Not Allowed

GirlsGoneChild — Tue, 03 Apr 2007 21:34:00 GMT

Archer crouched and watched the older boys from the space between the steps on the jungle gym with the slide. He gazed at the little boys digging holes with shovels and their bare hands. Like usual, he was too shy to approach them. Too interested to look away.

I called for him from the side of the sandbox but he ignored me.

Leave me alone, Mom.

He must have sat there for ten minutes, spying on the other boys, watching the way they pushed the sand to one side and how wet it got, the deeper they dug. No one noticed Archer watching. He has a way of making himself invisible, as still and silent as a spy.

Minutes passed until finally Archer shimmied out of the space between the stairs and ran around the corner to where the slide was and all of the little boys digging holes in the sand. He slowly crouched down next to them and started to dig, placing handfulls of sand in one of the the three piles, just like the other boys did.

The oldest boy spotted him, a newbie in his crew and immediatly pushed him hard in the chest. He fell back.

"Get out of here little boy," the oldest boy said. "You're ruining it."

Archer got up and scurried toward me. He had sand in his eyes but he wasn't crying.

"You're okay," I said. "Everything's fine."

I put Archer on my lap and we climbed into the swing and watched the boys from afar, my hands clenched in fists as I eyed the older boy. The bully. That little fucking shit.

It is very difficult to watch my son try to socialize with the other kids and then get knocked down. It is even harder to keep my mouth shut when I want to scream in the faces of anyone who does Archer any harm.

"So what am I supposed to do?" I asked myself, swinging back and forth with Archer's head in my chest.

And the answer, of course, was "nothing."

Because the sand doesn't stop at the edge of the cement. It goes on and on and the entire world is full of holes and slides and bullies.

And sometimes we're just not allowed. Not allowed to play in the sand with the other boys. Not allowed to scream at another mother's child for being a shit. Because it is my duty to let Archer figure out this stuff on his own. And that, I am learning, is one of the hardest parts about being a parent:

Not being allowed.

***

Hit Him and He'll Hit You Back

GirlsGoneChild — Sat, 27 Jan 2007 04:13:00 GMT

I don't condone fighting by any means. I'm into peace and love and vegetarianism. I don't agree with guns. Or the death penalty or spanking. Or even yelling. I'm all for passing the pipe and loving thy brother. I have never been fond of haters. Of any kind. I wish we could all just get along and make out with each other. Or at the very least, play nice.

When I was a little girl I was regularly pushed around. I grew up on a street full of boys who, annoyed with my cooties, threw rocks at my face, bitch-slapped me on the school bus and once gave me a concussion from pushing me off my bike. They called me "Becca woof-woof" when they weren't calling me other names like "Dog" and "Uglystupidface"

I tried to pretend like I didn't notice. I'd get back up, smile and hold back tears until I was alone. Or in the house where I would wail and scream and snort all over my mother's jeans.

I bought my own Vision skateboard and some Jimmy-Z shorts and tried to blend in with them. Maybe if I looked like less of a girl, they would teach me how to ollie off of their plywood ramp.

I had no idea how to stick up for myself. And you couldn't pay me to push someone back. Or talk back. Or anything.

I kind of assumed it was genetic and was afraid that Archer would be like me. Which is why when Archer got smacked in the face by the playground bully the other day, I did the cheerleading spirit-finger thingy when I saw him smack back.

It isn't that I advocate violence. Not at all. I just don't want him to take anyone's shit. Or get pushed off his bike without some kind of defensive strategy. Even if he is wearing a helmet for protection.

It's a crazy world, man. People don't play nice. I wish they did and we could all sit around in the sandbox and sing Koom-bi-ya, but we can't. People are angry. Crazy. Mean. And like to throw rocks in each other's faces.

And although two wrongs don't make a right, neither does one wrong and one weakling. I know because I was the child in the sandbox with sand in her eyes and bruises from the boys in the neighborhood, who sat there like an asshole, crying her eyes out.

And I REAAAAALY don't want that to be Archer. Because it sucked.

***

Straight from the Bottle : Bullying

Not Allowed

Hit Him and He'll Hit You Back