Crouching Tiger, Hidden Daughter

Anyone who knows me, or has been privy to carrying on a conversation for more than 15 minutes with me, has probably been subjected to hearing my rants about my ten-year-old daughter, Nyomi. Well, to start off with- she is beautiful, charismatic, artistic and brilliant. However, she is also a handful- to say the least.

When I found out I was giving birth to my first daughter in 2001, I was ecstatic. Finally, I would have a living baby doll! Just like I had always dreamed when I was a child. I imagined she and I doing picturesque mother-daughter activities like baking cookies, sewing, painting our nails, and shopping. While I was pregnant with her I made her clothes myself and crocheted matching hats. I hand-decorated her bassinet with lace, ruffles and flowers.

I was thrilled when she was born on the 7^th of June because my own birthday is on the 7^th of October. I felt it was a sign. We are kindred spirits.

But then-minutes after she was born, she looked at me, and she started crying. And crying, and crying. She cried when I held her. She cried when I changed her diaper. She cried when I bathed her. When I dressed her, brushed her hair, just anything I did with her, she was always crying. She did not have colic of the variety where babies cry incessantly for no apparent reason. She was definitely crying around me. She was happy when her father was holding her. She slept well enough for an infant, and as long as I wasn’t interacting with her directly, she was happy. The only thing we did together that did not involve her screaming at the top of her lungs was nursing. 

First temper tantrum, a few minutes old...

I was hurt. I knew she was only an infant, but I couldn’t help but take it personally. As she grew up, we noticed that she had a very distinct personality. She was a picky eater. She did not like the hats I made her.  She did not smile at people. When we tried to teach her to sleep in her crib, she cried for hours until she started scratching at her own head, drawing blood.  

When she started talking around the age of two, we noticed that her speech was not very clear. She had a normal sized vocabulary for a two year old, but she mis-pronounced her letters so badly that hardly anyone could understand her.

When her younger sister was born, she was thrilled. They have been virtually inseparable since the moment I brought her home from the hospital. However, Nyomi at times can be a bully. She is bossy, and frequently “accidentally” slaps her sister. Still, they are very close- thank goodness. 

Up until she was about, I don’t know, 9 years and 364 days old, she had a nasty habit of throwing screaming temper tantrums whenever she didn’t get her way. The tantrums could happen at any moment and for any reason. Anything from we don’t have the right kind of ketchup for her French fries, to I put one too many pony tails in her hair. I found myself constantly on edge because I never knew which thing Nyomi was going to get mad about. 

Nyomi is now ten years old, with just a month to go before she is 11. After years and years of dealing with her crying fits, temper tantrums and just plain being difficult, she is finally at an age where she is able to express verbally what her actual problem is! This has been very enlightening indeed, and makes me think that all along she probably had legitimate reasons for being upset, but was just unable to articulate them. 

We had a talk in the car on the ride home a few weeks ago about our relationship and how we relate to each other. She was pointing out how it hurts her feelings when I yell at her.  I know what she means. Out of exasperation, I often yell out “I don’t care!” For example:

Me: Nyomi, can you please pick up your underwear from the bathroom floor?

Nyomi: What? My underwear is not on the floor.

Me: Nyomi, I am standing here looking at it. I am positive this is your underwear, and didn’t you just come out of the shower?

Nyomi: Yeah, but I didn’t leave my underwear on the floor.

Me: (slightly irritated) Nyomi, can you please come to the bathroom and check- these are YOUR underwear on the floor!

Nyomi: Awww, but this is a new episode of Phinneas and Ferb! Can’t you just pick them up?

Me: (Now angry) I don’t care about that stupid show! COME PICK UP YOUR UNDERWEAR!!!

Ok, so granted there are a million better ways I could handle such situations, I will admit that. However, please bear in mind she is one of four children and I work full time, and I am just plain tired. So this is typical of our exchanges.

Well, Nyomi told me in the car that it hurts her feelings when I tell her I don’t care. And I responded, duly noted. However, I also expressed that she really hurts my feelings too when she disagrees with everything I say, and talks back when I ask her to do something, throws a fit when things are not precisely how she likes them, and when she fails to appreciate the things I am trying to do to make her happy. I told her it makes me feel like she doesn’t care about me either. 

She then replied that she didn’t know that my feelings were hurt because I never told her that, I just get mad. So we made a new pact: I would stop saying “I don’t care.” But when I tell her that she is hurting my feelings, she is expected to stop being reluctant and actually listen to what I am saying to her. So far, this has been working fairly well, and there is a little less back and forth between us.  

In addition, she has been able to explain exactly what she likes and doesn’t like about the food that we eat. To resolve that issue, since the rest of us are not very picky eaters, I have created a list of meals that she likes, and that I have deemed nutritionally balanced and easy enough to cook on a week-night. Each weekend, she chooses 6 meals from the list and plans our menu and shopping list. This way she feels in control of something and we never have to hear her complaining at dinner time.

Similarly, I have been consulting her on just about any plan I am making that involves her, like family outings, weekend schedules, and other group activities that she will be a part of. Maybe I am feeding her need for control, but I am hoping that I am also teaching her that when she takes ownership over the plans, she is also responsible for considering the wants and needs of others. 

I am really grateful that as she gets older, we are able to open up these lines of communication and learn how to work together to resolve our differences. Although she still throws tantrums sometimes when she doesn’t get her way, they are less in the form of screaming fits, and more like stomping around with her arms crossed and muttering under her breath. I will count this as a step in the right direction.

I absolutely can’t wait to watch her grow and develop into the powerhouse of a young lady I know she will be, and all I have to say is “watch out world- here she comes!”

Magic Moments

1996: My best friends from high school: Aarati, Jenni, (me), and Karen- at the baby shower for Miles

 There is a magical time that occurs during the small window of the first 2 or 3 days after giving birth to a baby. If you are lucky (as I have been), when you get home from the hospital, there will be some special person who has sacrificed their time to assist you and your family. I: exhausted, amazed, emotional, and in pain; and my dedicated helper from heaven: ever patient, gentle, kind and giving.  It has been during those times that I have experienced some of the best moments of my life.


The beginning: Miles and I



With my first son, Miles, that person was my grandmother. I was 19 and he was delivered by cesarean. My best friend, Aarati, stood in as my birthing partner because his father was away at basic training in Texas. After a grueling labor and surgery, I became a young mother. When we came home, it was my grandmother who carried 3 meals a day, plus snacks and water up and down the steps, and left them on the table by my bed. She was a registered nurse and her round the clock care at home was incredible. No request went un-fulfilled, and no whimper from the baby went un-attended. I had only to heal, hold his tiny, special body and sniff his clean newness. 

Grandma and Miles at Christmas



My first daughter, Nyomi was delivered vaginally with no drugs, and by that time I was living in an apartment building with her father and Miles. Two close friends of the family dedicated some time to caring for me during those first few days. Nehirah, who was herself a mother of four, attended the birth as my coach. Along with another friend, Emiyah, they cooked meals, washed and folded laundry, and kept me company. One evening Nehirah brewed an herbal tea that enhances milk production called “Mother’s Milk,” and sweetened it with molasses. To this day, that was the best cup of tea I’ve ever had. It was during those quiet moments that she revealed to me she was pregnant with her fifth child only 6 months after giving birth to her fourth. We shed bittersweet tears of joy and fear together.  


2001: Nehirah looks on proudly after coaching me through my first drug-free birth!



Maeva visits Nyomi, Miles and me at the hospital.



The second daughter, Tsifeerah was born very quickly and there was again no time for pain medication. Maeva, who is like a sister to me, came unwillingly to the hospital with us at the last minute, and then took care of me and the other two children in the days while I recovered. She cooked the meals, bathed Nyomi, who was then 2 ½, and drove Miles to and from school every day. I remember the two of us sitting in my room late one night just staring in awe at the infant. She was a glowing angel. Beyond beautiful. She captivated us then and continues to do so now.



2003: Tsifeerah, "the dawning of a new day"



2008: Maeva with Jazmin

Lastly, there was Jazmin. Only her father and I were at the hospital for her birth. However, once again Emiyah stepped in to help, staying at the house to watch all of the other children until we got home. Maeva came to visit at the hospital just as she had with the previous two girls; and then it was my mother who came to the house to help out. Mom took the kids out during the daytime to create the peace and quiet I craved. It was during those first couple of days home that I watched all three installments of The Godfather movies for the first time. In honor of an infamous line from the movie, Jazmin’s father went out and bought me some fresh cannoli’s! (See video clip below)

 

Emiyah and Jazmin

 

Mom with her fourth grandchild





Daddy with baby, watching The Godfather





2011: With my first nephew, little Mikey

 Last summer I had the honor of paying forward this priceless favor when my brother and his wife gave birth to their first son. I couldn’t wait to create special memories for my sister-in-law just as so many others had done for me. There is definitely something mystical about a newborn baby and the mother who has just carried this new life into the world. There is nothing else like it, and I can only be grateful that I have been able to experience these moments myself and with others so many times. These are among my most cherished memories and I will never forget them or those who helped to create them.


Best Friends Forever: the next generation!- Aarati, Asha, Jazmin and me.



Happy Parents = Happy Children

This month I attended a baby shower for a long time high school friend. Her shower, like many others I have been to was full of helpful tips, tricks and advice from all of the mothers in attendance. I offered my advice in the form of a framed poster touting “Ten Baby Commandments” (see below). However, I actually hate giving and getting advice, especially unsolicited advice.

I figured this out right around the time I became visibly pregnant with my first son. For some reason when people see a protruding belly, they automatically assume the owner of said belly is in desperate need of guidance. No one could tell if this was my first, second or twenty-third child, yet somehow while pregnant I must have appeared clueless. And everyone felt like they had the secret key and needed to share it with me. Well, I found it annoying then and I still do. This may sound a little odd coming from someone who is publishing a blog on parenting. However, I want to go on record right now and say that this is not an advice column. This blog is really just my forum to express my alternative way of thinking. I am not suggesting that anyone do as I do; but my goal is to broaden horizons and show what it’s like to “think outside of the box” with kids.

With that said, the advice that I do give when I am asked is always something along the lines of “figure out what works best for you.” There are so many choices parents must make from the day of conception: Hospital or home birth? Traditional or trendy name? Cloth or disposable diapers? Bottle or breast? Crib or co-sleeper? Public or private school? And the list goes on… I too pondered these questions and spent long nights in discussion with my significant other trying to decide what would be best for the child. However, in the end I figured out many of the things we grapple over are really not about the child at all. Honestly, the child experiences little difference between most of the choices we make. Really, it is we, the parents, who either benefit or suffer depending on our choices.

I came firmly to this conclusion when the learning system called Your Baby Can Read was first introduced on television. That was the straw that broke my camel’s back. With my oldest child, I went gung ho with homeschooling and teaching him to read as early as possible. And I succeeded. At that time my thinking was if he learned to read early, he would skip ahead in school and somehow become more successful as a result. His father and I fought for him to skip kindergarten - where I was told by the teacher that the goal of kindergarten is for the children to learn how to “color inside the lines.” We convinced the school to allow him to attend the first grade reading classes in the morning instead. We met with principals and showed off his reading skills to convince them that he didn’t belong on the same level as other children his age. And then finally we placed him in a small private school that would allow an open learning environment wherein he would not be limited by his recorded grade level.

The problem with all of this was that over the years, he began to suffer socially. Being more advanced than your peers is not a social advantage (or at least it wasn’t in his case), and by fifth grade we noticed him starting to dumb himself down to fit in. In addition to that, his younger sister did not catch on to reading quite as easily as he did. I used the same methods as I did with my son; and when I saw it wasn’t working I hit the books and tried all the learn-to-read systems I could get my hands on. Well, this one just wasn’t getting it. However, she was socially well-adjusted, happy and artistically talented even as a very small child. We sent her off to preschool barely recognizing her name, and she flourished. By the time she graduated kindergarten she was on grade level, and reading fluently by the end of first grade just like her peers.

I noticed that teaching my son to read at age three did not make him happier, or more successful than his sister who didn’t fully get it until she was six. So when the Your Baby Can Read craze started I was disgusted. I found myself thinking about those alive today that we would consider successful:  Bill Gates, Oprah Winfrey, Barack Obama, Hillary Clinton. All very intelligent, yes. But do we care if they learned to read at 2 or 12? One was a college drop-out, one raised by a single mom, and one a pregnant teenager. How many other successful people may have been dyslexic, had ADD or just simply not very good in school? Was Warren Buffet successful in business because his parents made all of the right choices? Was successful actress Meryl Streep bottle or breastfed? Was Condoleeza Rice raised on organic produce or fast food? Does it really matter?

Things started to become very clear to me after that. I wasn’t teaching my son to read at age three for his benefit. It was really to prove to myself and the world that I was a capable mother at age 21. It was about me, not him.

I am using this example to say- when you are pondering what is in the best interest of your child, keep in mind that children’s needs are much MUCH simpler than we make them. Seriously. Healthy food, safe shelter, and clean clothing with the loving support of a family and an education are more than enough to keep your child happy and give them the foundation they need to succeed. Most of the rest of the torture we parents subject ourselves and our children to has way more to do with our own incessant need to validate ourselves. The children’s sports leagues, the tiny tot dance classes, violin lessons for two year olds, and now Your Baby Can Read.  I think things are getting a bit out of hand. And don’t get me wrong, I am all for instilling discipline and giving little ones constructive activities to build character. Just always remember there has to be a balance; and when you find yourself and your child tired, stressed out and overscheduled, you probably aren’t benefitting their growth and development any more.

So my mantra is: the children will be fine as long as you are. If that means being a single parent instead of staying in a miserable partnership, or if it means you live in a camper and travel across country homeschooling, or maybe you spend every night at home watching Jeopardy and Glee… if you and your kid(s) are together and happy, then the child is getting some benefit from what you are doing. Children need to see their parents fulfilling themselves so they can learn how to self-actualize. When you tell yourself you are sacrificing something that you love for their supposed benefit, the child does not see that. The child sees an unhappy parent, and blames themselves.

The next time you are deciding whether to sign them up for swimming lessons or send them to grandma’s house so you can go to yoga class, take a really long and hard look at the outcome of your choices. If it will make you happy to go to yoga, you will be a happier and more loving parent than if you stress yourself out over swimming lessons. Trust me, your child would rather spend time with grandma and then be picked up by a glowing mommy or daddy, instead of suffering through swimming while you sit in the bleachers and scowl!

Always remember:  Happy parents=Happy children. That is my only advice.

TEN BABY COMMANDMENTS:

#1 Thou shalt not put thy baby in the washing machine!

                      - Nor the microwave!

#2  Thou shall hold thy baby as much as possible…

             ...they won’t let you do it anymore after the age of 2!

#3  Thy baby does not know that thy hair is uncombed...

              ...nor that thy has morning breath!

#4 Thy baby shall cry…….. A LOT

#5  ye will lose sleep. There’s nothing you can do about it.

#6  Thou shalt not hate thy husband...

             (because he is not as cute as the baby!)

#7  Thou shalt not hate thy baby...

            (because he won’t let you sleep with your husband!)

#8  Thou shall let the dogs babysit while you are in thE bathroom!

#9 Thou shall also let the TV babysit while you play with the dogs!

#10 Most importantly: thou shalt not listen to my advice -                
                - or anyone else’s!

Gender roles... for what?

World Press Photo Award Winner 2011

  

One of my earliest and most vivid memories is of being in first grade and taking my first standardized test at school. It was the CTBS test and the year would have been 1982. I remember learning how to fill in all the bubbles for the letters in my name, my age, my gender, and then… my race? Well that really got my juices flowing because I was confused. The teacher was instructing us to only fill in ONE bubble. Black, White, Asian or Other.  I guess before then, I never really knew I had to choose a race. I knew my mother was considered Black, my father, White. But what did that make me? I hadn’t a clue. I raised my hand. I asked the teacher. Her reply was something akin to: “Well you look white to me, but what are your parents?” Needless to say, that conversation didn’t help much. After much deliberation, and not wanting to offend neither my mother or father, I decided on “Other.” But I had a huge problem with being labeled an other.

(Please take a listen to this wonderful speech by Thandie Newton on “Embracing Otherness”)

Recently an article was published featuring a couple with a child who they are attempting to raise without gender identification. While I am an advocate of living without labels, this was a new concept for me. So I thought I would work through my thoughts here.

So here’s the deal: a couple has a child and does not reveal the sex of the child to anyone outside of the immediate family. The child has a unisex name, in one case “Sasha” in the other, “Storm;” and is allowed to choose his or her own style of clothing and toys regardless of whether the items are designed for “boys” or “girls.” (Even writing this article will be challenging as there is no unisex pronoun aside from “it” in the English language. There was one used in Marge Piercy’s 1976 novel, Woman on the Edge of Time: "per" -short for person- I guess. I will henceforth use per instead of him or her or he or she…ok?)

So anyway, the child, of course is perfectly fine with all of this since per is a part of a loving and supportive family.  Who really cares what color undies per wears? However, the couple ran into a snag at age five when they enrolled the child in public school. In Sasha’s case, the parents revealed per’s sex, which is male, and submitted to the school rules about uniforms. Sasha is not permitted to wear skirts to school, however per may choose between polo style shirts or the lacy butterfly collared shirts traditionally worn by girls.

One interesting point I found in Sasha’s story was that per was allowed to choose any hand-me-down clothing per wanted whether from per’s older sister or brother, however, “hyper-masculine” clothing, such as skulls and crossbones is off limits. Sasha was photographed at some point wearing a pink shimmery bathing suit which kind of strikes me as “hyper-feminine” no? Also, Barbie is off limits in Sasha’s household (see earlier blog entry for my thoughts on that!).

Dr Daragh McDermott, a psychology lecturer at Anglia Ruskin University, said the effect of raising a gender neutral child is not yet known (*see footnote for work cited):

"It's hard to say whether being raised gender-neutral will have any immediate or long-term psychological consequences for a child, purely because to date there is little empirical research examining this topic. That being said, the family setting is only one source of gender-specific information and as children grow, their self-identity as male, female or gender-neutral will be influenced by school, socialisation with other children and adults, as well as mass media. As a child grows they develop their own independent sense of self that will include their own individual gender identification."

So what do I make of all of this? Well… as I mentioned, I hate labels. And choosing male or female as gender identification is yet another classification that comes with limitations. While we humans are not able to select our own sex upon conception, we are allowed to choose our behaviors. And most of us are taught and continue to choose to behave in the way society dictates is acceptable according to whatever age-old tradition applies in the part of the world we are born.

Here I am, living in 21^st Century United States. A place with a government that states it will defend equal rights for all. Yet we all know and feel that blanket clause does not apply in every situation.  If it did, why would there have been a need for women’s suffrage, civil rights, and now LGBTQ rights? If the constitution says equal rights it should be just that… right?

Right. In theory. But I have thought about it as much as my little brain can carry out that thought and in the end, the problem is not the constitution at all. The problem is (in part) the human need to categorize and classify things.  A need which I suspect stems from an even deeper need to control our environment. Why do we have that need? Is it a learned behavior? Do we see similar patterns in other animal species?

Gender stereotyping can get tricky, because I think out of all the categories this is the one that actually has a biological base. There are different sexes. That really cannot be avoided. Yes, I am aware there are hermaphroditic people and organisms, but for the most part, people have a definitive biological sexual classification which we call “male” or “female.” Of course there are issues with those labels since the word “female” seems to be a derivative of “male,” (Which could be based on the Biblical creation story in which man is created first, and woman only as an appendix, or whatever?).

From what I know, the biggest biological difference between xx and xy chromosomed beings is what role they play in reproduction. The women house the eggs and produce the young in utero, the men fertilize. Maybe in the future science will find a way to change all that, setting off an explosion of gender-bending reclassifications and legislations. However, for now we are stuck with that difference between us.

It seems that over the years on this planet, we have used this slight difference to create a giant chasm between the sexes. Think about it. Is it really necessary? Everything is separate.  Public restrooms, clothing departments, hair styles, home decor and colors have a gender, music, television shows, movies, food.  I was appalled that Dr. Pepper created a soda marketed for men only. 

This has led to differences in wages, careers are segregated, and let’s not even get into division of labor in the household! But why? Why? Why? And what is my point?

My point is, that there is really no benefit to these labels as they only cause confusion when someone wants to do something and they are forced to go up against a society that thinks it is “weird” for a boy to like pink or a girl to drive race cars. It’s just stupid right? And we should stop it. One at a time.

Race, class, sexual orientation, religions, and political parties do not exist biologically, and were social constructs created as systems of control.  If we rebel against them, we would need to think seriously about what the world would be like, as you can never take something away without replacing it. As much as I hate labels and restrictions, I have not yet envisioned what life would be like without them. Can you imagine a life without labels? If you can, please share your thoughts with me!

Links to articles:

Boy or Girl?

Couple finally reveals child's gender

Genderless child creates media firestorm

*Quote from the following article:  "It's a boy!"...

(Battle, Bella. "It's a boy! Couple reveal sex of their 'gender neutral' kid after five years." 21 Jan 2012. www.thesun.co.uk)

To Barbie or not to Barbie

There was a recent news story about a mother who purchased a plastic surgery voucher for her 7 year old daughter as a Christmas stocking stuffer. The British mother runs a swinger’s club with her husband and is nicknamed “The Human Barbie” due to her extreme body augmentations that give her the appearance of a life size Barbie doll. The daughter looks up to her mom and wants to be just like her, just the same as most little girls with loving mommies. The mother loves the daughter and wants to give her anything she wants- including liposuction, breast implants, and nose jobs. Is there something wrong with this picture? On one hand it is a loving mother-daughter relationship. On the other it is bizarre. 

I read a study about the effects of Barbie dolls on a young child’s body image. It says that Barbie is the best-selling fashion doll in every major global market, with worldwide annual sales of about 1.5 billion. The average 3-10 year old in the United States owns an average of 8 Barbie dolls, and every half a second a Barbie doll is sold somewhere in the world. It also states that Barbie has unrealistic proportions, and if she were a real human she would be so thin she would not be able to menstruate,(Dittmar, Halliwell&Ive, p. 283).   

Some parents and professionals blame the toy for psychological disorders such as body dysmorphia, anorexia/bulimia, depression and even as the cause of suicide. However, I tend to question if we can blame these things on a small plastic doll with no voice of her own to influence the children who play with her.

This is not to diminish the reality of such difficult personal obstacles. I understand they are very real. It’s just for me there is a disconnect between a child playing with this toy and developing self-esteem related issues. I don’t think there is a direct one-to-one correlation between the two. Instead, there are a whole slew of other cultural messages perpetuated by media, and society at large that maaaaybe Barbie has become a symbol of. Yet, as parents I strongly believe it is our responsibility- not Barbie’s- to teach our children about body image and societal messages. My main concern is that parents who place blame on the doll itself are grossly underestimating the power of their own influence over their children’s thinking.  Eliminating the Barbie doll from your child’s toybox does not resolve the larger problem. Teaching your children to think for themselves does.

I am going to testify that I was a child who owned an extensive Barbie collection. As I have mentioned, I am bi-racial and I am pretty sure that the vast majority of my Barbie dolls were white, blonde and blue eyed even. I played with the 1980’s Barbie. Before Mattel attempted to change Barbie in order to make her more realistic in her proportions or more ethnic in her appearance. I played with the unrealistic white Barbies more than any other toy, and I can honestly say that it never once crossed my mind that I needed to look like her. Did I want a devoted boyfriend like Ken? Yes. Did I want a pink Corvette? Yes! A girlie townhouse? Definitely! The wardrobe? Absolutely! But the plastic body, hair, eyes and permanent smile, I never imagined could be real, or mine.

Conversely, I can certainly say that I received direct messages from teen magazines that lighter, clearer skin was preferable, that long silky hair was better, and that big boobs were hot! MTV, BET (Black Entertainment Television), and most movies, TV shows and advertisements confirmed these messages. Once I started caring what boys thought of me, they had already been programmed to prefer the media standard. However, not once did I have a boy tell me that he was not attracted to me because I did not look like Barbie. My hair was frizzy and shoulder length. I had braces, and less than an A cup breast size all through high school. But just like everyone else, I had some good features too: a pretty eye color and a decent derriere for starters. 

So, with that being said, I guess what I am trying to get at here is why blame the Barbie when the problem is not actually Barbie!? Playing with the doll alone does not entice children to want to be like the doll. It is really the amount of un-filtered media influence parents allow to penetrate their child’s brain. This is the same argument that guns and video games are to blame for the world’s crime rates. Yet to look at it from a historical perspective, kids have been playing with guns and dolls since time immemorial. In Victorian times there were those awful corsets. That was before Barbie, so who decided that was the cool thing to do?Around the world, little girls have been made to alter their bodies in grotesque and often brutal ways (think female circumcision and foot binding). Though no ancient Barbie dolls have been uncovered in any Chinese archeological dig that I know of. The Roman empire gave us the bloody gladiators. And what about Hitler, Napoleon Bonaparte and Genghis Khan? They didn’t play Modern Warfare 3, but they sure did reek some havoc on the world in their times. Clearly society will find a way to influence minds with or without the toys.

So come on, can we really blame it all on Barbie?

I don’t believe in sheltering kids from the world around them. After all, didn’t we decide we wanted to bring these children into this world, as is? Of course we all believed we would change the world, or save it before our children grew up; and we all hoped that they would have a better world to live in than we did. Well, in some ways it is better. In other ways it is worse. The reality is we cannot hide them from reality. But we can educate! As parents we are given carte blanche over our children’s brain development starting from day one. Slowly, we lose influence. However, the seeds you plant when they are small and malleable will grow into beautiful trees of wisdom if you continue to water them with your parental guidance.

As for my daughters, they have Barbie dolls a-plenty. Also, Bratz, Monster High, Liv, Cabbage Patch and whatever… They also take modeling classes, and really love fashion. Maybe they fit the American standard of beauty, maybe they don’t. But you can’t tell them they are not the smartest, most talented and gorgeous little girls on the planet! Ask them if they want to look like Barbie, they will say no! Barbie has a weird smile and fake eyelashes, plus her hair smells funny and always gets messed up. They’d tell you that they would rather look like a real life diva who resembles them more closely such as Beyonce, Rihanna, Willow Smith or even (gasp!) me. They understand that Nicky Minaj has had plastic surgery and that she is an entertainer. They know that most people do not walk around with pink hair or outrageous outfits like Lady Gaga. They also understand that makeup, hair extensions, push-up bras and nose jobs do not make one a better person.They aspire to become successful women who are intelligent and healthy.

It’s all in the power of what YOU teach them as their guardian.

 

Barbie mom articles:

Human Barbie gives liposuction voucher to 7 year old daughter

Human Barbie gives 7 year old breast implant voucher

Work Cited:
Dittmar, H., Halliwell, E. & Ive, S. 2006. Does Barbie make girls want to be thin? The effect of experimental exposure to images of dolls on the body image of 5-8 year old girls. Developmental Psychology. Vol. 42 (2). pp 283-292.

Why I call myself a "Tiger Mom"



Hayride with the kiddos, October 2011

 Even as a young mother at 19, I knew I wanted my son to be great. I also set out to prove to the world that all teenage mothers were not irresponsible, incapable “children raising children.” I was a mother on a mission to shatter a stereotype, and determined not to become a statistic. Shortly after giving birth to my son Miles in 1996, I promptly moved out of my parent’s house, and began my journey into super-motherhood. I was armed with an iron resolve and an arsenal of books spouting philosophies ranging from Dr. Spock, to "Ferberizing," to attachment parenting, to potty training in a day... not to mention "Girlfriend’s Guides", "What to Expect" manuals, yoga for babies, "Baby Einstein," the Merck Manual and the list goes on.  I boasted 10 years of sibling-rearing under my belt, had already experienced my share of sleepless nights, vomit in hair, and poopy diapers. But I didn’t just want to raise my son. I wanted to cultivate him. I wanted to carefully develop his mind into a super-processor, and convince him that he was capable of any and everything he put his mind to. To achieve said goal, I thought it best to subscribe to a variety of techniques and methods until  I started seeing results and then weed out the ones that didn’t work.

As a result, my son ended up with toys bearing only black, white and red colors based upon research saying these colors stimulated infant brain development. He also had gross motor development toys, electronic toys that taught babies about cause and effect, musical instruments, chunky books, toy cars,  imaginative play sets, easel and paint sets, sand art, pots and pans, trikes, wagons, blocks, toys that taught ABC’s, writing, math, flash cards, workbooks, and even a bath time doll to teach him how to be nurturing. Not to mention karate lessons at 3 years old, a personal computer in his bedroom at 4 years old, piano lessons at 5 years old, soccer lessons at 6, and every video game console on the market by the age of 7. By the time he was legally required to enter kindergarten he was reading chapter books on a third grade level, a feat I had accomplished all by myself, and he knew how to run network cables through a building thanks to his father’s IT expertise. All who met him could not believe how articulate, intelligent and well behaved he was, with parents barely 25 years old. 

By 2001, I was pregnant with his baby sister, and in 2003, a second sister joined the family. His two female siblings were born 5 and 7 years his junior, and in 2004, I took the three of them on a 6 month excursion to Israel.  This was followed by a divorce, and needless to say things began to get very complicated, very fast.  All of a sudden I was a single working mother of three, receiving public assistance, arranging long distance visitations with Dad; and then, needing to choose a free public school in the District of Columbia, which was ranked 51^st in the nation for education.  Along with public school came the issue of peer influence. Almost instantly, fashion was a huge concern, and there was a new social competition that was previously a non-issue in our household. In public schools, and on the soccer fields of our nation’s capital, we encountered the sons and daughters of politicians, lawyers, doctors, professors, diplomats and other highly paid professionals. We learned that Washington, DC is what’s considered a “company town” and that there are cliques or “social circles” to be navigated, invited into or ostracized from. The kids’ birthday parties were not celebrations of another year, but opportunities to impress other parents with your entertaining savior faire. Overnight it seemed all of my applauded teenage efforts were looking like feeble attempts to “keep up with the Jones’s” (or the Kardashians for that matter).

Well, I am not one to be outshined, so I kicked it into high gear- enrolling the kids in all sorts of extracurricular activities ranging from chess club, to dance class to art lessons. Just as I was on the brink of being a helicopter/overscheduling/soccer mom, or giving it all up and becoming an austere family of monks, Amy Chua released her notorious memoir, The Battle Hymn of the Tiger Mother, and I devoured it like a vulture mom. What I learned most from Chua’s memoir, was that despite all of her antics and seemingly over the top ambition, the driving force behind her actions was an intense love for her children, and an unshakable desire to push them to excellence. Her words reminded me of my 19 year old self, staring down into the eyes of my first born and dreaming of the day I would watch him recite his inaugural oath as the umpty-umpth president of something or other.

Remarkably, Chua’s book helped me rediscover my passion for parenting. I was reminded of the awesome power and responsibility of being charged with creating new people. A parent can turn a child into something great, or destroy a life. Or even worse, through indifference a parent could break a child’s soul. Tiger Mother inspired me to keep pushing for excellence. Not to allow the pretentious, seemingly better off parents discourage me from aspiring to greatness for myself, and those whose lives I have been entrusted with directing. Feeling empowered and encouraged, after putting her book down, I promptly enrolled both daughters in the local youth orchestra program, sought out high achieving public charter schools, and informed my son that “C’s” on his report card were no longer acceptable if he expected to wear clothes bearing designer labels.

But what most inspired me about Amy Chua, was her bottomless well of motivational energy. When I get tired at the end of a long work day, and don’t feel like pushing a daughter a little harder on her cello, or giving another some extra multiplication practice, or demanding my son read two extra chapters of his textbook, I just think of Amy, the real tiger, with enough fire and drive to argue with her girls late into the night over homework, practice or chores. Her vitality and determination has made her daughters confident, brilliant and successful.  Those are traits every parent desires for their children, whether they are homeless, or billionaires. I will never again feel guilty about denying them a passing fad in favor of an excursion to a museum or cultural event; or skimping on birthday party favors, to add extra padding to their college funds. I can see the bigger picture now. The tiger mom never gave up on her cubs, and I refuse to give up on mine.