What If Everyone Had Cancer?

When my youngest son was four years old he lost all his hair to an autoimmune disorder called Alopecia Areata. Over the course of a month all of his beautiful red curls fell out, then his eye lashes and eye brows. My heart broke on a daily basis. But he was four, and hair to a four-year-old is not necessarily a concern. When a classmate at the snack table in preschool asked if he’d gotten a haircut, he looked confused until another classmate spoke up and said, “Nah, Ian’s hair fell out.” Everyone went back to their juice and animal crackers unalarmed.

As a parent you begin imagining your child’s life when you first see those two pink lines, perhaps even earlier if you’re a true romantic. I couldn’t imagine what elementary school would be like for my newly bald child. Or maybe the problem was that I could imagine it – teasing, bullying, heartbreak. For a few months we stayed in, but then it became obvious that the hair would not be re-growing so we resumed our life with our three kids, but I hovered close to my youngest ready to defend him at the slightest provocation.

While my husband was traveling, the kids and I ventured out for dinner one night at the local pizza shop. We snuggled into a booth and I tried not to notice the obvious stares of the other patrons. The kids were oblivious to anything odd and happy to be out to dinner for the first time since Ian’s diagnosis. When it was time to pay, I left the kids in the booth and went to the cashier. She told me not to worry, our check was already paid. I didn’t understand, but she assured me another patron had taken care of our check and wished my little boy well. I stumbled back to collect my children and made for the exit. Driving home it finally dawned on me that the kind person who paid our check must have thought Ian had cancer.

Missed Busses and Inner Voices

My kids missed the bus this morning. The basement door flew open and they tromped down the stairs to tell me this, interrupting the last five minutes of my run and the climatic scene from the horribly violent television show I watch while on the treadmill. I was dripping with sweat, stressed by the awful scene on the television, and furious at the idea of driving them to school (15 minutes each way). This would send my entire morning in to chaos. I’d have to wake their little brother early and urge him to eat a healthy breakfast and pack his lunch without my assistance. I’d have to put on clothes over my sweaty self because it was near freezing outside. This would mean morning barn chores would be rushed. There would be no lingering over my tea and the Sudoku puzzle today. AGH!  

To put it lightly, I was angry. I snapped at them and verbally harassed them as I scrambled up the stairs and rushed around to set the morning in motion. The ride to school was tense. My oldest apologized and my middle child rolled her carefully made up eyes at my anger. Half way to school I realized I was overreacting on a huge scale. They did not mean to miss the bus. In fact, they rarely ever miss the bus. They get themselves up (more or less, but sometimes require their father’s assistance), feed themselves, pack their lunches, and get to the bus stop while I am either out on a run or in the basement on the treadmill watching the horrible (but terribly exciting) show that was interrupted this morning. I’d say that’s more than most of the 13 and 15 year-olds I know.  

Perhaps my frustration was justified, but the anger was unnecessary. I apologized to them for my words. I assured them that I knew they hadn’t meant to miss the bus. I praised them for their ability to get to the bus on a regular basis. And then I watched them head off for school feeling like the horrible mother I am for the sag in their shoulders. What a way to start a day. 

“The way we talk to our children becomes their inner voice.” – Peggy O’Mara. 

I hope that my weak apology erased at least a part of the angry words I showered on my children this morning. My words are haunting me and renewing my commitment to speak gently to my children. I can excuse myself easily – we’ve been trapped in the house for three days ducking Hurricane Sandy. But excuses won’t mean a hill of beans to a wounded heart. I messed up.  

Lucky for me, they are too young to move out, so I’ll get many more opportunities to speak gently and react more calmly to minor mishaps like a missed bus. I want my children’s inner voices to reassure them when they are worried and to encourage them when they are challenged. I want them to have confident hearts and compassionate souls. Their inner voice is what will guide them when things go awry. I hope that voice is reasonable, calm, and maybe sounds a little like the guy on the old AT&T commercials (what was his name? His voice sounded like molasses).  

I’m sure this isn’t the last morning when I’ll miss the mark. Undoubtedly, I’ll let life and my moods get the better of me another day. But at least for the rest of this day I will speak kindly. I will create an inner voice that is calm and loving and knows there’s nothing to be gained from losing it over a missed bus.

Chicken Bullies

Third time’s the charm. At least I hope it is when it comes to chicken bullies. I put the puff-headed chick back in the pen with the other chicks one more time. The puff-headed chick is slang for the Golden-laced Polish pullet who will eventually be an egg-laying member of our brood if she survives adolescence.

The first episode was a month ago. The chicks were barely a month old, but most of them already had a thick coating of feathers and were working on their flying skills (they don’t realize genetics is against them on this). My youngest child came running in the house to tell me there was a bloody chick.

Shit. I didn’t say this out loud, but I thought it. A bloody chick means the other chicks have determined who’s the weakest of them all. Chickens are cruel animals. The term pecking order is not some cute farm saying, it’s real. The order and the pecking.

When I reached the pen, it was easy to spot the injured bird. Golden-laced Polish chicks are nearly white with big puffy feathers on their heads (hence “puff-heads”). Her bottom was bright red and featherless. The other chicks had pecked out all her tail feathers and were now working on the skin. If I didn’t act fast, they would kill her. Why do people think chicks are cute?

I pulled out the injured chick, dowsed her butt with hydrogen peroxide, and dried her off with a clean towel. Then I set her up in her own digs, scrounging around for an extra waterer and feeder. Most of what we own is already in use since we currently have two Pack-n-Plays full of chicks – one in the garage and one in the barn.

There was no more foul (ahem) play in the garage pen, and I kept a careful eye on the pen up in the barn.

A week or two later, when she was all healed up, I nonchalantly placed the puff-head chick back in the garage pen while I distracted the other chicks with fresh food. One day later, it was my daughter announcing there was a bloody chick in the garage pen. Shit. Again.

Now it is two weeks later and I’ve just placed the healed up chick in the pen up in the barn. Maybe these chicks are a nicer bunch. Maybe they won’t see her puffy head as a weakness. It’s only been a few hours and so far everyone is playing nice.

I am not at all convinced it will go any better this time. Like human bullies, chick bullies strike when authority is absent. Research on bullying says poor problem-solving skills, low-academic ability, or a marked physical weakness such as obesity are some of most common reasons victims are chosen. All chickens have poor problem solving skills due to their inherent low-academic ability, so I’m assuming it’s the puffed head.

There is something universal rather than species specific when it comes to bullies. They’ve been with us since the dawn of time. I see evidence of it all over the animal kingdom – amongst dogs, horses, and chickens, so I have to believe it serves some kind of purpose.

I suppose it helps the stronger animals survive. Survival of the fittest and all that. But we are surviving now, almost too well to judge by the girth line of most of us humans. And my chicks had plenty of food and water. It’s deeper than survival.

When I’m told about a bully at school, sometimes I’m shocked. I know that kid. I know his/her family. They’re nice people. How can that child be a bully? They’re sweet and cute – just like my baby chicks.

In the past decade or so since Columbine, there have been many anti-bullying efforts embraced by schools nationwide. A quick search of the internet turns up dozens of anti-bullying programs, curriculum, and facilitators – many with a hefty pricetag. My children’s school has signs in the hallways declaring the school a “bully-free zone”. And yet the bullies persist. The shootings continue. The problem is not solved. Research says there aren’t more bullies now than there were ten, twenty, thirty years ago. It’s just that now we talk about it.

What makes a bully? Experts say it’s kids who have a need to feel more powerful or kids who experience a bully-friendly atmosphere at home. How can any home be bully-friendly? More reading revealed what it means to be bully-friendly. A bully-friendly family has members who are quick to grow angry, belittle each other, and/or use cruel teasing as a method of manipulation.

TV shows encourage meanness too. Look at all the popular shows that make fun of other people for their looks or lack of talent. People are shunned, voted off, and fired for entertainment. I’ve always detested reality shows, now I have one more reason. Kids see this stuff celebrated, so what kind of conclusion will they draw? When we model judgment and cruelty as acceptable, can we really expect them to behave differently?

I remember as a kid, I watched as others were bullied, silently thinking “thank god it’s not me.” Now when I hear the stories, I think “thank God it’s not my child.” My own kids have been lucky so far with bullying, but I worry. My youngest child has no hair, my oldest plays D & D, and my daughter prides herself in dressing differently than her peers. They could become targets.

I can never be sure which chick starts the bullying, but once they see blood, all the other chicks join in the bullying. By not speaking up or standing up, we effectively do the same thing.

I know I’m not the only parent who tells my kid to keep a low profile in potential bullying situations. I instruct them to listen to their headphones or read a book on the bus, don’t engage other people. And there’s more to this than dodging a bully, it’s really self-preservation. If only one person stands up to a bully, that person can become a target.

Social pressure is a powerful force. We have collectively made it unacceptable to smoke, pick your nose in public, leave dog poop on the sidewalk, or drive drunk. The power to eradicate, or at least, reduce the presence of bullies is in our hands. What will it take to make everyone stand up to bullies? What will it take to make bullying unacceptable rather than inevitable?

Experts say there’s nothing we can do about bullying. It’s a fact of life. We need to dispute that. Instead we underline it with expensive curriculums, television shows that model bullying, and lip service like posters and slogans. Adults like to tell stories about the cruelty they experienced when they were young, as if it’s a right of passage. Meanness is never funny. The humor comes at someone’s expense.

There doesn’t seem to be any kind of anti-bullying curriculum for my chicks. I just have to keep a watchful eye on the pecking order. They are hard-wired to pick on the weakest. But are we?

Imagine if it were different. Imagine if we evolved.

Postlude: The injured puff head chick did fine for four days, but then was killed by the others on a beautiful afternoon this past weekend when no one was looking. When I went to retrieve the body, the other chicks ran right over her like she wasn’t there. No remorse.