Progress Report

Kids don’t come with instruction manuals, and believe me, I’ve looked for them. There are a million books out there by authors claiming that they know how to raise kids, deal with childhood problems, and get your kid to sleep through the night. Unfortunately, nearly all of them are full of shit, and the only thing they do know how to do is make you feel like an inadequate parent.

Since Rachael was born I have been mostly confident about my parenting skills figuring that whatever I screw up on, she can work out later in therapy. However, I do admit that there are times I become terrified that I’m doing something wrong. Like my actions will end up sending her to a dangerous point in life where she does something extreme and scary like becoming a crack whore or a member of a weird cult or a neo-con Republican. Every parent watching the news must have shuttered just a bit when they interviewed Scott Peterson’s mother while she went on and on about what a normal childhood he had.

Fortunately, at the times when I’m having my most extreme doubts about my capabilities as a mother, I get some sort of cosmic progress report that lets me know I’m doing okay. Maybe it’s the Almighty’s way of saying, “Oy, quit kvetching already, you’re doing fine!”

My latest progress report happened a couple of weeks ago, while I was dropping Rachael off at daycare. They told me she had been a little sheepish about switching from the infant room to the toddler room, and being your typical, Jewish mom, I was worried about whether she would feel inadequate compared to the older kids. On this particularly uneventful day, I brought Rachael into the brightly colored room where half dozen kids were gathered around one of the craft tables cutting up magazines with safety scissors. I took Rachael’s coat off as she looked around the room taking stock of its residents. Rachael has a pink, stuffed teddy bear that accompanies her everywhere she goes. Sometimes I can get Bear to stay in the car and keep Rachael’s special seat warm, but today, Rachael insisted Bear go with her to class.

We walked over to the craft table as the teacher brought a chair over for my toddler. Although Rachael is a little on the tall side, she is only 25 lbs. and has narrow shoulders and hips. Basically, she is a delicate-looking girly girl. As we stood at the table giving each other “good bye” hugs, I watched a little, three year old, Asian boy trying to use the safety scissors on a classmate’s shirt, then on another girl’s springy braid. The teacher had reprimanded him, but he persisted with his antics.

Rachael was turned to me when the little shit focused his attention on Bear’s leg. He grabbed it lightly trying not to alert Rachael and began trying to amputate the stuffed limb with the safety scissors. Rachael turned around as he was playing surgeon and thrust her bear away quickly, then got the most heinous, warlike look on her face letting out a screaming, “NOOOOOOOOO!” The little boy dropped his scissors in shock and ran to the other side of the room.

I know you’re never supposed to laugh at another kid’s pain or embarrassment, so I muffled myself long enough to leave the room, then proceeded to lose it all the way to work. I went in and told my co-workers about my little girl’s morning and they got a kick out of it, too. My supervisor recalled an incident where she, too, had been the victim of a nasty, little boy, who kept lifting up her skirt, only when she retaliated by hitting him in the head with a carton of milk, she found herself sent home from school to an angry mother. I couldn’t imagine getting angry at my little one’s display that morning, in fact, I felt proud that I managed to raise a child who, despite her tiny frame, was fearless when it came to standing up for herself.

The little boy was nearly a year older, and bigger than Rachael, but he was trying to do harm to Bear, and no one fucks with Bear. My only hope is that Rachael doesn’t lose that amazing sense of herself in the years to come. I guess it will be my job as her mom to champion her right to be heard, and on that fateful day when the school calls me at work to tell me that Rachael just knocked some kid in the face with a carton of milk, I’ll do my duty and pick her up. Then, we’ll go shopping, have lunch, and I’ll give her a pat on the back for showing that little bastard that he can’t take advantage of women, even if they are only in the first grade.