Fanciful (a microstory)

Indigo light pushed its way gently into the morning. Swiftimonds darted back and forth, their iridescent bodies lit up like prisms against the aquamarine sky. I yawned, wiping the sleep from my eyes. Swaying in time to the rhythm of the swiftimonds’ morning song, I steadily gained momentum until my hammock flipped over, sending me cascading down between the riboheth trees, gliding between their flaky, silver trunks, wings extended. My feet touched the ground, making small indentations in the velvety, fuscia grass. Marifelds sprung up spontaneously where I’d landed, rising and lifting their glittering, tangerine petals toward the sun.

Aubergine the Kind & Brave

Abergine’s day started like every other day. She got dressed for school in a rainbow tutu, a shirt with glitter stars, a sequined cape, and her favorite tiara. Mom sent her back into her room to change into something “a little less festive.” Aubergine tried again. This time, Mom exclaimed, “Holy guacamole, Aubergine!” Aubergine wasn’t sure what her outfit had to do with squished up avacados. But she was happy that she got to wear her favorite princess dress, cowboy boots, and reindeer antlers to school. The worst thing in the world a person could be, according to Aubergine, was boring.

After morning announcements, Mrs. Wormly began the math lesson. Aubergine loved math. She liked examining the math problems and discovering how to solve them. In the middle of puzzling through a particularly difficult problem, she heard Crawley McFarley whisper, “Girls don’t like math.” Aubergine spun around in her seat. She glared at Crawley McFarley. When it was time to go over their math work, Aubergine raised her hand for every answer. She noticed Crawley McFarley didn’t raise his hand once. Hmpf, she thought.

On the playground, Aubergine climbed to the top of the monkey bars. She flipped upside down so that she hung by her knees. She liked how the trees looked as if they grew from the sky when she was upside down. Suddenly, she was looking at a pair of brown eyes, curly brown hair, and a mean scowl. “Girls don’t play on monkey bars,” Crawley McFarley said. Aubergine rolled her eyes and climbed back to the top of the bars. She closed her eyes, touched her middle fingers to her thumbs to make the shape of an O, and said more loudly than was strictly necessary “Ooooooommmmmmmm.”

After she had Om’d for a few minutes and was feeling much better, she opened her eyes to see Crawley McFarley sitting next to her on the monkey bars. “Meditating is dumb,” he said, still scowling. Aubergine sighed, flipped down off the monkey bars, and went to play with the kids on the seesaws.

At reading time, Aubergine pulled out her book slowly. The class was reading Charlotte’s Web together. Out loud. Aubergine always felt nervous about reading out loud. The words in her head didn’t always come out of her mouth right. Sometimes, she accidentally whispered when she read and the teacher had to say “Speak up, Aubergine. Be audible.” This made Aubergine feel even smaller.

When it was Aubergine’s turn to read, she got tangled up in the very first sentence. She tripped over the first few words, then she froze. Crawley McFarley saw his chance. “I can read, Mrs. Wormly!” he yelled, waving his hand in the air. After Ms. Wormly had nodded at him to go ahead, Crawley McFarley whispered under his breath, “Who’s smart now, Aubergine?” Aubergine didn’t know what to do. So she just rolled her eyes and stared down at her book.

By the time Aubergine got home, she felt sad and angry. Why was Crawley McFarley so mean to her? She was so upset that she couldn’t even eat the dirt & worms that Mom had made for her special snack. She finished her homework, ate dinner, and went to her room to read Charlotte’s Web. She read it just fine when she didn’t have an audience of meanies like Crawley McFarley staring at her.

Then next day, Aubergine didn’t feel as excited about school as usual. In fact, she felt yucky. She got dressed in an ordinary pair of jeans and a pale blue button down shirt. Mom saw Aubergine’s outfit and knew something was wrong right away. “Aubergine, do you need to talk about something?” Aubergine paused. She knew the rule about being kind to others, even if they weren’t kind to you. And Aubergine had been kind, even when Crawley McFarley acted like a big old poopy-pants. She sighed loudly. And then she recounted for Mom all the ways that Crawley McFarley had set about to ruin her day yesterday.

While Aubergine talked, Mom nodded and hmmmm‘d. When Aubergine finished the story, Mom gave her a big hug. “You are a good kid, Aubergine. Stellar, in fact. And I think I have some ideas for you that might make today a little better.”

Aubergine didn’t go to school in plain old jeans and a blue button down shirt after all. She proudly walked through the doors of Birdnest Elementary in a superhero costume with a cape, sparkly wrist bands, and a shield. Crawley McFarley snickered when Aubergine walked in the room. Aubergine ignored him. She knew she looked amazing. And, besides, she had a plan.

At recess, Aubergine headed over to the kids playing four square. She was practically a four square champion. She couldn’t wait to play. As she reached for the ball, Crawley McFarley appeared out of nowhere. He shoved her out of the way. Then he grabbed the ball. “Girls can’t play four square.”

Aubergine jumped up from the ground and grabbed her shield. She planted her feet firmly on the ground, looked Crawley McFarley in the eye and asked loudly, “What did you say?”

“I said girls can’t play four square,” he replied. But he said it more quietly this time.

Aubergine took a deep breath: “I can play four square! I am the best four square player at Birdnest Elementary! I am super good at math. I want to be an engineer one day! News flash: girls can do anything they want to do! And, for your information, I like to read. And it is MEAN to pick on someone because they get nervous sometimes. One more thing: meditating is AWESOME. It’s like my superpower. You should mind your own business and STOP being mean all the time!” Aubergine walked over to Crawley McFarley, took the four square ball out of his hands, and said, “I am playing first, because I was here first.”

Crawley McFarley didn’t say anything at all. He just stood there staring. Aubergine couldn’t remember anyone ever standing up to Crawley McFarley. Ever. But now she had. And she’d done it without being mean at all.

Aubergine smiled. Mom was right. It took a special kind of superhero to be kind AND stand up for herself. And now Aubergine knew just what kind of superhero she wanted to be.

 

 

Seven Years Ago: The Two Things I Promised My Girl

My sweet baby Jane came into the world 7 years (and 4 days) ago. I had some pretty naive ideas about motherhood then. I thought she’d never wear pink. (By day 4 she had on her first pink outfit. She hasn’t turned back since.) I strongly opposed princesses and damsels-being-rescued in any format. (Jane’s 4th birthday party was a princess party.) And I swore she’d eschew gender roles entirely. (She threw me a bone on this one: she has a doll named Simon, who is a boy, that proudly wore dresses for many years, although now he’s much more gender-traditional in his choice of doll clothes.) It was laughable how little I knew about the hair-raising, hilarious task that is raising a child.

Jane made her way into the world via C-section. She stuck her little fist out first, proclaiming her grand entrance. She surprised the doctor, who thought her perhaps a bit bossy as he folded her arm back in to allow her to make a safer, if less dramatic, entrance into the delivery room. When she and I finally got a minute alone, after all the family had come and gone, after her Bobby had drifted off to sleep and was snoring (sort of) quietly in the corner, I looked at her and I knew 2 things: 1) I loved her wholly and deeply, and that 2) I would never try to protect her from the beauty and the tragedy that is life.

All my life, my parents have tried to shield me from hurt and disappointment. They did this because they loved me, as much as I love Jane. Of that I am sure. But I never learned to handle my own sadness and pain. Before I got sober, I was not resilient in any way. (Hence the having to get sober…) So, it was very important to me that I love Jane through her pain, when she ultimately faced it. I learned this from a very good therapist who also informed me that Jane was not mine; she was simply on lend to me. It was my job, from the moment she was born, to begin the long, slow process of letting her go, so she could become the person she was meant to be. (And, really, who am I to hold Jane back?)

I lived this philosophy out in small ways. When she was 6 weeks old, I left her in the church nursery for the first time. It was excruciating. I ached for her. But I did it again the next week. Because I knew that it was right. I lived it out in bigger ways. When she encountered her first frenemy in preschool, I did not intervene–even though I watched this heart-breaking friend triangle play out again and again. I let the teachers manage it. I did not rescue her. (Remember, I don’t believe in damsels-being-rescued) And she came out of the whole situation just fine (just like the teachers promised she would). And then there was the really big year–the one where her Bobby transitioned and we moved from Florida to Atlanta. Yeah, that one was a doozy. But we did those things because they were what her Bobby and I needed to be whole, happy, healthy people. So, we trusted she’d not only be fine but that she’d thrive. And so she has.

This week, some turmoil unfolded in Jane’s school community. It looked like rezoning may be imminent. At first, I said nothing to her. But I know Jane. And she doesn’t like to be surprised by things. I also know that part of my job is to teach her that she can do hard things. So, I told her that not all of the kids at her school may be able to stay there. I explained what I believe to be truth: our school is too crowded, two other schools not full enough. So some kids may need to go those other schools, to make things more fair. When she heard the news, she cried. She is seven after all. Her entire class cried earlier in the year when some of their classmates were moved into a new class. A new class right down the hall. Change is hard. She asked me if she’d need to change schools. I told her I didn’t know. But that no one was going anywhere right now.

She took this in, dried her eyes and said, “Okay.” I promised her I’d go look at the other school, just to check it out.

I found this other school to be pretty amazing and came home and told her so. I told her that it has two floors (she’s OBSESSED with stairs, so a two-story school is mind-blowing in her world). I described the nifty classrooms and the bright colored squares on the linoleum floors in the hallways. I told her the school felt both happy and calm. She took all this in and asked a few questions. Then she bounced out of the room to play with her dolls. As you do, if you’re seven.

The next day, as she was making her lunch before school. Suddenly she stopped spreading the mayonnaise and turned to face me.  “Mommy,” she said, “if I need to change schools, I want to go to that school you told me about. That sounds like a really, really nice school.”

And, just like that, it was done for her. She’s happy at her school now. She’ll be happy at this other school, if that’s where she needs to go. She can do hard things. Because she is resilient. And because she is Jane.

I love her so, and I could not be more proud.