Didn't I Feed You Yesterday__ A Mother's Guide to Sanity in Stilettos - Laura Bennett [34]
One time in the fourth grade, Cleo was sent to the office for calling a classmate gay. Mind you, she was not mistaken. Despite her youth, she seemed to have some understanding of the word. Back when the boy in question came to stay the weekend with us in the country, I had found him in the garage trying on women’s clothing—specifically, a silver lamé gown, which I then shortened for him and let him take home. During his visit, he tripped on the stairs and tumbled down one or two to the bottom. He lay on the landing, wailing for fifteen minutes, a reaction that can only be described as drama, and that provided further evidence for Cleo’s eventual assessment.
When I sat her down to give her the obligatory parental speech about not calling names, I got very off track. I explained how difficult it must be to suspect that you are gay, and how different you must feel from everyone else. I said that calling the boy gay and thereby pointing out his perceived differences in front of others was hurtful and could make his situation even more uncomfortable because she had vocalized his worst fear—not that he prefers boys to girls, or Judy Garland to Angelina Jolie, but, in short, that he is different. Kids don’t want to be different, I told Cleo, they want to be the same. So she should reach out to him—maybe the two of them could find something in common that made him feel “normal.” I used air quotes.
When my job was done, and Cleo had left the room, Peter looked at me like I was crazy.
“What was that all about?” he asked.
“What?” I said, proud of how I had handled things.
“That wasn’t what you were supposed to tell her. ‘Help make him feel normal’? How about ‘Don’t call people names’?”
I could see his point. Perhaps it wasn’t the right occasion to teach Cleo about the self-esteem issues of gay boys. Especially boys who didn’t know that they were gay, or even know what “gay” is. But it’s never too early to teach a child tolerance, and so I felt my time was far from wasted.
Sometimes I think I do better with the little kids. Life is so much more clear-cut when you’re four. Pierson came out of the bathroom with poop on his hand. As you can imagine, bathroom issues in a house with six males are endless.
“There’s poop on your hands; go back in the bathroom and wash them.”
“There’s only poop one hand. Do I have to wash them both?”
In this case my message was clear and the solution was clear, on track, and nonnegotiable.
IN A WORLD THAT HAS BECOME SO POLITICALLY CORRECT THAT Santa Claus has to be careful whom he calls a ho, it’s no surprise that even the lowly peanut has become a target. There is a suburban myth floating around about a Massachusetts school district that recently evacuated a school bus of t en-year-old passengers after a stray peanut was found on the floor. Not an unclaimed backpack that could contain a bomb, not a mysterious white powdered substance. A peanut.
Once your child enters the great world of pre-k education, you are suddenly introduced to the concept that a classmate might die right in front of him if he brings a peanut butter sandwich for lunch, or in some special cases, any item in the nut or seed family. Thank God soy-based meat alternatives aren’t banned, because I don’t even know what those are. I fully acknowledge that there are children who have life-threatening nut allergies and their parents must work to ensure their safety. I am not an anaphylaxis denier. But I have to