I'm sure out there tonight in cyberspace (God I hate that term), there are zillions of blogs written by no-namers like myself also titled "Halloween". Oh well. I have a few things I want to say, and they're mostly all Halloween-related, so I'm going to go ahead and use the unimaginative title I've chosen, and save my creativity for the text below:
I was never quite sure what to make of Halloween as a child. First of all, I was always stumped by what to wear. Ever the girl, I would get flustered at the idea of choosing a costume, trying to imagine one that wouldn't look ugly, stupid, or be too common in my classroom. Sadly, I usually left it too late, and having little choice in the few stores of my tiny hometown, I usually ended up being what I most hated - lame. I think my best year I was Minnie Mouse. My parents shelled out the money for a plastic, garbage-bag-thin costume that ripped immediately upon leaving room temperature. Coupled with the fact my folks made me wear my winter coat inside of the costume and it was destined never to last longer than one short evening's term. Sigh. I could have been Minnie forever.
The next costume that I can recall I was given was a hand-sewn witch's gown which my mother lovingly made for me in her ever-so-clever way. However, this beautifully sewn costume turned out to be more a curse than a blessing as for the next 5 or 6 years as it would "haunt" me every halloween. First, a witch. Maybe even a few years of being a witch. At first of course I didn't mind, but eventually a young girl longs to be a princess, a fairy, or even as I recall my mid 1980's self request to my mother, a "punk rocker", but an ugly green-faced witch? Oh dear.
Next, my long black gown transformed* (* = stayed the same), and I was suddenly no longer a witch but an exotic "sorcerer". Wow. Next up? Death. Saddled with a new hood and a plastic wheat sheath smeared with red nail polish, I was now the sexy symbol of death. And... wait for it... just when my imagination couldn't get any more wild that black god forsaken costume yet again reappeared and I was a magical wizard. A WIZARD! I remember helping Mom glue on a golden crescent moon and star to the front of the gown and I may have even made a hat with stars and a wand. Talk about cool? No. My peers were dressed up a rock stars, Barbie, Madonna, and I was a Wizard. A MALE Halloween icon, at that. No wonder I never dated ever.
So, you see, for me Halloween in the sense of dressing up and being excited about a new costume and pretending to be something that I wasn't really wasn't in the cards for me. It wasn't my thing. And, to be honest, even with an entire department stores' selection of gaudy plastic costumes for me to choose from at the time, chances are I'd have chosen to be a giant green M&M anyway. Not a whole lot better. Or a cat, but not today's sexy version, probably one with a big puffy fluffy tummy and a really long tail that I'd trip over from time to time on my way to the Cheetos bowl.
When it came to "Holidays" like Halloween, I was also a bit of a homebody. Okay, when it came/comes to most facets in my life I am a homebody, and for Halloween this stayed the case. I never wanted to go trick or treating with my friends, running door to door in all sorts of different neighbourhoods, trying to get all the candy that was humanly possible in one evening. Why would I do that? My family had a TRADITION for this night and I'd be a dead sorcerer before I broke that, my friend.
My father would accompany my brother and me around our neighbourhood. We would start at the same house, and end at the same house, and take the same route in between, year after year. Dad would trail us with our cloth reusable Co-op store bags (we made reusable bags the "it" thing to do, don't ya know?) so once our plastic pumpkins were full we could unload our goodies. Rarely would someone come along with us. For rare one evening, it was just me and my brother and my dad, doing our thing. I felt a connection with my brother, who, by the way, always managed to come up with an awesome costume just using stuff around the house - jerk. I could care less about my friends on this spooky night. I wanted my Dad, my brother, my loot, and hopefully by the time we got home, a pumpkin-shaped cake baked and iced by Super Mom while we were out, and a special Halloween edition of The Simpson's and Charley Brown.
I'll never forget the first year my brother either felt too old to go trick or treating, or did so with his friends, and I went out alone. Ever the traditionalist, I still went, dad in tow, following our old route by my lonesome. I was death. And it was death - the death of a little piece of my childhood. I remember feeling silly, and later, angry that my brother got two whole years of good Halloweens than I got, simply because I was younger and he quit on me before my time. I went home that year and cried. Yes, a child crying on Halloween, because I came to the realization that my trick or treating days were over.
I was a sensitive child. I cried over the end of Halloween for me as a kid. I cried when I turned 10, as I'd never be a single-digit-age ever again (this is true). I cried when we went from 1989 to 1990 as we'd never be in the 80's again (this is true - how silly! I should have been sick with joy those god awful years were over!!). I cried when I figured out Christmas and Santa, even though I knew for a while but didn't WANT to KNOW, but finally felt silly and admitted it to my mother. I guess for me anything related to finality or change brings on the waterworks.
As I grew older and entered university, I still was perplexed by the enthusiasm people spent on Halloween. All the fuss and bother of fake police tape, strange spider webbing, disgusting face paint and fake blood. True to my roots I was always awful with dreaming up costumes and relied heavily on my residence mates to help me in that matter. In this stage of my life I recall being caught up in a new version of halloween that sometimes resulted in fun care packages from home, crazy parties in my residence, and a small distraction from my studies.
Next up my early working days. Now I figured Halloween was simply an excuse for men to dress up like something funny, and for women to dress up in something slightly* inappropriately seductive at work (*extremely, in Quebec and french-speaking parts of New Brunswick). Never before had I taken note of so many "sexy nurses" or "sexy pirates" or "sexy cats". Good lord. Where were all the witches? Oh, right, they're now "sexy witches". Every costume I saw for sale geared towards a woman was a few inches of spandex short of naked. I mean really? Is this what Halloween really is for grown women? A chance to show off our boobs in a costume we'd be utterly embarrassed if our fathers or brothers saw us in? All the while men dress as something funny - a man riding a giant chicken. That sort of awesomeness.
And now. My Halloween now. Now of course it's all about the kids. I bake cupcakes, I ice cookies, I decorate my home, I buy pumpkins, but not for me or party guests - for them. I want them to always remember that we made an effort and had a tradition of "doing something" for Halloween. I'm trying to instil in them the notion that even a crazy holiday like Halloween can be another way for our family to be together and bond. I want my kids to look back on photos and think of memories where they were a team, dressed in some sort of theme (monkey and banana, hamburger and cupcake), going out together because they wanted to, not because they had to. Because they chose their sibling over their friends when it's not en vogue. I want to talk to Joshua when he's about to give it all up, see if I can convince him to give it a go one more year so that his little sister isn't left behind. When they're older, I'll put on old episodes of The Simpson's when we get home from trick or treating, and I'll have cake and milk all set. We'll carve pumpkins and see who can make the scariest, and I'll roast the seeds to go in their school lunches the next day. We'll have fun. We'll make memories. We'll be a team.
That inner witch in me is casting a spell on them. We'll see if it works.
Monday, October 31, 2011
Sunday, October 30, 2011
Girls are Worse
As you may or may not know (and if you do not, shame on you and your penance is to reread my opening blog entry at least thrice over and memorize as many details as you're able) I have two darling children for whom I have given up career and waistline to love and raise at home full-time. My firstborn is a boy, Joshua, of whom I am insanely proud, who makes me laugh, who endears me every day, baffling me with all he knows and all he learns at a breakneck speed. My second born is a girl, Claire, who is my darling, my sweetie, my heart.
I've said it before that having a girl was the best decision I've never made. Let me explain.
When I was pregnant for the first time, I soon realized that I wanted to have a boy. No. I didn't simply "want" to have a boy, I WANTED to have a boy. Bad. I have no idea where this passion came from, perhaps some ingrain desire of my descendants to have a boy first, ensure the family name would continue, someone who would take over the family fishing/sealing/hunting business (I'm from Newfoundland, enough said?), that sort of nonsense. So for 38 long weeks I hoped and prayed and wondered and obsessed if in fact the being I was growing in my belly was going to be the boy I so desired.
And, it was. Out popped* (*=painfully, excruciatingly delivered) my first born, a healthy baby boy. We were insanely happy and proud. I was a mother. My husband was a father. We had our son. We were a family. I later would have dreams where we were mistaken and the baby we had was a girl, and I'd wake up from these dreams frantic, panicked, and would have to check to ensure my baby was indeed a boy. Nuts, eh?
Anyway, when I became pregnant with my second child, I again felt that having a boy would be nice, but that obsession of simply NEEDING to have a boy was diluted (perhaps from living with a little boy for the previous 1.5 years? Yes? No? I'll not wander down that road.) We figured if it was a boy we'd save a lot of money on clothes. If it was a girl we'd have a totally new experience on our hands. Being a busy, pregnant mother of a little boy kept me from focusing too much on the gender of my unborn baby, there were many welcome distractions in those long months. Also, some unhappy ones - when I was in my second trimester, I found out that our baby had a kidney disorder, and might require some medical intervention upon being born, to prevent further kidney damage and other related complications. We were frightened. But also, we were given a clue - most babies with this condition were male. So without actually "finding out" the sex of our unborn baby, we were basically told we were having a boy. A little scared about the baby's health, but mostly excited, we waited for the arrival of our second son.
Well, sonny boy never came because who arrived on June 7th, 2010? Baby Claire did, that's who! I was shocked and thrilled and amazed all at once. (By the way, her kidney condition is stable, no surgeries for now, and we are all very pleased with how she's doing and is otherwise perfect in all ways). We had a girl. We had a GIRL! WE HAD A GIRL!!! Life is just... so... well. Amazing.
So since the arrival of my lovely daughter, I've noticed many things. Firstly of course is how CUTE girl baby clothes are, especially having just come off of having a baby boy, you can't even begin to compare cuteness. Sure, a baby boy dressed in a green polo shirt and dark washed jeans are cute, but compare that to a frilly baby-soft pink dress with ruffly-bottomed white tights and shiny, tiny black mary janes? Come on. Add a flower-embossed headband and a tiny beaded bracelet? Cute overload.
Secondly, people are unfairly judgemental to little girls. It's true. We as a society are TERRIBLE when it comes to our daughters. For instance. I took my children to an indoor playground one winter morning as a way for my son to play with other kids his age and to have some fun and get some exercise. In fact, for the entire winter we did this twice a week. It was great. Mama could sit back with a coffee (okay, with a coffee and a donut), the baby could nap in her stroller, and Joshua could run around like a crazy person. Perfect! One day, Joshua threw a fit when I told him it was time to go. One sympathetic mother caught my eye and said "If you think this is bad wait until SHE'S 2! Girls are even worse!" referring to my angelic, sleeping daughter. I shrugged it off, too busy dealing with Joshua the Horrible to really think about what she had said, what she had accused my daughter of doing and being before even having the skill of holding up her own head. Awful! How dare she say that my daughter will act less or more awful when she is 2 and doesn't want to leave a fun place?
But it wasn't just this nut job's opinion. Other parents have told me similar tales of "how bad" it'll be when "she" is in the terrible 2's/3's/teenage years. And this cockamamy advice is usually given to me with a smile and a knowing tilt of the head, all the while smiling at Claire. I mean how AWFUL can you get? Predicting that my sweet angel girl is going to turn out to be even more terrible than my son's terrible times have been? Any why is it that no one ever says "Wow your son is awful, good thing your daughter won't be as bad!". No one has ever said that to me. Or, "Wow you think your ass is big now? Wait till you're 40!". Nope. Haven't heard that one either. At least, not to my face.
So why this preference to boys over girls? Why do we not give our daughters the benefit of the doubt that they will act like a 2 or 3 year old when their time comes? Why do we set this predetermined pattern upon them that they will "be worse" than their male counterparts?
Is it that we don't expect face-down-on-the-WalMart-floor tantrums from our daughters? Because, sister, I've been there with Joshua. Oh yes. I have. Been there. With him. And of COURSE I'll expect Claire to do the same. And, as with Joshua, I'll probably laugh, pick her up and go about my day with a raging lunatic trapped in the body of my 2 year old child. Is that so bad? To expect the same behaviour from my daughter as I did from my son?
Is it that we STILL view girls to be more subdued? More calm? More placid and unlikely to cause a scene? You can put a dress on a Tasmanian devil, but I'm pretty sure it'll still be a Tasmanian devil (yes, I just had to use spell check to write Tasmanian). And one day I'll put a dress on my sweet and innocent daughter and she'll act just the way Joshua did that fateful day in WalMart - she'll act nutty.
I don't know. Maybe because I'm a girl (surprise!) that I'm overly sensitive to girl-predjuguce. Also, I'm a second born, so I can sympathize with precedence set by an older sibling (especially an older brother) and I want to do my damnedest to help Claire feel special, appreciated, and loved and hopefully not view the world as an underdog who has to fight for attention and equality within her own family. I don't want family members or strangers or ANYONE predicting how well or poorly my daughter will do in her life before she has a chance to prove herself.
There are lots of things that piss me off, but one that grates me to my very soul is when people say the phrase "Girls are worse". They are not. Girls are wonderful. Girls are special. My girl is especially awesome, if you're asking. It's small children IN GENERAL that can be awful. I mean can't we all just agree on that and leave gender out of it? It's small children who throw fits, mess up our homes, throw a pile of JUST FOLDED laundry on the dirty floor, smudge windows, throw food, pee in their pants (on purpose???), and who mess up our hair when we're bending down to do up THEIR shoes. It's small children that lead to the purchase of toddler harnesses, who cause valuable breakables to be put up on high shelves, and who cause their mothers to stop buying BOTTLES of wine and reach for the BOX instead.
It's small children who don't have the words or ability to express what they want or are able to understand why they can't have what they want at any given time. They are prisoners in their own bodies, in their own homes, and in life in general. They are trying to navigate a world that is 100% NOT built for them, so of course from time to time they're going to snap. And when they do, they are going to make sure that it's spectacular. It's up to us to love them, not despite, but because of these outbursts, because we know that they're normal, they're part of growing up, and because they make for a great story when we're talking to OUR parents later that night.
So, mother's of daughters, let's chill out a bit. I'm not asking you to be hypocritical and start favouring our daughters over our sons. No. That's tipping the scales too far the other way (don't get me started on the Women's Lib movement). But just give our girls some slack. They have it tough from the get-go, let's not predict their futures or pretend that their behaviour is any worse than their brothers' was. Because it's not. Every child is different. They all need our love. Kiss your daughter twice tonight. And tomorrow morning, break out those ruffly-bottomed tights. They'll look SO CUTE when she's flailing around screaming on the WalMart floor.
-TDW
I've said it before that having a girl was the best decision I've never made. Let me explain.
When I was pregnant for the first time, I soon realized that I wanted to have a boy. No. I didn't simply "want" to have a boy, I WANTED to have a boy. Bad. I have no idea where this passion came from, perhaps some ingrain desire of my descendants to have a boy first, ensure the family name would continue, someone who would take over the family fishing/sealing/hunting business (I'm from Newfoundland, enough said?), that sort of nonsense. So for 38 long weeks I hoped and prayed and wondered and obsessed if in fact the being I was growing in my belly was going to be the boy I so desired.
And, it was. Out popped* (*=painfully, excruciatingly delivered) my first born, a healthy baby boy. We were insanely happy and proud. I was a mother. My husband was a father. We had our son. We were a family. I later would have dreams where we were mistaken and the baby we had was a girl, and I'd wake up from these dreams frantic, panicked, and would have to check to ensure my baby was indeed a boy. Nuts, eh?
Anyway, when I became pregnant with my second child, I again felt that having a boy would be nice, but that obsession of simply NEEDING to have a boy was diluted (perhaps from living with a little boy for the previous 1.5 years? Yes? No? I'll not wander down that road.) We figured if it was a boy we'd save a lot of money on clothes. If it was a girl we'd have a totally new experience on our hands. Being a busy, pregnant mother of a little boy kept me from focusing too much on the gender of my unborn baby, there were many welcome distractions in those long months. Also, some unhappy ones - when I was in my second trimester, I found out that our baby had a kidney disorder, and might require some medical intervention upon being born, to prevent further kidney damage and other related complications. We were frightened. But also, we were given a clue - most babies with this condition were male. So without actually "finding out" the sex of our unborn baby, we were basically told we were having a boy. A little scared about the baby's health, but mostly excited, we waited for the arrival of our second son.
Well, sonny boy never came because who arrived on June 7th, 2010? Baby Claire did, that's who! I was shocked and thrilled and amazed all at once. (By the way, her kidney condition is stable, no surgeries for now, and we are all very pleased with how she's doing and is otherwise perfect in all ways). We had a girl. We had a GIRL! WE HAD A GIRL!!! Life is just... so... well. Amazing.
So since the arrival of my lovely daughter, I've noticed many things. Firstly of course is how CUTE girl baby clothes are, especially having just come off of having a baby boy, you can't even begin to compare cuteness. Sure, a baby boy dressed in a green polo shirt and dark washed jeans are cute, but compare that to a frilly baby-soft pink dress with ruffly-bottomed white tights and shiny, tiny black mary janes? Come on. Add a flower-embossed headband and a tiny beaded bracelet? Cute overload.
Secondly, people are unfairly judgemental to little girls. It's true. We as a society are TERRIBLE when it comes to our daughters. For instance. I took my children to an indoor playground one winter morning as a way for my son to play with other kids his age and to have some fun and get some exercise. In fact, for the entire winter we did this twice a week. It was great. Mama could sit back with a coffee (okay, with a coffee and a donut), the baby could nap in her stroller, and Joshua could run around like a crazy person. Perfect! One day, Joshua threw a fit when I told him it was time to go. One sympathetic mother caught my eye and said "If you think this is bad wait until SHE'S 2! Girls are even worse!" referring to my angelic, sleeping daughter. I shrugged it off, too busy dealing with Joshua the Horrible to really think about what she had said, what she had accused my daughter of doing and being before even having the skill of holding up her own head. Awful! How dare she say that my daughter will act less or more awful when she is 2 and doesn't want to leave a fun place?
But it wasn't just this nut job's opinion. Other parents have told me similar tales of "how bad" it'll be when "she" is in the terrible 2's/3's/teenage years. And this cockamamy advice is usually given to me with a smile and a knowing tilt of the head, all the while smiling at Claire. I mean how AWFUL can you get? Predicting that my sweet angel girl is going to turn out to be even more terrible than my son's terrible times have been? Any why is it that no one ever says "Wow your son is awful, good thing your daughter won't be as bad!". No one has ever said that to me. Or, "Wow you think your ass is big now? Wait till you're 40!". Nope. Haven't heard that one either. At least, not to my face.
So why this preference to boys over girls? Why do we not give our daughters the benefit of the doubt that they will act like a 2 or 3 year old when their time comes? Why do we set this predetermined pattern upon them that they will "be worse" than their male counterparts?
Is it that we don't expect face-down-on-the-WalMart-floor tantrums from our daughters? Because, sister, I've been there with Joshua. Oh yes. I have. Been there. With him. And of COURSE I'll expect Claire to do the same. And, as with Joshua, I'll probably laugh, pick her up and go about my day with a raging lunatic trapped in the body of my 2 year old child. Is that so bad? To expect the same behaviour from my daughter as I did from my son?
Is it that we STILL view girls to be more subdued? More calm? More placid and unlikely to cause a scene? You can put a dress on a Tasmanian devil, but I'm pretty sure it'll still be a Tasmanian devil (yes, I just had to use spell check to write Tasmanian). And one day I'll put a dress on my sweet and innocent daughter and she'll act just the way Joshua did that fateful day in WalMart - she'll act nutty.
I don't know. Maybe because I'm a girl (surprise!) that I'm overly sensitive to girl-predjuguce. Also, I'm a second born, so I can sympathize with precedence set by an older sibling (especially an older brother) and I want to do my damnedest to help Claire feel special, appreciated, and loved and hopefully not view the world as an underdog who has to fight for attention and equality within her own family. I don't want family members or strangers or ANYONE predicting how well or poorly my daughter will do in her life before she has a chance to prove herself.
There are lots of things that piss me off, but one that grates me to my very soul is when people say the phrase "Girls are worse". They are not. Girls are wonderful. Girls are special. My girl is especially awesome, if you're asking. It's small children IN GENERAL that can be awful. I mean can't we all just agree on that and leave gender out of it? It's small children who throw fits, mess up our homes, throw a pile of JUST FOLDED laundry on the dirty floor, smudge windows, throw food, pee in their pants (on purpose???), and who mess up our hair when we're bending down to do up THEIR shoes. It's small children that lead to the purchase of toddler harnesses, who cause valuable breakables to be put up on high shelves, and who cause their mothers to stop buying BOTTLES of wine and reach for the BOX instead.
It's small children who don't have the words or ability to express what they want or are able to understand why they can't have what they want at any given time. They are prisoners in their own bodies, in their own homes, and in life in general. They are trying to navigate a world that is 100% NOT built for them, so of course from time to time they're going to snap. And when they do, they are going to make sure that it's spectacular. It's up to us to love them, not despite, but because of these outbursts, because we know that they're normal, they're part of growing up, and because they make for a great story when we're talking to OUR parents later that night.
So, mother's of daughters, let's chill out a bit. I'm not asking you to be hypocritical and start favouring our daughters over our sons. No. That's tipping the scales too far the other way (don't get me started on the Women's Lib movement). But just give our girls some slack. They have it tough from the get-go, let's not predict their futures or pretend that their behaviour is any worse than their brothers' was. Because it's not. Every child is different. They all need our love. Kiss your daughter twice tonight. And tomorrow morning, break out those ruffly-bottomed tights. They'll look SO CUTE when she's flailing around screaming on the WalMart floor.
-TDW
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