A Mother's Comfort

When my children were little and they were hurt or afraid, it was easy to gather them in my arms and make everything okay. It’s not so simple now that they look me in the eye and question my competence.

My middle child is sensitive to any slight in the distribution of parental tolerance, reprimands, and praise. She sees injustice everywhere and well she should. Life is not fair. Never once have I suggested it is or should be. If life were fair, we wouldn’t have the abundant blessings we take for granted. But I digress.  

Because this child perceives that I “like the boys more”, she does not welcome my comfort when it is offered. She craves my attention, yet pushes it away when it is presented. My husband says she is exercising her woman’s prerogative.  

Earlier this week I carted her off to the oral surgeon to have four permanent teeth pulled. While she is my loudest child, ironically she has a tiny mouth. There is not enough room for all her teeth; and her permanent teeth are vying for front row seats creating a multi-tiered smile. Four have to go and then we have years of braces to look forward to.  

The original plan was to have my husband escort her to this appointment. While I am a woman of hearty stock, I become squeamish at the sight of a man with pliers in my daughter’s mouth. She has had eight baby teeth pulled in previous visits, trying to help the permanent teeth find their proper place. Each time I held my stomach and my tongue as I watched the doc work. This time it was to be my husband’s turn. 

Events conspired against us – the doctor had to change the date and the only date available was during a week my husband would be safely hiding on the other side of the planet. It fell to me. 

I let her use my coveted iphone to play games during the drive to the office and reassured her repeatedly as she let out small, whimpers each time she looked up to see that we were closer to our destination.  

Once in the chair, she was stoic. The doc was very impressed, gushing, “You’re awesome!” as he stuck her repeatedly with his nasty needle. I survived the ordeal by looking out the window and concentrating on the whir of nitrous oxide machine rather than the crunch of the pliers extracting each tooth (“Oh – the last baby tooth – bonus!”).  

Afterwards, as we stood by the check out desk, my daughter looked lost and beaten and kept holding her numb chin to be sure it was still there. I pulled her to me and wrapped my arms around her sharp edges hoping she would accept my comfort. When I looked at her face, it was obvious my hug was more painful than the teeth pulling, so I released her. 

She was quiet until about 15 minutes in to the ride home when the blood seeped through the gauze stuffing her mouth and spilled on to her shirt. I pulled over and tried to help, but she just screeched at me through her cotton-filled mouth and smacked my hands away. 

Once home, the tears finally came. I offered ibuprofen – the liquid form in the blue-raspberry flavor she loved (to heck with the food colorings). She swore she couldn’t drink it because her lips were too numb. I hunted up a straw and placed it in the tiny dosage cup, and held it out to her. She put the straw in her mouth and then cried even harder, shoving the cup back at me.  

Thirty minutes later she found me in the kitchen and through teary eyes informed me that her mouth hurt. I leaned towards her, arms outstretched and she leaned away, so I offered ice cream instead. She rebuked me like the idiot I am – how could she eat if she couldn’t feel her lips? 

I retreated to my desk to write, but she followed me there, still whimpering like an injured dog. I offered my kindle fire – maybe there was a show she could watch. She looked through the offerings and said there was nothing she liked.  

Today I could not offer my daughter the comfort she needed. In the end all I could say was, “I’m sorry this had to happen.” That seemed to be what she needed. She nodded and left to find the cat who apparently can offer much better comfort than I.

Mom on Strike

My husband called from the other side of the earth the other day and said, “So I hear you’re on strike.” Apparently, my oldest e-mailed to alert him of the dire situation at home.

Last night after cleaning up the dishes, spilled jelly, and mashed blueberries that covered the counter, I reached my breaking point. I realize those small tasks don’t seem like enough to justify a labor dispute, so let me paint the picture for you.

First of all, it was the just about the bazillionith day of six-thousand degree heat which improves no one’s mood. I had begun the day by dragging my beautiful children out of bed and forcing them to go to church with me. I was in need of some sanctuary. In the afternoon I ferried them to the swimming hole two miles down the creek and indulged them with all manner of snack food. I played an endless game of monopoly and allowed them friends, mindless TV, and unlimited computer time the rest of the day. Dinner was a free-for-all (hence the blueberries and jelly). So, with the exception of forced-church, it’s not as if I’d been taxing them all day.

For me it was the endless mess and the prospect of ten more days of solo parent/maid service/cook duty that was pushing me towards that dangerous edge of Angry-Mom. These children are smart, resourceful, energetic, creative souls. Certainly they can clean up after themselves.

My request that they put their own dishes in the dishwasher was met with disdain as was my appeal for someone to feed the dogs and cats. But it was the cheese puff bag under the coffee table that sent me over the cliff. First of all, I had turned a blind eye to the child who placed the cheese puffs in the grocery cart, so the fact that they ate them in the living room (not allowed) and then had the gall to leave the empty bag on the floor lit the fuse that I had been dragging behind me all day.

I blasted them verbally and then retreated to my room to fume to my journal. After I had written myself calm, I went back downstairs and informed them that I am on strike. I’m not doing anything for them until they start pitching in. No rides, no playdates, no meals, no laundry. Mom is on strike.

So the next went a little better. I didn’t fix anyone’s meals or do anyone’s laundry (except my AWOL hubby’s). I told them their rooms must be clean by this weekend. Amazingly, no dishes were abandoned on the counter. My oldest simply skipped lunch rather than fix it himself. Miraculously the cats and dogs got fed. My youngest even helped me bathe the dog that won’t stop scratching. (please God, let it not be fleas)

I decided to cross the picket line and fix dinner, but I didn’t put down my sign. I do realize that I have no one to blame but myself (and my husband) for the lazy inclinations of my children. It’s a little late in the game to be asking them to start picking up the slack which is precisely why extreme action was called for – hence the strike. I was resolved to hold my line.

The next day I caught myself washing the dishes abandoned on the counter before I remembered that I was on strike. I considered calling for the culprit, but was too tired for the fight that would inevitably follow. Which is how this strike ended peaceably. Later in the day I picked out broken glass from the dishwasher where some well-intentioned but annoyed worker had actually put his/her glass in the dishwasher without being threatened first.

After dinner I watched as one of my boys dumped his ketchup laden plate directly in to the dishwasher and dropped his utensils ala clothespin-in-the-milk jug in to the utensil holder, two out of three making their mark.

Was my strike effective? Hard to say, but it registered my unhappiness and it even inspired a tiny change of behavior. Will it last? Again, hard to say, but once the other boss is back in the country it may be time to renegotiate this contract.

The Power of a Box

There is power in a box. I’m not talking about what arrives inside the box; I’m talking about the box itself. Doesn’t it just make your day when the UPS truck pulls in and the happy man in brown walks up to your door with a box? (OK, my brown guy isn’t always happy and sometimes he tosses the box on my porch with very little flourish while scanning the horizon for my dog who is on record for having bitten a UPS man – the only person she’s ever bitten in her 15 years – I swear!)

Years ago I signed up to be a Mary Kay consultant mostly because I loved the little boxes that the products came in. Recently, I ordered jewelry from a friend who does home sales and adored the boxes that arrived - they were decorate on the inside! Even when it’s just more vacuum cleaner bags, I’m still happy to see a box arrive with my name on it.

But the best boxes, I mean the very best boxes, are the BIG boxes. The ones that come with the new refrigerator or other large appliance. Those boxes have real power.

When we first moved in to the house where we live now, the packers used enormous boxes. Boxes large enough for three children to fit inside. My children had an endless supply of “Transmorgafiers.” What?  You've never heard of a “transmorgafier?” Well, a transmorgafier can do anything – change you in to a different species altogether, plus it has its own weapons system and can travel through time and space.

A big box could grant my children hours of escape from the reality of gravity, time, and the normal disdain for a sibling. After we had settled in to our new house, we were blessed with big boxes once again as we had to replace each large appliance in the house one by one. More transmorgafiers, and eventually simple time machines that catapulted my kids back in time to before the dinosaur age. They would hide from us and then chatter on walkie-talkies about the strange beings on two legs and the even stranger ones with fur and claws.

I just love the power boxes have over children. So when my birthday present arrived on Saturday in the biggest box ever – I wondered if the magic still worked. We unloaded the beast, a treadmill which was thankfully in pieces, and left the monster box on the front porch. All of my children were happily ensconced in front of their respective favorite boxes (computers). So I casually approached the nine-year-old, figuring he would be most susceptible to the thrill of a big box. “There’s the biggest box I’ve ever seen on the front porch,” I said.

Without even looking up from his screen, he said, “Uh-huh. I’ll come at look at it when this is over.”

A few minutes later, I heard a loud whoop, followed by his cries for his siblings to come see this! His 13-year-old sister could not be bothered and when I told her it was a big box, she said, “So?” and went back to her personal box.

My 15-year-old was wandering around with his ear buds in and watched his little brother with growing interest. The 9-year-old retreated to the house for markers and his nerf weapons. He proceeded to draw all the necessary buttons and levers on the inside of the box, still yelling for his siblings to come and be amazed.

When my husband and I looked out a few minutes later, both boys were in the box. They were discussing the control panel. We overheard the oldest say happily, “I feel like I’m four years old.”

As expected, once there were two boys in the time machine, their sister had to crash the party. She wandered around saying how silly they looked for awhile, but in the end she joined the nerf battle that broke out and soon all three were running around the yard with nerf guns battling whatever creatures they had encountered in the next galaxy.

My husband came inside after sneaking a few pictures and said, “That’s the best Father’s Day present ever.”

I love boxes. They have the power to keep my kids, kids.

Some past favorite boxes -

Addie in the first transmorgifier

Many boxes became fortresses to be defended

Faith Like a Rock

Unloading the dryer this morning, I found the source of last night’s clanging. I put a load in when I went to bed and soon heard a distinctive “ping” acknowledging the fact that someone left something in a pocket of the jeans that were tumbling dry late in to the night. I was already snuggled in, the house shut up tight, so I ignored the pinging. I figured it was a marble from my youngest or a rock from my contemplative oldest child who picks up stones to roll around in his hand as he listens to his ipod.

It wasn’t a marble and it wasn’t a rock. Well, actually it was supposed to be a rock, but a synthetic one. It was brown with green mottled markings. The top was lumpy, but the back smooth and flat and obviously machined. I’d guess there are thousands just like it, but I have no idea where it came from or whose pocket it fell out of. On the top of the rock the word, “faith” was stamped, which leads me to believe it was a gift from a Sunday school class. My kids haven’t been to Sunday School in at least a month, so someone has been carrying this inspirational manufactured stone around for awhile.

I pocketed the rock, but it’s been nagging at my conscience all day. I can’t help but wonder which child will claim it, but even more so, I wonder how that child interprets the rock’s message. “Faith”, as in have faith in God or “faith” as in have faith in yourself or “faith” as in have faith that everything will be okay? Or, if it belongs to the nine-year-old who confessed recently that he has no idea what they’re talking about in Sunday School, it might mean nothing other than a stone that would be great for tossing at the chickens to see them run.

What do my children think of the word faith? What do they understand about it? Do they have faith? As a former Youth Minister, you’d think my kids would be Sunday School standouts, but ironically they would more easily be labeled Sunday School slackers. I’ve always believed that everyone’s faith is between that person and God. I wouldn’t presume to tell anyone what to believe. My own kids included in that everyone.

But I hope I have instilled in them that they should believe something. We say grace before dinner each night and I’ve prayed with all three when I tucked them in to bed when they were little. The nine-year-old won’t go to sleep without his prayers – one with Daddy and one with me. If we are away, he’ll call on the phone and insist we say prayer with him long-distance. My husband has said prayer with him while riding in a crowded taxi cab in Bejing and I once recited a prayer with him while riding on a bus with suddenly quiet drunk people on our way home from an afternoon and evening in the honky-tonks of Nashville. But what does prayer mean to this child?

I hope it gives them a sense that there is something more powerful than us. I hope it gives them peace to know there’s a plan. How that “something” is interpreted has created and destroyed countries, races, lives. I would like to believe that my children see that something as benevolent, not judgmental. I think that is the belief that has driven me away from church. I want to put my faith in something that builds up, offers grace, and encourages exploration, but too many times the church demands that we parrot a set of beliefs and live, vote, and love accordingly. That doesn’t require faith, only obedience.

Faith is huge and complicated, yet remarkably simple. Carrying faith around in your pocket seems like a very reasonable religion. One that I’m hoping at least one of my children follows. Either that or he’s just waiting for the right moment to scatter the chickens.

Nine-year-old Racists

My nine-year-old son came home the other day upset about the latest nonsense on the bus. Only this time it was serious nonsense. So serious I picked up the phone and called the assistant principal.

There are a few characters in this story that require a little explanation

First there’s my son. He has alopecia areata which the official name of the condition that cause him to have no hair. Lots of people don’t have hair for all kinds of reasons. Ian’s reason is that he has this goofy auto-immune disease that attacks his hair follicles. Because the disease is not physically life-threatening, research for a cure has been slow and thus far there is no treatment. Ian lost all his beautiful red curls when he was four. For the most part he’s taken it in stride. The only consolation given to his condition is that he wears an under armor skull cap whenever he is out in public. At home and with close friends, he loses the hat quickly. Remember the hat – it’s important for the story.

The other character is a classmate of Ian’s. I will tell you right up front that I know very little about this young man. I’ve volunteered in his classroom and know him to be a pretty decent student, although a bit of a wanna-be class clown. He’s very articulate and projects a confidence I doubt goes very deep. I’ve met his parents several times and mom seems smart, kind, and competent. Dad is loud, outgoing, and a bit intense. Apparently they are considering parting ways, though, and I’m sure this is painful for the entire family. I mention these facts because I think the hurtful actions of children are quite often motivated by their own hurt.

There are a few other characters, but as I don’t know either of them, I can’t speak to their motivations or situations. One is another classmate with a not-so-stellar reputation and the other is the bus driver who seems more focused on driving the bus than watching his charges (fair enough).

Apparently, the little boy I described above (let’s call him Fred) and the other with the questionable reputation (let’s call him Fred 2), sit behind my son on the bus. All year long I’ve listened to Ian tell me stories of the stories Fred tells. They are very tall tales believe me. I listen carefully to my son’s re-telling and then question enough of the facts to help my son see through the stories clearly. A few times there have been words between them, but other than being very annoyed by the incessant chatter of the Freds, it’s been relatively peaceful (for an elementary school bus).

Until this past Friday. On this day my son came home visibly upset.

“Fred called me a Jew!”

“What?” I asked not quite believing what I’m hearing.

“He said I’m a Jew because I wear a hat like one.”
“What did you say?”

“I told him I’m not a Jew.” (This is said with increasing intensity and tears on the edges)

“And then what happened?”

“He laughed and kept calling me Jew, Jew, Jew. And then Fred 2 started saying it too. And then they said I was a Jew and that I’m gonna nuke them or they’re gonna nuke me or something like that.”

“What?” (My voice is rising along with my blood pressure and I’m working hard to reign in my fury.)

“And then they threw paper at me and said other stuff about me being a Jew.”

“What did the bus driver do?”

“Nothing. He never does anything.”

I’m sure the driver’s busy keeping the bus on the road. I’ve thought for years that parents should be allowed to volunteer on buses as monitors. It’s not a job I’d want for all the tea in China, but it seems like a better solution than expecting ordinary humans to drive a bus while simultaneously watching the road and the 40 or so kids. No matter, the bus driver is not to blame. I can tell Ian’s tears are about to let loose, so I sit him down and look him in the eye.

“First of all, there’s nothing wrong with being Jewish. Nothing at all. Lots of people are Jewish. You have friends who are Jewish. Orthodox Jewish boys wear a little cap on their heads called a yarmulke. It’s smaller than your skull cap.”

“Are Jews Christian?”

“No, they’re not, but Jesus was Jewish and they read the same Old Testament that we do. And besides, everyone is entitled to their own religion. There’s no right or wrong religion, just right or wrong actions. And Fred and Fred 2’s actions were wrong.”

He nods, relieved.

“The way those boys were taunting you is more than just teasing, it’s racism. They don’t know you aren’t Jewish. Hopefully, they don’t even know what they were saying, but I have to call the school about this because it’s pretty serious.”
Ian’s eyes get big, but he nods and then the tears do come.

To her credit, the assistant principal was appalled and after clarifying the names with Ian, she called the families of both boys.

The episode ended with one of the families bringing their son to our house to apologize. I was impressed with the fact that the dad took this seriously and even more impressed by the sincerity of the boy’s apology.

The episode hasn’t ended in my heart, though. Two things keep rolling around my mind.

First, why would those boys ever think “Jew” was a bad word? Have we not gotten past this? I keep hoping that each new generation is going to see past the labels and judgments and hold us all up as people – more alike than different. The dad of Fred said he thought his son got this from Southpark. I’ve never seen this show, but know it is popular and truly hope it isn’t spouting anti-Semitism. I want so desperately to believe that people are getting kinder, more accepting, not less.

The second thing that has caused me to lose sleep over this episode is that this is the first time my son has been bullied for his alopecia. I am not naive enough to believe that he isn’t going to be teased about having no hair. Heck, kids get teased for all kinds of lesser oddities, so the teasing is a given. I guess I’m just not ready for it. I hadn’t anticipated how much it would hurt. I don’t know how to protect my son’s heart and self-esteem from the cruelties of growing up without hair.

Other parents of kids with alopecia don’t allow their kids to wear hats or wigs, figuring the other kids will get used to their bald heads and at least no one can take their hat or wig in a cruel gesture. Nick and I have said from the beginning, it’s Ian’s head and it’s up to him. He has no control over this crazy disease, so at least he should have some control over whether he wants to cover his head or not.

Most days I forget that Ian has alopecia. For the most part, at least since that first year, it has not changed our lives too dramatically. Ian has such a big heart and beautiful soul, that you forget he doesn’t have hair. It’s a non-issue. This episode on the bus has reminded me that it isn’t a non-issue for him. Every day he’s aware that he is different. Every day he chooses to put on a hat. As he becomes a teenager and ranges further from our grasp, there will less and less I can do to protect him from the stares, the insensitive people, and the mean ones. So that hurts a bit.

But I suppose every parent has some of these fears. I worry on a different level about my other two children who march so obviously to a different drummer than their peers. I remember my own experiences growing up covered in freckles. I endured all kinds of creative nick-names. But I held on to the words of a friend’s father who told me freckles were kisses from the sun and a camp counselor who noted (probably inappropriately) that some day my husband would have fun connecting the dots.

Experiences like this are just one more hit you have to take as a parent. If we want a pain-free life, we shouldn’t have children. Funny, before I was a mom I had an incredibly low threshold for pain. I avoided dentists, shots, sticker bushes, and anything else that might lead to discomfort.

But now that these three beautiful beings have blessed my life, I’d willingly endure just about any form of torture to prevent them from feeling any pain. Sadly, the world doesn’t work that way and the best we can do is be here for them when the tears come. And they will.

Balm for a Mother's Soul

The day does come when your children are able to do things for themselves. For years and years we do everything for them and then one day they learn to operate a knife, a can opener, the washing machine. And each accomplishment makes you less and less necessary. It’s very freeing.

I had a message from a friend who is home with a baby and a preschooler. She had an awful night and a rough morning. She wouldn’t be able to join me for a glass of wine on the porch that night as we’d planned. Her message catapulted me back to the days of early motherhood when it was an accomplishment just to get a shower or unload the dishwasher. You don’t think those days will ever pass. But in an instant you are reminding your teen to put on deodorant and arguing with your daughter about appropriate attire. (Wait! That’s a bad example, I argued with my daughter over appropriate attire when she was four!)

At our house, I am the parent who plays games. Not head games – Monopoly, Apples to Apples, Spit, Trouble, Risk. When the kids were younger, I always wrestled mentally as to whether I should try to beat them. Nowadays I have to fight for every property, point, and win I get. They are steadily gaining on me.

But what’s really awe-inspiring is when your child becomes better at something than you are. Last Friday night I watched with a smile pasted on my face, choking back tears as my daughter sang in front of a small crowd at the local library. I’ve been watching Addie sing for years, pretty much since she could talk. She sings even when she doesn’t know it – in the shower, as she putzes around the house, while she’s on the swing, in the car with her headphones on.

Last Friday she was participating in an Open Mic Night. She’s done things like this before and she does well – for a pre-teen. But that night she did well – for a human being. Let me back up and confess that I was a music major in college (the first time around). I spent years singing and performing. I did fine. Obviously, I never made a huge impact since you don’t own any of my CD’s. Eventually, I realized that no one was going to pay (much) to hear me sing and I got a real job. Music became my hobby, and soon just a memory.

When old friends hear Addie sing, they always say – “she inherited your voice” and I nod with pride. But let me be the first to tell you, my daughter can sing circles around me. She has a confidence and attitude that I never had behind the microphone. And she has a voice with depth and color beyond her years. Think I’m just an overly proud mom? Check her out on youtube.

It is a powerful moment when you see your child surpass you. My oldest son surpassed my math knowledge back when he was in sixth grade. And sometimes when I read his writing, I am awestruck that he could have this much talent at such a young age. I’m still struggling to write well, and he has a huge head-start on me. I tell him that someday when he gets published, he’ll have to put a good word in for me with his agent.

We all hope that our children will be happy and successful. But we worry – after all these are the people who can’t pick up their wet towels, wipe the jelly off the counter, or find their other shoe. How will they survive on their own?

Motherhood is an epic experience. Although it is never ending, it is rich with powerful moments and even more powerful memories. When we are given glimpses of their abilities it is balm for a mother’s soul. Maybe they will be alright. For Mother’s Day my 15-year-old vacuumed my car and helped his father cook me dinner. In only three years, he will head off to college (or somewhere). I am relieved to see him growing in to the young man I’ve dreamed he will be - even as I close up the cereal box he left out and trip over his sneakers in the hallway.

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.