Dyeing to Bond

Dear Ali,

You dyed your hair blue today. You didn’t do it out of rebellion, you weren’t trying make a statement, you just wanted blue hair. Four months ago, you told me what you wanted; you showed me pictures on Pinterest of girls with beautiful hair in all different shades of blue and you were so excited. I said you could do it, but it probably wouldn’t look like the images on Pinterest, I said it would likely resemble the hair on the folks we see wandering through downtown. Your shoulders slumped and I immediately realized my mistake. 

Why did I even go there? When I was your age I hated when my parents questioned my style choices. I never ever felt beautiful enough. Apparently, thrift store flannels and Jimi Hendrix t-shirts aren’t flattering on a daughter who refuses to wear make-up. You just can’t show her off to your friends, I guess. I will not do that to you. I took back my words and encouraged you to experiment. It’s just hair but, more importantly, it’s your hair.

We tried a few store-bought colors: Leatherhead and Red Velvet; they both looked great. But eventually you spoke up. You still wanted blue and these colors weren’t cutting it. When you bought a jar of Manic Panic in Voodoo Blue, my heart soared because that’s the same color I put in my hair on April 5, 1994. I remember the date because my friends and I were in a head shop in Seaside, Oregon buying Manic Panic when the news broke that Kurt Cobain had killed himself. How does a 17-year-old Nirvana fan forget something like that? You chose Voodoo Blue and I felt like we somehow connected. 

A hairstylist quoted you $250 to bleach your hair. You made an appointment to be polite and then we all laughed and you called later to cancel your appointment. Yesterday, your aunt Leah saved the day (like she has done so often before) and brought her Kaleidacolors bleach to the house. You let us bleach your hair and every now and then, Leah and I glanced at each other over your head in amazement because you were letting us touch you. You hate being touched, but we relished every minute.

Today, you let me apply the Manic Panic. I was nervous but thrilled to spend time with you and show you that I support your style. Besides, I got to touch you and play with your hair and look at you. You sat in the kitchen watching Sleepy Hollow on the laptop, oblivious to the fact that you just made my month.

When it was time to rinse, you situated yourself on the bathroom floor with your back against the tub. I sat next to you rinsing your hair like I did when you were little. You closed your eyes, probably because you didn’t want to accidentally make eye-contact (you hate that too). I stared at your face, stunned by how fast that sweet baby face turned into a beautiful young woman face. I worried that you’d open your eyes and then roll them at me for being sappy.

After your hair was rinsed (man, that took a long time), you said, "Thank you for helping me with this." I almost hugged and kissed you and thanked YOU for allowing me to, but I acted chill and just said, "Sure." You went up to your room and I followed. Maybe I thought we could continue bonding.

I lay on your bed and you sat in front your mirrored closet doors drying your new bluish-teal hair. You glared at me in the mirror and I smiled.

“Whaaaat?” You said, turning off your blow dryer. You were suddenly exasperated with me.

“Can I please take a picture?” I asked, knowing the answer.

“Nope.” You sighed, a sign I should probably leave. “What’s for dinner?” You asked without looking at me.

“Chili,” I answered.

“Ew.”

Bonding over—I get it. Let me know when you want to go purple. I’ll be here, waiting.

-Mom

So, You Want to Date My Daughter?

Yesterday, my twelve year-old daughter, Ashley, changed out of her cow-print footie pajamas into her school clothes, double-knotted the laces of her multi-colored Converse, packed her penguin lunch box, and went to school—where a boy asked her to “go out” with him because he thought she was cute. By “asked her,” I mean he made his friends do it for him because he is, after all, eleven.

I was completely shocked. Not because a boy asked Ashley to be his girlfriend, because she’s adorable and he clearly has good taste. I wasn’t even shocked that Ashley was teased about her answer, which was “No.” Her actual words to the kid’s messengers were, “I’m not allowed to date and I have no interest in it.” They all made fun of her, which is what kids sometimes do—they make fun of things they don’t understand. They couldn’t believe Ashley’s parents wouldn’t let her date and they told her it was “so weird.” That’s the part that shocked me.

It’s considered “weird” if parents don’t let their pre-teen children “date.” I’m sorry, my pre-teen has only been out of diapers for nine years. She needs reminders to brush her teeth every day, and she still believes in Santa. Can you give her a minute to just be a kid? What have we taught our eleven and twelve year-old children about dating if they think it’s abnormal to not be allowed to?

Not all parents agree with me (surprise, surprise). Many parents think pre-teen dating is cute and innocent. “At this age, all dating means is that they sit together at lunch or on the bus,” is the justification I hear many parents make when they let their young kids date. I’d like to suggest another name for that form of dating: friendship. Admittedly, dating probably does mean that to some kids. But it doesn’t to most of them. And I think you know that.

I’m more interested in training my twelve year-old daughter how to be a good friend to others than I am in training her how to have a successful romance before she even gets her first period. I’m more interested in teaching her how to deal with her own changing hormones than I am in teaching her how to deal with a pre-pubescent boy’s. That will all happen soon enough, and until she’s ready for it, I choose to make my daughter wait.

Ashley’s daddy and I encourage her to have lots of friends—girls and boys. We also encourage her to pick up her crayons and craft supplies from every surface in the house; we sew up Waddle—the stuffed penguin she’s slept with every night for ten years—when he starts to fall apart; and we help her deal with the challenging and already difficult process of becoming a teenage girl. The last thing we want to introduce to Ashley is how to deal with romantic feelings when she is still trying to grasp how to divide fractions.

As parents, we’re busy though, right? We have a lot to do. Work is hard enough and then we have to come home and raise kids, worry about finances, and stress about all the things that don’t even come close to mattering as much as our children do. If we invested as much time in keeping our fingers on the pulse of our kids’ social lives as we do on the other things we try to juggle, maybe we wouldn’t be so quick to let our children date.

I read an article on pre-teen dating and learned that not a lot of research has been done on it because—guess what—“dating” doesn’t mean the same thing for pre-teens that it used to. The article lists some of the negative effects of teenage dating and claims that pre-teens can expect to experience similar results, which include: 

• Mood swings and symptoms of depression
• Increased conflict in relationships with family and friends
• Increased likelihood of sexual encounters (If this is news to you, then you, my friend, are a fool.)

Years ago, I drove my kids to their elementary school, and at the bottom of the hill, just off school property, I saw a fifth-grade girl making out with an adult man (at least he appeared to be an adult). They were really going at it. I went straight into the school office and told the secretary that there was a pervert making out with a child down the hill.

“We know about that relationship. It’s okay; he’s not eighteen and her mom approves,” she said.

I explained to her that there was no way in hell that what I just saw was okay, and we need to call the police on the pervert, and give me the mom’s phone number while we’re at it because she’s an idiot.

“Well, they aren’t on school property. And mom approves, so it’s okay,” the secretary replied, acting like I was an over-zealous hall monitor trying to bust someone for running in the halls. I just shook my head in disbelief and walked out of the office.

That little fifth-grade girl was pregnant with that nearly-grown-man’s baby. During recesses, she showed off her sonogram pictures to her friends while the rest of the kids played tag, and four square, and traded Pokémon cards. Many of them thought it was cool that she was pregnant.

But I’m the weirdo for not allowing my daughter to date. Ashley faces the gossip and teasing like a champ. She doesn’t care what those kids think about her and you want to know why? Because, while so many other kids are obsessed with relationships that will end in three days, and checking the box “yes” or “no” (I’m sure there is now a pre-teen dating app for that old-school method), Ashley is learning how to be a strong, independent little girl. She’s learning how to survive the cruelty of middle school and she’s learning how to love her friends and herself before she ever starts loving a boy. 

Besides, we all know boys have Cooties.

---

Fraser-Thill, Rebecca. “The Problems Associated with Tween Dating.” About Parenting. n.p. n.d. Web. 5 Feb. 2015.

How to Play the Guitar Like Me

            

(This is my step-by-step process for playing the guitar. Feel free to tailor it however you'd like, there is no one way to play, as long as your music speaks to you. As Longfellow said, "Music is the universal language of mankind." And as I say, "Yep.")

Nineteen years ago, a boy taught me how to play certain parts of certain songs and I have never forgotten how. Well, I’ve never forgotten how to play certain parts of certain parts of certain songs. So I’ll explain that.

The guitar I play is a classical guitar, which means it has nylon strings (acoustics have steel strings) and it has a wider neck than an acoustic guitar. The sound is much more mellow and “folksy.” I didn't know this at the time, instead, I liked the color of the wood. I recommend choosing your instrument based solely on appearance. I bought the guitar at a pawn shop on my eighteenth birthday. I also bought a pair of Doc Marten’s from Joon’s head shop in Lakewood. It was a good birthday.

First, I take the guitar out of the attic and blow off the dust. I have an allergy attack and go upstairs to find tissues. I notice my linen closet is in complete disarray so I rearrange and organize a bit. I go back to my guitar. I unzip the case and remove the guitar. The initial strum of the strings tells me the guitar needs tuning. I call my husband, Chad, who tunes it for me. I’m not sure how this is done. I think magic is involved. And turning the pegs on the neck just so. But mostly magic.

Once the guitar is tuned (I know it’s tuned because Chad tells me it is) I situate the guitar in my lap, holding the neck in my left hand with the strings facing away from me. This part is important to remember for the novice. I wrote a poem to help you remember:

Guitar strings away

Easy to play.

(After a while, this part will become second nature, be patient with yourself.) I spend the next three minutes trying to recall finger placement for the intro to Metallica’s “One.” This is where those around me hear a lot of:

“No wait…. Okay... listen now—no—wait. Okay, watch. How come this isn’t working?”

Finally, I realize that my fingers are on the wrong part of the fingerboard, which means I’m playing the wrong notes. I can’t tell you what the notes are called, only that they’re the wrong ones.

Eventually, my fingers find the right strings. This is usually an accident. By this time, everyone has left the room. I begin to play the song. I can’t use a pick because it messes me up, but I’m pretty sure the song would sound better with a pick. Also, it might sound better on an electric guitar, but I don't have one of those.  I begin to play the notes and at this point, I once again say:

“Wait, No... Okay… No. Wait... I hate this stupid guitar.”

I pick—with my fingers, not an actual pick, because those are hard—my way through the first eight or nine seconds of the song. Because that’s all I know. I call my family to come back in the room. They seem to not hear me. I yell louder. I get up and take the guitar into the other room where they are squeezed together behind the curtains, standing as still as statues. This tells me they are waiting for me to perform and don’t want to be a distraction while I play. I perform for them.

It takes a few minutes of fumbling, but I finally play my piece. They slowly step out from behind the curtain. My kids’ faces bear the expression of someone who just watched a natural childbirth for the first time. As I begin to ask what their reaction means, I’m interrupted by Chad, who puts his arm around me and says, “Rachie, how do you do that?” I offer to teach him but he quickly excuses himself to answer the front door. Which is weird, because I didn’t hear a knock.

That is how I play a guitar. There are multiple techniques and methods by which you too can learn to play, and I hope you find one you love. Remember, it took me nineteen years to get where I am. 

Forgetting Molly

If I could forget any pet I’ve ever owned, I would erase Molly from my memory. Molly was the teacup poodle I had in 1985, when I was eight years old. My mom bought her and gave her the hideously refined AKC name “Good Golly Miss Molly.” I was embarrassed to call her that so she simply went by “Molly.” Molly was my best friend. We snuggled in my favorite blanket together and watched Saturday morning cartoons. I taught her how to dance for treats and when she stood on her back legs, she was barely taller than my Cabbage Patch Preemie, Cassandra Marie. Molly reluctantly allowed me to shove her into piles of stuffed animals where she sat patiently while I conducted photo shoots. I was a child who got along better with dogs than I did with humans, and Molly was the love of my young life.

One sunny Saturday morning, my dad took my sister Leah and me to play baseball at the school in our neighborhood. We loaded our dogs and that god-awful Louisville Slugger into Dad’s dull grey Chevy pickup and drove five blocks to Lydia Hawk Elementary School. I wanted so badly to amaze Dad with my non-existent baseball skills; I was determined to win his affection. So it seemed a particularly cruel twist of fate that instead of bonding with my father, I ended up beating sweet Molly to death with the Louisville Slugger. 

Here's what happened...

Targhee and Molly 

While Dad pitched, Leah and I took turns swinging at (and rarely connecting with) the ball. Targhee, our German shorthaired pointer, brought us rocks to throw into the bushes so she could hunt for them but Molly didn’t venture far from my side. I imagine she felt safe next to me in that big dirt field. I was, after all, her protector.

It was my turn at bat and I directed all my focus toward Dad, ready to impress. I took a few practice swings and then, as I swung the heavy bat backwards with all my might so I could rest it on my shoulder, I heard the sickening hollow THUNK that thirty years later I still can’t shake from my mind. 

I turned and looked at the ground where Molly lay motionless at my feet. From the corner of my eye I saw Leah take off in a full sprint heading the opposite direction straight through the gate and down the street. In a choked whisper, Dad said, “Rachel, go to the truck.” And so I ran. Pure panic set in and I couldn’t even think. I climbed into the back of the truck and maybe I cried. Maybe I prayed. Maybe I hyperventilated. I was eight years old. What was I supposed to do?

Dad returned to the truck and as I gasped for the air that refused to fill my lungs I asked him, “Is she okay?” He just shook his head and wouldn't look at me.

He wrapped Molly’s tiny body in his shirt and laid her in the front seat. Leah and I rode home silently in the truck bed, terrified and stunned. When we pulled into the driveway I jumped out and ran to my room to get my favorite blanket. I hugged the dusty pink calico fabric to my chest as I carried it down the hallway and placed it in Dad’s hands. I told him to wrap Molly in it when he buried her. In my childish mind, she would need it to keep warm at night. I’d had that blanket longer than I could remember but Molly needed it more than I did. I had just aged twenty years and it was useless to me now.

My mom sat on the couch staring out the window probably thinking, where is THIS chapter in the parenting books? Meanwhile, to keep myself from crying, I did cartwheels around the living room. I flipped around the floor like Mary Lou Retton at the previous year’s Olympics, fighting back the tears and trying to erase the images that were already permanently etched in my too-young-for-this brain. I knew if I stopped doing cartwheels I’d cry and then how would I ever stop. People do weird things to keep from collapsing into despair.

It was a horrible accident that left me traumatized, and for a long time I was unable to even pick up a bat. I had the bonus of being teased by family and friends when I was finally able to play baseball again. They would say, “Everyone, get the dogs away from Rachel!” and other hysterical wise-cracks. I still can’t play baseball without remembering what I did. Or swing a golf club, or hammer a nail, or watch a coconut fall on Gilligan’s head, or...

I’m almost forty and sometimes I still do cartwheels, hoping that one day I will finally forget about Molly.

An Open Letter to the Thief Who Stole My Kids’ Christmas Presents

Hi, Dick. I don’t actually know if that’s your real name but it seems fitting. Dick, I’m the owner of the front porch from which you swiped a package that was delivered today. I own the property that you trespassed on when you slithered up my driveway to rob me. The family you upset is also mine. My name is Rachel. It’s nice to meet you.

First, let me tell you that you are gonna be so mad when you open that box. Lucky for me, Amazon split my order into three deliveries and you stole the one that contained nothing more than a box of 64 Crayola color crayons and a Star Wars rebel t-shirt. Sad for you. I hope you don’t take my package to the vacant burned-down house where you and the other crooks gather to compare loot and eat Beanee Weenees out of cans held in your dirty, fingerless-glove-covered hands. Because if that’s what you do, your criminal friends are going to make so much fun of you... You can’t even burglarize properly! Trying to imagine the look on your thief-face when you realize you just risked jail time for a box of crayons has helped ease the pain of what you did. Almost. Because whatever you did with my package after you stole it, you violated a part of me today and I need you to be caught.

I wanted to be the one to catch you. My first instinct—and I’m being sincere, was to kill you. I immediately began to plan my revenge. I paced up and down the street asking my neighbors if they saw anything suspicious. I plotted, I fumed, and I cursed you. There was a moment when I even considered finding an eye of newt and toe of frog so I could cast some sort of spell on you and your kin (that was a reference to Shakespeare, perhaps you've stolen one of his books before). Dick, I wanted to break your kneecaps with a baseball bat and maybe I watch too many violent films but for a while, it sounded like a perfectly valid solution. Admittedly, I don’t think logically when I’m that furious.

Who are you? Let me guess: A meth addict who follows the UPS truck around, stealing packages so you can sell the contents for drug money? Some punk kid whose parents are failing to teach their own child how to become a decent human being? Or are you a desperate, unemployed parent struggling to put food on the table for your kids and you feel like this is your only hope in the world? I have no idea who you are, Dick... Or Jane. But you need to be caught.

After the initial rage wore off, [note to self: ask around to see if that level of fury is considered “normal”] I sat down on my bed and I prayed for you. First I asked forgiveness for hating you so much and for being that upset over "stuff" and then I prayed that God would get His hands on you. Not so that He would bring you to justice, but so that He would show you His mercy. I’ve done a lot of terrible things in my life and I've been a lousy human being at times. And God took every dirty little bit and made me new. I’m no better than you because I've seen what's in my heart. But God loves me anyway. He loves you, too. I hope you let Him catch you, Dick. He’ll be a lot nicer to you than I would. He’s not full of sin and anger and way too much Die Hard. And let's face it, you need to be caught.

If you find that you don’t like the 64-crayons or if the rebel t-shirt doesn't fit, I’ve got a couple of kids here who would really love to have them back.

Merry Christmas, Dick.

Sincerely,

Rachel

I Have An Idea! Let's Talk About Racism

Not enough people in America are talking about racism. Wait, that’s not right...

What I meant was, not enough white, privileged, middle-class moms are talking about racism, and I can think of nobody more qualified to offer an opinion on such a convoluted and volatile subject. Prepare to be schooled yo.

Racism exists and you know it. Everybody, in some form or another, discriminates and I hope you know that, too. America has a dark and dirty history with racism and unfortunately, that problem is not going anywhere. But please allow me to launch a little missile of truth at your head. If you are a parent, you hold the power to not poison your children with it. And whatever your racist tendencies, I encourage you to hide your bigotry from them. Because they watch everything you do and they hear every word you say.

One of the hardest things I have ever had to do (remember, I’m a white, privileged, middle classee) was to send my children to public school. It was a decision I agonized over. Yes, while other parents in our neighborhood worried how they were going to feed their children, I was distraught because we couldn’t afford to send two of ours to the private Christian school where Ali had attended kindergarten.

When the first day of school arrived, I feigned excitement as I got the kids ready but inside I felt like was preparing a couple of lambs for slaughter. Chad and I dropped Ali off in her classroom and said goodbye. Next we took Jackson to his morning kindergarten class, where I stayed to watch over and protect my boy because clearly he needed me (in reality, he forgot I was even there when the class gathered for the morning welcome song. But whatever.)

At the end of the day, we took the kids to Baskin Robbins for a celebratory ice cream cone. I asked Ali the question that had been on my mind all day: “How was your first day of first grade?”

With brimming tears that threatened to spill down her cheeks Ali said, “Mommy, I can't be friends with any girls in my class.” Then, in a performance worthy of an Academy Award, I calmly listened as she explained why.

When the class was lining up for morning recess, a sweet little girl named Jhanae asked Ali if she would like to play with her and Ali said yes. But another girl named Lakisha* came over and yelled at Jhanae, “You can’t be friends with her, she’s white!” So Ali had nobody to play with during recess because not only was she white, but she was the only white girl in class. If what Lakisha said was true, who could be her friend?

In her short six years of life, Ali had never heard anything like this because she was not raised by racists. But apparently, Lakisha was.

The next day, I walked into the school office and explained what had happened to my daughter. I told them that they were going to handle the situation in the exact same way they would handle it if it had been my daughter that said those things to a black child. You might be surprised to learn that they didn’t. Or, you might not.

So, for good measure, I walked into Ali’s classroom and found Lakisha, who outweighed every other first grader by at least thirty pounds. She was wearing french-tip acrylic nails, had a weave half-way down her back, and her ill-fitting t-shirt said, “I Heart My Attitude” in silver glitter. In my most impressive and frightening mommy whisper, I told her that Ali could be friends with anyone she wanted to be friends with. I told her the color of Ali's skin didn’t matter, but what kind of person she was did. I’m sure my “content-of-their-character” reference was completely lost on this little girl in the same way it would’ve been lost on the people who were indoctrinating her.

So that was my daughter’s introduction to racism. She remained the only white girl in her class that year and despite Lakisha she made some good friends and learned some great lessons. And so did I. Specifically, that racism comes in all colors and sizes. And while America is screaming loudly, I will not allow that fact to be drowned out. And neither should you.

*I changed the name of the blossoming racist to protect her identity*

PEZ Dispensers and Blind Guys

I had a dream once. It was actually a life goal, and I was semi-serious about it for approximately three years. My brilliant plan was to purchase every single PEZ dispenser ever made and one day, Chad and I would retire, sell my record-setting collection, and live like kings off the proceeds. I started collecting in 1997, when the internet wasn’t the most convenient way to shop for rare PEZ dispensers. It took minutes to “dial-up” and the websites took even more minutes to load. I didn’t have time for such nonsense so I relied on local antique stores and collectors. Not far from our apartment in Seattle, I found a shop called Gasoline Alley which specialized in vintage and collectible toys.

One humid summer afternoon, we left Gasoline Alley with my newest investment: A MIB (that’s mint-in-bag for you non PEZ-collecting imbeciles) Indian Peace Pipe from the 1970s. Never released in the United States, this was a rare find and would surely buy us a villa in Tuscany upon retirement. We were young, kid-free, and living in Seattle. What else was there to spend $75 on?

We climbed into our 1989 Nissan Sentra, rolled down the windows because we didn’t have air conditioning, pushed the Beastie Boy’s cassette into the tape deck, and headed for home. I was clutching my new purchase, anxiously trying to propel us home by sheer willpower, so that I could get my peace pipe into the safe and breathe easy. And by “safe” I mean the shoebox under our bed.

We approached a four-way intersection and stopped at the red light. Over the music, I heard a loud clack-clack-clack. It was rhythmic, unfamiliar and right outside my passenger window. I looked up to see a man wearing dark glasses, crossing the street alone using a cane as his guide. I gasped and squeezed Chad’s arm in a panic. Not because I was shocked to see a blind person—I see them all the time (actually, I don’t, I see like, one a month). Any other day, at any other time, my mind wouldn’t have even registered this scene. After all, he was following the traffic sign, he was walking in the crosswalk. Guess who else was in the crosswalk? We were.

Our car was stopped in the middle of the crosswalk, the light was red, and the car behind us was so close that I could smell the driver’s breath. As the clack­-ing got louder, I braced myself for impact.

Hindsight is 20/20 and that’s not a joke because the guy was blind. It’s easy to look back at my twenty-year old self and want to say, “Hey Rachel? Why don’t you warn the poor guy instead of sitting there like moron? Oh yeah, and your retirement plan sucks.” But my twenty-year old self was too mortified to do anything but pinch Chad with one hand and grip my future riches with the other. I pulled my shoulders up to my ears and slid down in my seat hoping that would make me invisible... to the blind guy.

His cane hit my door first. And then his knees did. He waved his hands in front of his body trying to decipher what was blocking what should have been a clear path for him. As he was groping, his hands passed through the rolled-down window, inches from my cowering face. I held my breath, waiting for it to end. Remember in Lord of the Rings: The Fellowship of the Ring, how Frodo, Sam, Merry, and Pippin hide under the tree roots from the Black Rider as he searches for them? Put those hobbits in a Nissan Sentra, stick a cane in that Nazgul's iron-clad hand and you have an exact replica of what we went through. Chad and I sat motionless as we watched the poor guy fumble his way to the front of the car and complete his journey across the street. (Click here to watch the LOTR clip)

I thought about that blind man today. I wondered where he is and if, when he’s having dinner with friends, he ever tells them the story of the idiots in the crosswalk, who didn’t have the common courtesy to help someone in need…Someone who wouldn’t even have been in need if those idiots weren’t in the crosswalk in the first place. I also wondered if he braille-blogs about stuff like that.

I still have my Indian Peace Pipe. It’s now worth $135 and it’s sitting in the attic with the rest of my PEZ collection—my retirement plan—my stupid dream that occupies exactly two 18-gallon Rubbermaid totes. I think I’ll hang on to that pipe. I figure in just under a million years we’ll be able to buy that villa. You know, maybe twenty-year old Rachel wasn’t as dumb as you think.