The Germ of Human Dignity

~ theantelopediaries

monk-555391_1280

I was just looking at video of Polina’s first days on this planet. I am beaming as I hold her in my arms shortly after birth.  She is wrapped in a blanket and is wearing a beanie hat on her head.  Watching that video reminded me how elated I was when she was born, how small her hands and feet were, and how I marveled at her tiny nails. It lasted such a short time. Even when she was a newborn, she was strong, lean but sturdy. She was not a helpless baby. That surprised me. And now, as she is growing, she is a willful child. She is strong, tall, and confident. It reminds me of the human “dignity” I heard about at a Catholic university I attended. She exudes dignity. Open. Honest. Unafraid. No one has taken it away from her, and I pray no one ever does.

Originally written April 6, 2014.

Germs of Communication

~ theantelopediaries

Adult Index finger touching child's index finger.

Today, Pete and I were talking about one of Polina’s favorite books, “I Like it When” (it’s about two penguins helping each other) when Polina left the room and came back with, lo and behold, the very same book we were talking about. This led my husband to ask her, “Bring me “Peek a Who,” and she…. DID.

Our daughter understands more than she can communicate. As this experience shows, she can differentiate words in a sentence and understand their meaning. This places a responsibility on us, as her parents, to be careful of what we say and how we say it.  Easier said than done.  I’m not the most easy going person.  I tend to be an action oriented problem solver when the crap hits the fan.  My husband, on the other hand, withdraws and deals with things in a more laid back manner.  You can see how this can be a recipe for disaster.  Now we have a witness watching our interactions.  Ugh.  We have to grow up too.

This post was originally written on November 14, 2013.

Ode to Barb- November 28, 2013

~ theantelopediaries

At the gym where I go several times a week there is a Kid’s Club, a place where staff watch your child while you work out. I’ve been going to the gym since February, when Polina was 6 months old. The manager of the gym is named Barb. She has long grey hair that once might have been black. It cascades down the length of her back as flower girls once wore in the 1970s. This is in contrast to other aspects of her appearance, which are more conservative. On her nose sit almost transparent spectacles. She usually wears dark clothing, which lifts your gaze to her face, which is much lighter. She is a bit heavyset, but somehow it fits her.

When I first met her, she seemed pretty stern. My child cried intensely when I tried to leave to work out, and she kept telling me, “She’s fine. She’s fine. She has to get over it.” Easy for her to say. It’s not her kid pulling at your heartstrings. I would not have continued going to the gym if Polina kept crying, and she stopped because of another person working there, a Filipino woman nicknamed “the baby whisperer” who managed to not only calm Polina but also get her to… fall asleep! I was grateful for the time to take a yoga class, lift weights, and/or jog. I was grateful that for an hour (or two if I wanted to) I could take a break from being a mom and do something for myself. With a baby, that can be hard to do, especially when their naps do not follow a schedule (try as I did.) So I was grateful, very grateful for this time.

It has been nine months and I now sometimes go to the gym in the evenings. Polina has gotten used to the people there and doesn’t cry anymore. She is sometimes so involved in playing that she doesn’t immediately see me. I’m very happy that things are working out. I see Barb often as she works mornings and evenings Saturday to Thursday. Her only day off is Friday. She still seems stern to me, but I’ve caught a few glimpses of her tender side. About a week ago as I was leaving, a child was crying for her mother. “You’re fine,” she said in her usual pragmatic voice. After I exited the gym, I realized that I had forgotten to sign Polina out from the kid’s club. I went back and saw Barb lovingly playing with the same child. Her back was to me and she didn’t see me, but it was a side I hadn’t seen from her before.

Another time recently (this week actually) I saw her rocking in the rocking chair staring off into space. The look on her face stayed with me. It was contemplative, as if for a moment she let down her stern side. Another time I overheard her saying to another person that since she is divorced, she will celebrate Thanksgiving with her children on Friday instead of Thursday. I forgot exactly which adjective she used, but it was something like, “I’m not a traditionalist.” It struck me how she made good from a bad situation, and what challenges lie behind a person’s facade.

Another time (last week) as I was putting on Polina’s snowsuit, Barb commented that it reminded her of what she wore when she was growing up in Alberta, Canada. I didn’t know Barb was Canadian, but then the accent came out when she said “aout.” It was another window into her personal life.

Perhaps it’s because I had and still have such a poor relationship with my own mother that I gravitate toward people my mother’s age and want to be friends with them. Perhaps I also gravitate toward them because I find comfort in an older person’s maturity and don’t feel like I have to “fit in” like I do with people my own age. For several reasons, I was drawn to her, and I wanted to make her something for Thanksgiving. I kept thinking “bread.” My rational side thought it might be a bit funny to give someone bread for Thanksgiving instead of say… pie or cake or cookies, but every time I thought of Barb, I thought of bread.

As it happened, I made five loaves of bread by Thanksgiving day, more than my family could eat for a while. I made three sourdough and two pugliese, so I wrapped one freshly hot sourdough and a pugliese that had cooled off from earlier in the morning. I knew there would be Barb and another girl working that day, and it wouldn’t look nice to only give a loaf to Barb. I took them to the gym, eager to finally meet the moment, because it took me three days to make the starter and sponge and I got up at 6:30 this morning to turn the bread over for the yeast to rise yet again. Thankfully, the two loaves from the same batch that I kept for myself tasted great. I hoped Barb and the other girl working that day would like them.

I got to the kid’s club and I didn’t see Barb. “Did Barb leave?” I asked, my heart falling as it was noon by this point and the kid’s club was only open for another hour.

“No, she went to Rite-Aid,” said the girl.

I showed her the breads that I made, and they got a good response. When I came back after my workout, I saw Barb with a huge smile on her face. I had never seen her so happy, and it made me really happy.

“I can’t believe you made bread!” she exclaimed. She chose the sourdough, which I was happy about because it took the longest to make. I was happy that the bread made her happy.

The next time I went to the gym, the kids club looked sparser.

“Where’s Barb?” I asked.

“Barb doesn’t work here anymore,” said the Filipino woman.

It was clear something had happened. Some of the toys were gone, and I learned they were going to get some new ones. I was very saddened by the news. I had gotten used to seeing Barb, even though she could be strict. I was glad I had seen her more tender side before she left. It wasn’t my business to inquire what happened. All I was left with was a feeling of sadness.

So this is an ode to Barb.

To you.

Thank you.

Toddler Bullying

~ theantelopediaries

portrait-317041_1280

I went to my friend’s home today. I met her through meetup. She lives a block and a half away and her son is 4 months older than Polina. We get along, and our children do too, for the most part. The biggest challenge right now is sharing toys, which is a work in progress.

What makes me most happy going there is when Polina is playing with other children her age. She doesn’t have any complexes in relation to other people. In contrast, I sense my own awkwardness. I remember embarrassing moments as a child where I didn’t fit in because I was different. I came from another country; spoke a different language; had a different culture; had, for most people, an unpronounceable last name (in an era where it wasn’t fashionable to be different); and, since I went to six schools in eight years, few long-term friends. I was painfully shy. I avoided others. At a time when my peers were discovering people of the opposite sex, I loathed attention, yet yearned to be liked.

I decided early on that I wanted to be proactive in making sure that my daughter has consistency and that I do my part in attending or creating environments where she can form friendships. It also doesn’t hurt that I also have a good time while my daughter socializes. Turns out, my friend and I had the same midwife and her husband and I are both Russian. We both buy organic, and when she talks about cultural issues with her Russian in-laws, I understand the context.

Today, however, marked another chapter in our friendship. I didn’t see what happened, but Polina suddenly started crying while we were talking. My friend thought her son hit her with a toy phone because he was holding it in his hand. (I wouldn’t be surprised if Polina reached for his phone. She likes what you have in your hand, and she doesn’t understand the concept of “mine,” yet.)

I held her as she wailed. She quieted down rather quickly, but as I looked at my friend’s son, he had an unapologetic look on his face. He is only 19 months, but he looked unkindly toward her. Polina, at 15 months, is shy, but also giving. She hands other children things and wonders why they don’t give them back to her. Sometimes they walk away with the things she gives them. She can be naïve in relation to other toddlers. It is painful for me to watch, but it’s a socialization process she has to go through so that she can have a better grasp of human nature and make wise choices.

In subsequent visits, I did see my friend’s child hit Polina, and this changed things for me. As Polina’s mother, I have to look out for her, but as I now realize, I didn’t in the right way. It was shocking to me that I repeated the ways of my mother, who often didn’t look out for me.

My friend would say the right things and hug her son to make him stop, but her son’s behavior didn’t change. The hitting continued until one day, Polina hit back. It was then that I realized the number of times that boy hit her and how stupid I was to think that by hugging her son my friend would change things.

What I learned in a toddler parenting class is that giving a hitting child attention is exactly what he/she wants. Not giving that child attention, and giving attention to the child that has been hurt, is the strategy the nurse recommended. However, in American culture, parents don’t like other parents giving them parenting advice (very strange, from my perspective), and it’s not my place to do so in her home. So, I didn’t come back. I found healthier avenues for Polina to develop her social skills, and she hasn’t hit anyone since.

We have this angelic picture of young children, but they can be mean. Polina has scratched my face a couple times and thought it was funny. I told her “no” and she started laughing. Thankfully, she has never done that to anyone else. (I guess the old adage that you hurt the ones you’re closest to is true here.)

I knew bullying would be an issue, but not this early! I love my daughter and want to do my best. Figuring out what to do with the bully in the sandbox, or hostile behavior in general, is my next biggest challenge.

Originally written November 25, 2013.