there is a lack of master suites with good size closets. Apparently even she has noticed.

"It's a pretty house and that's the sidewalk. It's not my house but you should live here," she gave her dolly quite a sales pitch.

A few weeks back I previewed some houses with her for a client. I thought she'd be bored so I tried to hurry through. It was a vacant house with a very large living room, so I left her running circles around the room while I ran upstairs to glimpse the bedrooms. When I came down she was in the kitchen.

"Are those new, Mommy?" She asked, pointing to the appliances.

In the living room, she asked if the fireplace worked. And when I tried to leave without checking the basement, I quickly was re-directed downstairs. "You need to look down there," she insisted. "To see if there is water."

You hear all the time that kids are like sponges. I know it's true, but it still amazes me. How do they pick this up so quickly?

The same afternoon when I overheard her acting out Realtor games with her dolls, I asked her what she had been playing.

"Nothing," she dismissed it. "Just only looking at a house."

"Oh, was it fun?" I asked.

"Yeah, it's my work." She said before she changed the subject.

The best realtors I know are honest, hard working, balance work and family, and have other people's interest at heart. If my daughter wants to do that, then she has my blessing. I hope to live up to those standards myself. I get a little help daily from the smallest realtor I know.