Boys

"I call the submarine."
"I call the viking ship."
"I call the pirate ship."
"I call the pirate raft."

Thirty minutes later...
"I call Han Solo."
"I call Chewbacca."
"I call Darth Vader."
"I call all the stormtroopers."

Yet another thirty minutes later...
"I call America."
Dumbfounded silence.

Beautiful

A few days ago, Claire started demanding that I paint her nails.  I asked her why.  "Hope and Julie have painted nails.  They look pretty."  I sucked in my breath.  Then I said that I would think about it.  Claire wailed.  Thinking about it generally means that I want to say no but feel that perhaps I'm not being fair.  I attempt to sort through my own issues and ask for opinions from my husband, mother, sister, friends, and random strangers before trusting my first instinct.  "NO!  Don't think about it!  DO IT!"  So, of course, I immediately started thinking about it.

 

Hope and Julie have very similar mothers.  They are both tiny, very pretty women who are always impeccably dressed, coiffed, and made up.  I saw Julie's mother one morning about three weeks after giving birth to her second child.  She was still perfectly dressed, coiffed, and made up.  I suspect that if aliens were attacking the earth, these women would still manage to correctly apply mascara.  I am not surprised that Hope and Julie have painted nails.

 

I am not a reactionary feminist who believes that a woman should never be concerned about her appearance.  Makeup and fluffy hair have their place in the world.  I use a little blusher when I'm feeling peaked and a little lipstick when I'm feeling sexy.  However, I do not want any woman, especially my daughter, to believe that she needs makeup to be fit for public consumption.  I do not want Claire to feel the need to put on her face before facing the world. 

 

I know that it's just nail polish.  And I know that I overthink sometimes (or all the time).  But still, there's that shrill, nagging voice in my head that says little girls don't need any form of makeup.  I worry that if I paint her nails, I'm sending a clear message that beauty requires accoutrements - that Claire herself requires accoutrements. 

 

I ripped my toenail the other day.  In order to protect it from further damage, I painted it with several layers of polish.  Claire saw me and I painted her toenails too.  She was so delighted.  "Now, I''m pretty!" she said.  My heart sank all the way down to my pretty little piggies.  "No, Claire, you're ALWAYS pretty," I protested.  But I feel like I sold her out.

Aha!

I read The Life of Pi recently for my book club. I had nightmares in which I was lost at sea with my family. Nick, in a particularly misguided attempt to jolly me out of my fear, demanded to know whether I cannibalized the rest of them in my dream. His persistant questioning moderated my guilt over feeding him to our children in my dream. Next time, perhaps he'll let sleeping tigers lie. After the dream and the interrogation, I resolutely pushed the book out of my mind. I simply refused to think about it at all.

After no small amount of internal debate, I decided to attend the book club meeting. The hostess had a new house, Claire was in a particularly shrill mood, I wanted some wine and good company, I am a creature of habit, insert any other convenient reason here. I went. I took a deep breath and a gulp of wine and forced myself to think about the book. I am so grateful that I did. We had a wonderful conversation. Then as the lulls slowly began to overtake the conversation, we turned to the topic of forgiveness.

Someone had asked if Pi had a happy ending. Some of us thought so. Others, including me, disagreed. I pointed out the number of times Pi referred to a dead character and said that he thought of him/her/it every day. Ah, but forgiving isn't necessarily forgetting, said the other side. But forgiving does mean unburdening. Pi felt guilty, I countered. The reply was that he had nothing to feel guilty about. His behavior was expected - what any of us would do in his situation. What any number of people had done in his situation. And then - ephiphany! - accompanied by all the light and clarity that can be expected in any revelation.

There is a fundamental difference between excusing someone (or oneself) and forgiving someone (or oneself). How often I have offered an excuse instead of contrition! How often I have robbed someone of forgiveness in favor of excusing their behavior! "I'm sorry I snapped at you. I was tired." Bah! "It's ok. I'm not hurt because I know you were stressed out." Double bah! It seems so much easier to excuse than to forgive, but then I just end up carrying the burden of hurt plus the additional burden of excuses.

I am working very hard on using my newfound insight to change the way I offer and hear apologies. It is liberating to just admit that I hurt someone or someone hurt me without needing to explain it away. But I don't think I'll be going on a cruise anytime soon, just the same.