Internet Hero Defeats Toddler

I know, the rest of the country has moved on, but I was deliberately avoiding the topic of the woman who screamed at a toddler in her restaurant. Once I saw it, it didn't take much time for me to become quite confused (and, yes, obsessed). Everyone seemed to be missing the point so completely, it was like The Emperor's New Clothes. Why were all these people going on and on about a screaming baby? The owner of the diner herself, Darla Neugebauer, had made it clear - she was upset at the child's parents for ordering pancakes. Three of them. It was a lot to ask. By the time the girl started screaming, Darla had been ruminating for between five to thirty-five minutes (estimates vary). No wonder she snapped - she'd targeted these people the minute she laid eyes on them. Expecting her to make their daughter breakfast! What did she look like - their maid? After going on about the pancakes for maybe ten....things that looked sort of like sentences, she finally got around to mentioning the child had screamed.

Pancakes take a while. Pancakes, the fastest thing you can make, take a while. Well, they do at Marcy's, because they're famous for their huge pancakes. Which are a major imposition, because they have a small grill and don't have the space.

The story went viral, and soon, Darla Neugebauer was an internet hero. She had defeated a toddler (awesome!), her father (meh), and, best of all, her mother. For people who fantasize they're constantly being oppressed by children and families, it didn't get any better than this.

The problem is, every time Darla has opened her mouth or her keyboard, she's made it clear she is not a well woman. Is it a brain tumor? A personality disorder? A substance abuse problem? The feel bad rainbow offers dozens of possible explanations, and I'm not going to speculate on which one it might be. All I'm saying is, something aside from healthy development, sunshine and puppies is driving this woman's behavior.

I've heard it opined that her rival, Tara Carson, has somehow used her degree in marketing to "make" Darla look crazy. There are a number of problems with this, one of them being that Darla has done most of her talking for herself, another being that, despite Darla's best efforts, most people seem to have fallen firmly into her corner. They don't like her enough to listen to what she actually has to say, but they like they idea of her.

Lest I be accused of "concern trolling," let me be clear. I'm not the least bit concerned. While I don't actively wish Darla Neugebauer harm, I don't like her and don't care what happens to her. It's her fans who should.

Imagine you have a drinking buddy. We'll call her Starla. Starla is more fun than a barrel of monkeys. Mondays, Tuesdays and every other Thursday just wouldn't be the same without her. She's always punching babies whose clueless parents order them pancakes. In short, she's just terrific.

Now, all this is great - for you. But what about Starla? You're having a ball, but Starla's liver is a ticking time bomb. Who's going to intervene? Those entitled assholes who think the world revolves around their special little snowflakes? Not in this culture of narcissism and permissive parenting. They're too busy getting a restraining order to worry about Starla's health. I'm sorry you have to deal with their selfishness, but here we are. If you care about Starla, you're going to have to stop encouraging her.

But enough about Starla. Back to Darla.

"Kids these days are out of control! I can't go anywhere without seeing a kid screaming for 40 minutes straight. People need to teach their kids to behave in public."

Mmmm-hmm. I'm trying very hard to avoid falling into the trap of thinking my experience is universal, but I have never, ever been in a restaurant where a child screamed for 40 minutes. If you say you have, that you see such a thing regularly, do I think you're lying, or at least prone to a certain amount of rather self-indulgent hyperbole? Yes. But I could be wrong.

Occasionally, I've heard a few minutes of screaming at the grocery store. Even at my worst, I know people have to go to the grocery store, and no, in no universe is it reasonable or realistic to think they can or should all get babysitters in order to do it. But I'll admit, the screaming toddlers irritate me. Don't these people get that I'm done with this part of my life? Then it hits me. No, they don't know that. They don't even know I exist, I have nothing to do with why they came to the grocery store, and there's no reason they should care that I'm done with passionate toddlers. Other people have the audacity to be at different stages in life and in parenting than I am, and eventually, I'll die.

At any rate, if you spent any time applauding Darla Neugebauer, I can only assume you believe that not only should kids be included in behavioral expectations, but they should be only for children, because there is not a boundary in the world Neugebauer didn't cross. Either you believe we owe it to each other to maintain a certain baseline of respect, or you don't. If you do, she does not pass inspection. You don't learn manners, you're born with them, and you get to unlearn them. It's the only possible explanation for supporting her.

Tara Carson wrote a column for the Washington Post telling her side of the story, but there was nothing she could have said that wouldn't have been used against her. Say her child fussed a little, and see? Her child is a brat, she said so herself! Say she didn't, and most would have accused her of lying. There's nothing this family can do. Someone said their kid was annoying at a restaurant. Case closed.

I can't say I think Carson did a great job of pleading her case, but in her defense, she must feel like she's entered the Twilight Zone, and not in a good way. I'm going to  make a few assumptions here. They may be way off, but here goes. Tara Carson is generally well-received. She's everything mainstream America usually loves. She's young, white, thin, pretty, middle-class, married to a man in the armed services, and has a degree in marketing. Marketing! Does it get any more young, pretty, white American woman? Yet all it took was one person to claim she ordered pancakes for her daughter, and for the rest of America to interpret that to mean "her child is an out of control monster who is robbing you of your liberty as we speak," and suddenly we all decide Nelson Muntz's mom is more credible than she is.

Please don't think this is an issue close to my heart. It isn't. Or if it is, it isn't in the way you'd think. I've tried to make sure my kids behave in public. I've seen other parents do the same. We're nice to other people, and they're nice to us. If I have one regret, it's that I worried so much about being that mom - the one we all seem to think Tara Carson is - that I prioritized that over my kids' development and well-being. Thinking about it, I'm having a hard time not falling apart. So, never mind. This is an issue close to my heart. Do I hate you for it, every single friend of mine I've seen show Marcy's diner even the slightest support? Yes. Fuck you. I'll never see you again without thinking about it.

I remember hosting a party for a friend. A woman I'd never met before, a single mother with a perfectly lovely son of about three, kept trying to keep him in line, apologize for him, make sure he didn't bother anyone. I knew it wasn't him, and it wasn't her. It was us, or what she feared from us. She was trying to beat us to the punch. If anyone else had looked at him sideways, she'd have just died. Finally, I told her, "No, stop. He has as much right to his place in the world as everyone else here."

Not that I have wisdom to pass around. I don't. I certainly never lived by that.

Tara, no matter what you do, we think you're a terrible mother, and we always will. Always. So you're free. Take care of your beautiful daughter, and don't worry about the rest of us ever again. No big loss. We were assholes anyway.

I Am Not an Idiote

Writing for my blog is easy. Writing fiction is hard. Really hard. Ridiculously hard.

I started what seems like a promising story yesterday. It was stymied when I, Erin, a sovereign adult, chose to describe a character as having "dark blue eyes." I must have known when I was doing it it was a stupid thing to do. Stupid, thoughtless, downright irresponsible. If I could take it back, I would.

"Wait a minute," I asked myself, "are dark blue eyes even real?" 

No character of mine will have a fake eye color, I'll tell you that. 

Off to Google. This lead to an exploration on the subject of the exact definition of "hazel." I'd like to say my brown eyes lean toward amber, but they're probably closer to plain old hazel. Some twenty years ago, after concluding the word hazel was Insecure Person for brown, I began defiantly referring to my eyes as brown, and never looked back. But now....amber, or hazel? Hazel, or amber? How can a person write fiction with such an important question looming? I don't even know my own eye color! 

What are all the eye colors? Did you know people with blue eyes have, on average, a higher alcohol tolerance? That explains why I can't hold my liquor! There's even a fake syndrome called Alexandria's Genesis that causes purple eyes. 

I won't be calculating how much time I spent on eye color over the last 24 hours. Why can't I be a type-A? One of those, "How does she do it?" ladies? Instead of someone who needs hours and hours just to...squirrel! 

Years ago, the line by someone else I related to the most came from Nico's These Days. 

Please don't confront me with my failures

I have not forgotten them

Luckily, I was old enough not to go telling people I related to that. Because dignity. 

Now, I think Jeanne Darst captures it better in Fiction Ruined My Family (which, by the way, I recommend highly). 

I'm lazy. I'm forgetful. I go too far. I don't know when to stop. I need to grow up. I'm not a people person. Nor am I organized or highly organized, enthuiastic or responsible. I'm not a self-starter or a problem-solver. I don't have good phone or computer skills. I can't multitask or work well with others. And yet, I maintain, I am not an idiote.

Yes, it's true. Like Darst, despite all evidence to the contrary, I believe in my heart that I am not an idiote. How does she do it? 

Jane Eyre Is No Orphan

Jane Eyre is an orphan. Both her parents are dead; this's the exact definition of an orphan. Although Jane survives innumerable traumas and horrific treatment, she grows up to be authentic, passionate, and, perhaps most impressively, kind. One might take this to mean that one can "overcome" childhood abuse. Taking it a step further, one could look at an impressive adult who had a hard childhood and conclude that a bad childhood cannot "ruin" anyone, that even abused children  have no "excuse" for having problems that continue throughout their lives. Sometimes, popular culture seems to believe that people who have survived a difficult childhood should not only be offered no special sympathy, but should be held to an even higher standard than the rest of us. Forgive all the insufferable quotes (they're kind of like air quotes, but in print form), but I can't let any of those words stand on their own.

Yes, one could conclude the fictional account of Jane Eyre's life is a manifesto advocating a bootstrap mentality. This would be convenient. If a person can pull herself up by the bootstraps if only she's strong and moral enough, we're relieved of our collective responsibility. Unfortunately, we can't be, and we aren't. Aside from  the fact that Jane Eyre, like pulling oneself up by the bootstraps, is fiction, Charlotte Bronte makes one thing clear. Jane is never, for one minute, alone in the world. Jane grows up to be a fine young woman in spite of all she suffers, and because all the abuse, indifference, neglect and unavoidable traumas are offset by kindness and compassion. Not enough kindness and compassion - no child should endure what Jane does. But she's not a street urchin. She doesn't live in a workhouse. She receives compassion and humanity. This child is not the product of indifference.

Jane is born to parents who love her. After they die, she's sent to live with her Uncle Reed and his wife. When the book opens, all we see is that Jane is is a vulnerable child, alone in a hostile world. Uncle Reed is dead. Resentful Mrs. Reed allows and encourages her children to be physically and emotionally abusive to Jane. Even some of the servants, apparently put off by Jane's inability to maintain a sunny disposition while suffering such harsh treatment, are cruel to her.

After being injured, sick, and harshly (and unjustly) punished, Jane awakens to Bessie, a sympathetic maid, and a kind doctor. Bessie cares a great deal about Jane. We know this because, as an adult, Jane encounters her, and Bessie is not only excited to see her, but invested in Jane's success. This happens repeatedly. There are times, early in the book, when it's implied Jane has no one, that the small kindnesses occasionally afforded to her are anomalies. They are not. Bronte goes back and explains we had it wrong. Jane isn't merely the recipient of random acts of impersonal kindness. Although she does occasionally meet nice people in passing, there's always someone to be good to her because they care about her, specifically.

For example, it seems safe to conclude Mrs. Reed, a nasty piece of work, would have mistreated Jane regardless. But the book doesn't let it rest there. Upon Mrs. Reed's death, we learn her anger at Jane was due in part to how much Mr. Reed adored her, even seeming to prioritize her above his own three children. Even as an orphaned infant, there was at least one person to whom Jane was a bundle of joy, not a burden.

After shouldering the blame for a physical altercation with a cousin twice her age and size, Jane is sent to a nightmarish Victorian boarding school. The conditions are appalling. The children are abused and starved. Disease is rampant. On top of all this, soon after Jane arrives, she is singled out for special persecution by Mr. Brocklehurst, who runs the school. He makes good on his promise to Mrs. Reed to "warn" everyone in the school that Jane is a liar and a scoundrel. Jane is humiliated, and convinced this will doom her to the life of a pariah.

Jane's newfound friend Helen comforts her, explaining that Mr. Brocklehurst is loathed by students and teachers alike. She tells Jane that if anything, Mr. Brocklehurst's cruelty will only help her social standing. But Helen, wise beyond her years though she may be, is just a kid. Her attempts to soothe Jane are admirable, but insufficient. Adult help is needed.

Helen takes an unconvinced Jane to visit Miss Temple, the superintendent. Miss Temple listens to Jane's side of the story. Perhaps sensing a casual show of support won't do enough to counter the damage done to Jane's psyche, she is initially sympathetic, but noncommittal. She goes to the effort of writing away for a formal confirmation of Jane's good character, and, when she receives it, offers Jane a formal public pardon.

The school is still terrible. But when the people who oversee Mr. Brocklehurst visit, they are horrified. Brocklehurst is fired, and conditions improve exponentially. Jane never returns "home" to Mrs. Reed's house, but instead spends the rest of her childhood at school. When she leaves at 18, she has become widely respected and valued. She closer to a cherished family member than a popular student. Like Bessie, they're invested in her living a good life. It's clear her absence will have an impact on the community. Jane will be missed.

As an adult, Jane is honest, intelligent, cultured, and the very model of integrity. Why? It's a combination of nature and nurture. Without the nurture part, nature didn't stand a chance. She draws, speaks French and plays the piano well because she's intelligent and talented. But she can do these things at all only because she was taught how. She keeps her job because she's pleasant and works hard, but she got it in the first place because she had help finding and securing it. Most importantly, though she may be an instinctively compassionate person, she extends compassion because she had it extended to her.

Children need adults to love, encourage and support them. After that, people respond to adversity in an infinite variety of ways for an infinite variety of reasons. There is no question that some people seem to emerge from misfortune with more strength, honesty and competence than others. But if a child doesn't have someone - preferably multiple someones - to extend a hand and keep it extended, she will not thrive.

Beatles Therapy

Like any responsible therapist, I undergo roughly a year of therapy every three or four years. I've tested out a lot of psychotherapists, some great, some less so. A few months ago, I decided it was time to start again.

This time, though, I had a hard time settling on one. I found something wrong with all of them. Late. Early. Stripper shoes, and what the hell kind of question is that? I would never ask a client something so stupid. Eye makeup that does nothing for her eye shape. Was I being reasonable, or was this what Sigmund Freud might call resistance? I didn't know. I just knew I couldn't see any of these therapists again.

Finally, a few weeks ago, I found the right person. I knew I'd been right to reject the others.

I didn't expect instant results, but I was a bit taken aback when, at the end of our third session, my new therapist - the good one! - asked me what she should do for me.

"You tell me! You're the therapist!" I thought, but was afraid to say so. Afraid because I wondered if she thought I was such a total mess she had no clue where to go. I'd thought the theme of this particular session had been quite clear, and was surprised she didn't seem to think so.

But maybe she knew exactly what she was doing, because out of nowhere, something that passed for an answer came pouring out of my mouth, almost as if I was speaking in tongues.

"You know who my favorite Beatle is?" I didn't wait for her to answer. "Ringo. He's the only one who knew how to relax and enjoy the ride."

I'm a long time admirer of Ringo Starr. Born Richard Starkey in Liverpool, England on July 7, 1940, Ringo rose from his humble beginnings to become the drummer for a popular rock band.

I'll let him tell you his true story himself.

In the U.S.A. when we played Shea

We were number one and it was fun

When I look back, it sure was cool

For those four boys from Liverpool

Everything I love about Ringo is summed up in these four lines, the second one in particular. We were number one and it was fun. It's that simple. 

Ringo is laid back, happy-go-lucky. As one of the most popular people in the world, it would, in his opinion, be unspeakably silly to worry about whether or not he's the most popular Beatle. He's a wonderful dancer, but even if he weren't, he would still dance. He doesn't care if you think he's wise. It's not important to him to prove he's an artiste. In fact, he has nothing to prove at all. He doesn't care what you think of his nose. He doesn't care what he thinks of his nose. Stomach problems prevent him from enjoying Indian food, which is a shame. But fuck it, he'll just have some bangers and mash.* Whatever.

The Johns and Pauls of the world may feel persecuted, but such a thing would never cross Ringo's mind. He's grateful, but he never uses the world "gratitude." 

Paul once advised Michael Jackson that the buying music rights was the way to get rich. Michael Jackson took Paul's advice to heart, and outbid him on the rights to his own songs. Paul, who has more money than he, his children, and their children will ever know what to do with, was nevertheless deeply resentful. On principle. 

I'm not knocking Paul. I'd feel exactly the same way, because I'm Paul and I know it. It never occurred to me I could be anything else. Paul. GOD. I was consigned to a lifetime of being Paul.

That's not what I wanted. I wanted to be Ringo. Ringo is filthy, stinking rich, and doesn't bother with lawsuits that "aren't about the money." He knows that of course it's about the money, and since it's about the money, why bother? He's set. 

Ringo is so enlightened, he knows enlightenment is a waste of time. Life has tuned out better than he ever dreamed. He doesn't feel entitled, nor does he feel unworthy. He takes it as it comes. Each new day is a pleasant surprise.

Is he 100% satisfied with his life choices? No. There are times when he thinks he should have been a humanitarian instead of a pop star. 

Yes, he's only human.  Occasionally, he feels wistful. Sometimes, he even gets a bit peeved, and he isn't afraid to defend himself. 

Do you think Ringo gave Larry King another thought once the interview was over?  Did he fret about how disrespectful Larry had been, and, conversely, worry he'd overreacted and viewers might think he was a bitch? Nope. Out of sight, out of mind. He hasn't forgotten. When someone brings it up, he chuckles, , then promptly forgets about it again. When he sees Larry King, he doesn't feel awkward. He gives Larry a pleasant hello and then moves along, because he and Larry don't have much in common, and Ringo doesn't see any point in engaging in tedious small talk. 

I might have him all wrong, but I guarantee Ringo is not the least bit worried about it. 

I never dared to dream I could be Ringo instead of Paul, but in a single moment of clarity, I realized that was my therapeutic goal. I want to be Ringo. 

I've never been one for affirmations, but I may tape the word Ringo up in a few odd places, just for inspiration. Later, I'll forget to take them down, because while Ringo doesn't waste time on affirmations, he feels no disdain for them, either. He is totally indifferent.

The rest of my 30s, and possibly beyond, will be spent trying to become a person who could, theoretically, write a memoir entitled "Becoming Ringo," but who feels no need to do any such thing. I'll do whatever I have to do. I'll climb any mountain, cross any ocean. When I'm done, I'll shrug and say, "Yeah, I climbed Mt. Kilimanjaro. I swam the English Channel. It was fun." 

* Correction. Ringo adheres to a very strict diet. There are no bangers and mash involved. On Sunday, his cheat day, he allows himself a single cup of coffee and a potato. 

Not Just Transgender

When my children were small, I was part of an online liberal community of (primarily) mothers. One day, a woman who went by laurustina showed up with a funny, delightful little vignette about looking out the window to find her husband and landlord chatting, oblivious to the fact that her transgender daughter Alice's prosthetic breast was on the lawn. While she and Alice watched, her son, Max, rescued the boobie. The whole family was delightful. Read it. You'll smile.

I didn't realize Alice had since died. I missed it somehow, or maybe she didn't tell us. When she posted another story, it was heart wrenching rather than funny. This time, she was consenting to donate her daughter's organs. I've been waiting to get my hands on her memoir ever since.

I finally finished Jules Vilmer's The Complicated Geography of Alice  yesterday, and I encourage you to read it. Probably. Unless, maybe, you're in a similar situation. If you're in the belly of the whale, if you have a depressed, transgender, drug-addicted child, you have enough to deal with. Not that you shouldn't read it, but I won't be the one to tell you to. This book is terrifying, and you may not need any more terrifying right now.

Terrifying because Jules Vilmer and her husband Jay did everything right. They were perfect parents, at least when it came to dealing with Alice being transgender. They would argue, of course. After all, they were there. It's easier to credit someone with perfection when you only have a vague idea of what actually happened. For me, literally perfect wasn't important, just that they'd risen to the occasion. Things turned out badly anyway, because Alice had other problems. That became oh-so-important to me as I read.

When you read about terrible things happening to people, it's tempting - irresistible, even - to figure out all the ways in which they're different from you. If you can figure out where they went wrong, you can figure out how to avoid their fate. But what if they're Jules, Jay, Max and Alice? What if you like them to much to criticize? What if that made you realize, once again, what a tremendous unkindness dissecting every little choice they made would be?

So instead, I tried desperately to tell myself that Alice didn't die because she was transgender. That one can't die of being transgender, because transgender isn't sick. She died because she was mentally ill. Because she was a drug addict. I can't say her parents handled those things perfectly, because I don't know what perfect would look like. I already know I'll be in over my head if one of my children is as tortured as Alice was.

But a transgender child....that's something I thought I could do. It wouldn't be easy, it would be an adjustment, and I'll even confess I'd probably have some grief about it. I'd get over it, though. If I'm a good mother, my transgender child will be insulated from a hateful world. No need to turn to drugs or self-hatred. A transgender child is no tragedy. No tragedy is all I ask.

No, it's not. I want my kids to be happy people with fulfilling lives. No, I don't, I want them to be kids who stay right here with me forever. No, I don't. I want them to grow up. Because it's that or die.

What Valmir wishes for now is so simple.

Sometimes I tell people my daughter ran off to Tangier. If they ask what she's doing there, I roll my eyes and say, "That's what I'd like to know." But oh, how I love the idea of her traipsing across the globe, having adventures so grand she keeps forgetting to call home. 

No, no, no. Alice could not have been depressed or addicted to drugs because she was transgender. It must have been in addition to being transgender. She was a tortured soul, and even if she'd been perfectly content to stay in a male body, she would have struggled just as much. Because being as mentally ill as she was sucks, and Alice was severely mentally ill. It was in the cards; written on her DNA.

Nobody's fault; certainly not her parents. I'll even let the transphobic's world off the hook, because I can't have the transphobic world be the culprit here. Alice's parents did everything in their power to protect her from it. If they were only moderately successful, because most of the world is beyond their control, other gender non-conforming folks have faced much worse. They lived to tell about it. Alice's depression, on the other hand, was unique to her. She's the only person who has ever had it. It's fatal, 100% of the time. Maybe someday, we'll know how to treat severe mental illness, to manage or even cure it. But for now, I have accepted that even parents who do everything right simply might not have enough to work with.

I don't believe either of my children is transgender. If they were, I would know. Right? Anyway, it doesn't matter, because if I'm wrong, I can handle it. Right?

I should take this opportunity to ask myself just who the hell I think I am. Do I think I'm immune to having a child with severe depression? A child with a drug problem? No, I don't, of course not! Yes, I do. No, I don't. Yes, I do.

My children are probably more likely to struggle with depression or addiction than gender identity. The truth is, some degree of addiction or mental illness isn't unlikely. But I already know I'll be lost dealing with either of them. I'd have no map. I never hoped or expected I would know how to be Perfect Enlightened Mommy on the day my 14-year-old was expelled for the second time because we just couldn't figure out how to keep them sober.

Life could throw me a million unexpected loops. These are only three of them. I already knew I'd be at life's mercy with two of them. But I thought I had some control over the third. I could accept. I could protect. If I did that, it would all be okay.

Of course, if one of my children is transgender, and I do handle it well, it will be because I didn't have to go first. The worst of that path has already been cleared. I'll have models like Jules and her husband to light the way. And yes, I'll follow their example, even knowing they didn't get a happy ending. I will never have to be a hero here. The title of pioneer won't be available to me, thank GOD. I'd rather be the mother of two living children.

There are some particularly loathsome individuals ("loathsome" referring not to people who waver, but people who feel sure) who might say Alice died because her parents indulged her. "Let" her be a girl. Didn't employ enough tough love. Talk to some transgender people whose parents didn't indulge them, and get back to me. Longevity may never have been possible for Alice, but because of the life her parents created for her, her time on earth contained joy and happiness as well as torment. Alice's good times happened because she was seen, accepted and understood. While Alice was here, she got to live.

After I finished working yesterday, I had some time to kill, but not enough to go home. I could grocery shop, but that would leave frozen goods melting in my trunk. So I went to a coffee shop to finish the book I was reading.

I knew how it was going to end, but even so, I read the book hoping there had been some sort of mistake, that things would turn out differently. But there was no mistake. Alice is gone. She'll never grow up. Her parents will never get to remember how hard things were for a while, before their daughter settled into her skin, into the world. They'll never get to shake their heads at that poor, dramatic couple who didn't know everything was going to be alright.

When Alice died, her mother took me there. My eyes welled up with tears, and I wanted to sob. But I was surrounded by college and high school students, so I didn't. I finished the book, and went to pick up my kids.

To have a child is to have your heart walking around outside your body for the rest of your life.  A cliche' we all know, and all know is true....ish. I'll have my heart, split in half, walking around outside my body for the rest of my life, unless I don't.

Many years ago, before I had kids, I knew a mother who said of her children, "She is my strength, and he is my joy."

I've felt the same way. My first born, my love for you is fierce. Intense. Unbreakable.

My second born, my love for you is joyful, buoyant, light as a feather. Unsinkable.

But neither of you is unbreakable or unsinkable. My love for you is here for the rest of my life, but I have no guarantee that the objects of it are. I'd have quibbled over that bit, but the contract was non-negotiable. There was no one with whom to negotiate.

Figuring out all the ways in which the victim is different from you is a response to learning about tragedy, but it's not the response. There are others we can fall back on. One is even more cliche', but at least doesn't rob you of compassion or empathy. At least it won't steal your soul. Another response says, there but for the grace of God go I. It says, hug your kids. 

When I walked through the playground gates to pick up my children, I spotted my son right away. Seconds later, he spotted me. I got one of those running-jump hugs that he'll be too big to pull off soon. No matter what tomorrow may bring, I won't have those for much longer.

I may not have him forever. My luminous, happy, friendly, social, astute, quirky and witty son may or may not live a long life. But at that moment, he was there, arms around my neck. Solid gold.

Do They Honestly Know Not What They Do?

It happens all the time. A woman is raped. For whatever reason, it becomes a high profile case. Maybe she was drunk. Maybe she was outside. Maybe she was 11. All high risk behaviors, to be sure, and someone will always be sure to point it out. That someone will be accused of victim-blaming. Now, I would say that accusation is very fair. They're victim-blaming and they know it, right? Nobody could possibly be that clueless, could they? 

Earlier today, it hit me. Yes. They could be that clueless. It's entirely possible. 

A friend had posted this article on Facebook, about a mayor's response to a gang rape in Australia, and expressed her displeasure with the obvious victim-blaming. There should not, in my mind, have been anything controversial or even debatable in what she was saying. The mayor, Kevin Mack, hadn't minced words. In fact, he'd made himself abundantly clear. 

"I always have encouraged women not to walk alone, to have someone with them at all times, because that in itself is an invitation for someone to take advantage of you." 

An invitation. That's what he said. Those were his words. 

"We just need to be a little bit more careful, a little bit more security conscious and we as a public need to look after each other."

He said we just need to be a little more careful, because he knew better than to say you need to be a little more careful. When it comes to looking out for each other, he's doing his part. He's giving women ridiculously obvious advice that no woman needs to hear, because the message was driven home long ago. 

A friend of my friend's defended the mayor. He explained that he was just giving sensible, practical advice. No blaming, no moralizing, just a little pearl of wisdom. 

The discussion grew heated, and the man defending the mayor deleted his comments. Although I had only passively participated, I felt badly. In part because I'd been a bit harsh in my sarcasm, but mostly because it suddenly hit me. He may not fully understand how intuitively women know to be careful in public, at night, alone, and in the presence of men, particularly unknown men. I doubt he thought the advice was new, but he might not have realized exactly how old it was. 

I was in my late teens when I first heard Ani DiFranco sing, "I'm determined to survive on this shore/you know, I don't avert my eyes anymore." It hit me. When I passed a man on an otherwise empty street, I always averted my eyes. I promised myself I would stop. I have many memories of realizing, right after it happened, that dammit, I looked away again! But I don't remember ever succeeding in holding my ground.  

I've understood for some time that many men, especially the white, heterosexual, cis-gendered, middle-or-upper-class, abled-bodied variety, may not understand how different their lives would be if they lacked even one of those markers of privilege. Seeing this man's obvious bafflement, I got it. Again. And better. He doesn't know how deeply women have gotten the message to be careful. 

So, fellow traveler, I'm going to try to put this in terms you understand. 

Your parents told you to be careful crossing the street. Especially under dangerous conditions. There are, in many cases, crosswalks, lights, and other indications that you shouldn't have to worry, but only a fool would trust that all the drivers on the road care as much about your safety as you and your parents do. So you don't just trust the sign that says "walk." You also look. You listen. You get a firm handle on your surroundings before you step out into the street. 

You were told all this so long ago that you don't remember ever not knowing. Not only do you get it, but you know almost everyone else gets it, too. After a certain age, there is rarely a need to repeat this advice. It would be almost insulting to harp on it. 

If I read about someone being hit by a car, my instinct isn't to try to figure out what they did wrong and warn everyone in their demographic not to do the same. The mayor doesn't respond to a story like that by telling all the citizens to be careful crossing, and certainly not if the car in question was driven by a reckless criminal. If he did, yes, it would look like victim-blaming. Because he'd be implying that if you were always careful enough, nobody would ever be hit by a car. And he would never dream of suggesting that you should just stay home, despite the fact that home is well known to be an excellent place to avoiding being hit by a car. One could even argue that home provides more protection from cars than it does from gendered violence. 

Your parents told you to be careful around cars. They said it emphatically, and repeatedly, and they started before you could understand the words coming out of their mouths. For me to repeat it now would be unheard of. 

Jessica Williams and Jordan Klepper were delightful in this bit. 

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But maybe you don't understand that was a real presentation the girls attended at college orientation? That we were officially told everything Jessica Williams said, it wasn't presented as a joke, and the only difference was that the woman presenting it didn't need to fumble around to remember any of it for comic effect? 

Women know to be careful. They were told by their parents. By their teachers. And by everyone else. We get it, Kevin Mack. Better than you ever will. You have nothing to offer. Your advice is worthless. You can't teach anyone anything about avoiding rapists, except perhaps your daughter or niece - someone significantly younger than you, if you have an important role in her life. Not one single woman heard what you said, took it to heart, and benefitted from it. It may be difficult to imagine, but women have a better handle on this "being female" thing that you do. 

But the three rapists in question did get to fly right under your radar. If you'd been addressing someone being killed by a drunk driver, you'd have reminded the people in your city not to drive drunk. Period. You would not have suggested staying home to avoid drunk drivers. 

The man on my friend's timeline didn't do anything to help prevent sexual assault. He didn't make me understand that Kevin Mack had been right. But he did help me understand where Kevin Mack may have been coming from. A place of genuine ignorance. 12 hours ago, I didn't understand that as well as I do now. He may have honestly not known any better. It may not be what I've always thought - that he doesn't understand this as well as women do. It may be that he doesn't understand it at all. Maybe it's not willful. Maybe it's not even partially intentional. I thought you were lying. I see you may not have been. 

God forgive me, I didn't know that. I didn't know how different things might have been if I'd had that particular marker of privilege. I'm sorry if I was mean to you. I thought I knew you were coming from a different place than I was, but I didn't. Not really.

Girl Culture is Hard

I once believed the greatest gift I could give my children was faith. My faith in them. I thought I could infuse them with confidence and belief in themselves if I gave them one simple message - I believe you can do this. You aren't fragile. You can trust your own judgement.

I still believe that, but it's been harder to give than I would have ever guessed. Or it's been harder to give to one of my children. The one who's a girl.

With my son, it gets easier every day. I don't worry about him unless there's good reason to. I rarely wonder if my fears for him are sound or neurotic, because, since I don't worry excessively, I can honor it when I do.

But my daughter...she's my first born. The one who reminds me so much of myself. I am fiercely, rabidly protective of her. I'm suspicious of everyone. It communicates to her that I have no faith at all. It isn't doing me, her or anyone else any good.

This shouldn't be taken to mean I'm not sufficiently protective of my son. I believe myself to be giving him what he needs, and I'm well aware that a seven-year-old child needs to be protected and advocated for. Don't get the impression I won't kill you (and by you, I mean you, personally). In fact, I'm thinking about hitting you in the head with a baseball bat right now (and by you, I don't so much mean you personally, but more a vague personification of a threat). But I'll only resort to that if I really, really have to.

For the most part, though, I'm confident he'll be okay. I can relax, and allow him to relax. Time and again, I've wished she could have his mom. Because you know how we're all supposed to think we're the worst mother in the world? Well, I'm not. The world would be a better place if I were. Still, there are things I would change if I could, and things I would do differently if I knew how. I could say "If I had it to do over again....," but it would be a lie. I knew I was doing it wrong, but the sad truth is, I was doing the best I could.

They have different personalities, of course, and I could pin some of it on that. Even so, I have to own that a lot of it is me. I take some small comfort in the fact that it's not entirely because she's my girl. I know, because all my friends without daughters have managed to dig up a son with whom to identify too closely.

"If you want to know what's unresolved from your own childhood, have kids." Did I read that somewhere? Or is it an old saying? Or maybe I just made it up, or heard it from a friend? I'm not sure, but truer words have rarely been spoken.

So what's unresolved from my own childhood? School. ADD and all the crap that goes along with it. But most of all, friends and social life.

A few weeks ago, she seemed to be struggling socially. I've learned to bite my tongue when I start overreacting. To a point. I try to be a sounding board, someone to talk to, and a container for her to find her own solutions. I've gotten better, but what I have here seems to be closer to a scab than a scar. It provides some protection, but poke it the wrong way, and it will start bleeding.

For example, one day she was upset because a mean-girl type had been mean.

I've known this girl since she was in kindergarten, although not well. I've watched her grow up. I remembered walking down the hall with her when she was about five, her not yet able to pronounce the letter "r", chattering away to me about her brothers, sisters, and her "fuchoo sister." (Sister-in-law, I believe). None of it meant a damn thing.

"She'll have three kids by the time she's 20," I snapped. Yes, I, 38-year-old mother of two, felt the best defense was to imply a ten-year-old child was a trashy slut. Because that's how I want my daughter to manage conflict. Mean girl? "Trashy slut!" Rude barista? "Trashy slut!" Pulled over for speeding? "Trashy slut!" Telemarketer won't stop calling? "Trashy slut!" Disagree with a college professor about Peru's economic policy? "Trashy slut!"

Around the same time, she had been legitimately named the president of an extracurricular club. She was happy, and perfectly willing and able to do the job, but was considering sharing it with another girl, because the girl was jealous. It had come up at her teacher conference, where her teacher had strongly implied this would be a terrible idea.

I knew she didn't want to share the position, and was under no obligation to do so. Was I right to encourage my daughter to unapologetically be the leader, and not share it just because some other kid was making life difficult? I think so. But the tween girl drama had obviously become far too important to me. One morning, while I drove her to school, I lectured her on how she absolutely must not share her leadership position.

"I know I should stop," I finally confessed to her.

"But you can't," she confirmed. That kid has my number.

When I got home, a friend on Facebook was considering not applying for a job. She wanted the job and was qualified for it. Her skill set was exactly right for it. But she was scared. Scared of putting herself out there and being rejected. Scared of getting her hopes up. Scared, perhaps, that even if she got it, she wouldn't be able to do it.

Oh, hell no. Not on my watch. While I worked on giving her a measured response, I quietly went bananas. Give up something you want, something you might be able to have, something that you perhaps should have? Without even trying? Do that now, and you'll settle for less for the rest of your life!

Knowing if I started, I wouldn't be able to control myself, I said very little. My friend applied for the job anyway, because believe it or not, people can actually make good decisions for themselves without my help. I suppose there's even an outside chance that what I wanted her to do wasn't right for her (no freaking way). But as much as I was rooting for her, was there maybe just a little bit of projection going on? Was I looking at her and seeing my daughter? Was I looking at her and seeing myself?

Now, there's nothing I hate more than other people projecting their stuff onto me, so I can only imagine everyone else feels exactly the same way. So why do I subject one of the most important people in the world to me to it on a regular basis (we all know exactly why)?

I don't always do it wrong. When I have a healthy attitude on a particular topic, I'm just fine. Another problem my daughter recently came home with was boys making sexual comments about her clothing and body.

Yes, I remembered, this is when that starts. I remembered hearing similar in fifth grade. I remembered sitting on the floor in seventh grade, a boy shoving my head into the wall with his crotch, and calmly waiting for him to stop and walk away. I remembered thinking, well, I shouldn't have been sitting on the floor.

I told my daughter it was sexual harassment. I emailed her teacher and asked if the kids were being taught this kind of behavior was unacceptable, and often illegal. Better for everyone, I thought, to stop this right here and now.

But I was not upset. I knew these boys knew nothing of sexual harassment, male privilege or the male gaze. I believed if it was all explained to them immediately, they would save themselves and all the women they met in the future a lot of trouble. Although I would have pursued the same action either way, I was happy to know that what was best for my daughter was also, in my estimation, what was best for the boys who had harassed her.

Why? Because they hadn't poked my scab. Junk-in-my-face boy did not traumatize me. He didn't, for one second, have the power. Any lingering scars I have were caused by people worthier, more important, and just plain better than him.

Maybe he kept on going, and is now, in his late 30s, exactly the kind of man you'd expect a boy who assaulted girls in the hallway at school to be. In that case, he probably forgot all about it, just as I would have if I weren't such a chronic rememberer. (Because it was not important to me. Hear that, loser? I have no feelings about you at all!). I'd like to think if he does remember, he cringes. He teaches his son to never, under any circumstances, do any such thing.

That's what I look like when I'm advocating for my child in a healthy, appropriate manner.

The unresolved sadness and grief lies in friendships with people who actually mattered, mostly (but not exclusively) other girls. What I wish I'd known when I was older than my daughter is now, but still young, was that my actions actually mattered. That while everyone makes mistakes, there were consequences that wouldn't be erased when I turned eighteen. Be too quick to say "I'm done with you bitches" now, and you'll be saying it over and over, for the rest of your life, and you just might encourage your daughter to do the same.

But can you tell a child that? Nope. It's too much to saddle them with. They wouldn't be able to do anything with it. I, at least, got to learn the wrong lessons for myself. I haven't given my daughter any such luxury.

What I do know is that, with all the talk about girl bullying, queen bees and wannabes, girls being mean, catty, two-faced, and dishonest, it was rarely - probably never - a conscious decision on anyone's part. What they fail to mention is, all these girls are kids. Kids who have no clue what they're doing. No one ever decided, "I'm going to emotionally scar you for life now." Everyone was just trying to survive. I won't cast myself as a bully or a victim - I did things I regret, and I suspect there are some who regret their behavior toward me. Had I truly been bullied, I'd be telling a different story. But, while I wasn't totally in control of everything that happened, but I wasn't totally helpless, either.

I see my daughter's suspicion. I see the way she expects rejection, and finds reasons to beat other people to the punch. I know exactly where she got it. Or else I don't, it's all in my imagination. Or, more likely, she wasn't born with it, but it's there now.

I didn't think it would be like this. But here we are. You can't give what you don't have. God dammit. Why the fuck can't I give what I don't have?

Luckily, I'm not the only influence in my daughter's life. Earlier this year, she and her class went to camp for a few days. Ms. Bea - the mother of two boys - blonde, serene, a beatific glow surrounding her at all times, had a fine time hanging with the girls for a few days. Because what the hand-wringers never mention is, girl culture is also great fun. We're talking barrel-of-moneys level shit here.

The next week, she came up to me on the playground.

"Your daughter is amazing!" she told me. "The weekend after camp, I saw some friends, and I told them, 'Don't you worry about a thing. These girls are going to save the world.'"

Don't worry about a thing. I think it would have been more powerful if it had come from me. But it wasn't nothing.