I came out of the bathroom to discover Twelve and R having a dirty sock fight in the bedroom. I have retreated to the living room, pretending to be annoyed but actually enjoying it.
I'm not sure how it started, but it's a pretty simple game: Twelve is lying on the bed, throwing her dirty socks at R, standing at the foot of the bed, who bats or throws them back toward her. She's giggling hysterically. R doesn't really giggle, but his chuckle comes pretty close sometimes.
R finally calls it quits and heads to the kitchen in pursuit of coffee. Twelve drifts into her bedroom. All is quiet for about two minutes until R announces that she's cutting her toenails on the bed.
When Twelve comes back to sit on my lap a few minutes later, she assures me that she's washed her hands after the dirty sock throwing and toenail clipping. I am skeptical.
After farting in my lap twice, reaching toward my face one too many times, and a dozen other intentionally obnoxious and impossible to describe behaviors, Twelve is eventually banished from my lap to work on her tasks.
After doing a bit more work, R is going to go to the store for vegetables and I am going to make a curry. Twelve will, protesting, wash the dishes.
It's a good Friday night.
Friday, February 24, 2012
Thursday, February 23, 2012
What If Massage IS the Answer?
Last week I was starting to get worried. Twelve wasn't acting up or anything, but was just a bit more dismissive of Mom than usual. Tonight, though, she snuggled on my lap in the big blue chair during the Daily Show and complained that it's been awhile since she's had a back rub at bedtime ["awhile" = one day].
I was mega relieved. I'm not ready for this stage to be over.
How it actually works is that Twelve gets ready for bed, then calls out "I'm ready to be tucked in and cuddled with and back rubbed!" It's silly and charming, and she knows it. Normally she's not allowed to be so demanding, but we keep it silly and playful ("Oh, so you'll let me rub your back?") Perhaps being playfully demanding allows her to admit to wanting a back rub at bedtime.
Works for me.
I just wonder what will happen when she decides she's too old/mature/whatever for back rubs from mommy. We all need healthy physical touch, and it's not like we live in a society in which we get much of that, especially in adolescence. If you're not a child and you're not sexual, you're pretty much out of luck unless you're wealthy enough to purchase massage or proactive enough to establish a private realm in which to experience nonsexual healthy physical touch.
I dunno about you, but I'd prefer that Twelve not seek sexual activity as a source of physical touch when she's too-old-for-Mommy stage but not yet adult. I am seriously considering finding a way to pay for regular massages during that stage. Indulgent? Perhaps. Privilege to the max? Certainly. But I can't help but wonder about the effect of regular massage on teen sexual behavior.
Maybe it wouldn't do a thing. Society's influences - media - wouldn't change. Boys would still learn to conflate sexual desire and possession, and girls would still learn to think of themselves as objects of others' pleasure.
But maybe experiencing lots of positive touch would help young women feel better about their bodies. Maybe young men wouldn't resort to clumsily coercive sexual encounters in order to experience physical touch. Fewer teen pregnancies. Reduced STIs. Improved self-esteem. Lower stress, even.
Imagine the possibilities.
Now: Write to your elected officials, and demand public funding for massage therapy. If your representative is a Republican, call it an anti-abortion strategy. If a Democrat, throw in the bits about reduced STIs and improved self-esteem. If you happen to be represented by a parent of someone in the eleven-to-twenty-year-old range, write an impassioned, heartfelt couple of pages.
And maybe somewhere buried in the fine print we could include massage for the stressed-out parents of all these youngsters. After all, even if by some miracle they're not having sex, we still have to deal with driving, grades, college applications, curfews, clothing, piercings, hair color, tattoos ... awwww, hell.
I was mega relieved. I'm not ready for this stage to be over.
How it actually works is that Twelve gets ready for bed, then calls out "I'm ready to be tucked in and cuddled with and back rubbed!" It's silly and charming, and she knows it. Normally she's not allowed to be so demanding, but we keep it silly and playful ("Oh, so you'll let me rub your back?") Perhaps being playfully demanding allows her to admit to wanting a back rub at bedtime.
Works for me.
I just wonder what will happen when she decides she's too old/mature/whatever for back rubs from mommy. We all need healthy physical touch, and it's not like we live in a society in which we get much of that, especially in adolescence. If you're not a child and you're not sexual, you're pretty much out of luck unless you're wealthy enough to purchase massage or proactive enough to establish a private realm in which to experience nonsexual healthy physical touch.
I dunno about you, but I'd prefer that Twelve not seek sexual activity as a source of physical touch when she's too-old-for-Mommy stage but not yet adult. I am seriously considering finding a way to pay for regular massages during that stage. Indulgent? Perhaps. Privilege to the max? Certainly. But I can't help but wonder about the effect of regular massage on teen sexual behavior.
Maybe it wouldn't do a thing. Society's influences - media - wouldn't change. Boys would still learn to conflate sexual desire and possession, and girls would still learn to think of themselves as objects of others' pleasure.
But maybe experiencing lots of positive touch would help young women feel better about their bodies. Maybe young men wouldn't resort to clumsily coercive sexual encounters in order to experience physical touch. Fewer teen pregnancies. Reduced STIs. Improved self-esteem. Lower stress, even.
Imagine the possibilities.
Now: Write to your elected officials, and demand public funding for massage therapy. If your representative is a Republican, call it an anti-abortion strategy. If a Democrat, throw in the bits about reduced STIs and improved self-esteem. If you happen to be represented by a parent of someone in the eleven-to-twenty-year-old range, write an impassioned, heartfelt couple of pages.
And maybe somewhere buried in the fine print we could include massage for the stressed-out parents of all these youngsters. After all, even if by some miracle they're not having sex, we still have to deal with driving, grades, college applications, curfews, clothing, piercings, hair color, tattoos ... awwww, hell.
Tuesday, February 21, 2012
If I'm a Slacker Parent, Newt's a Loyal Spouse
I just read an article about a college student who got a C- on a test, starting crying and texted her mom, who called back and asked to talk to the professor. The article goes on to outline how generation Y and iY students have been set up for failure by an overly protective environment and discusses possible solutions. Basically, they're helpless whiners.
Right about now, I'm feeling like a parenting rockstar.
Without consciously intending to, I've raised Twelve with an assortment of anti-helplessness tactics - turns out being broke and wanting to maintain my own adult life works.
Financially, we're doing fine right now, which is awfully nice, but ordering the Downton Abbey DVDs was still a fairly major splurge. For most of Twelve's childhood, money has been much tighter, so there's been no chance of her becoming addicted to the latest gadgets, as is characteristic of her generation. (I wonder, though, whether the folks who generalize about Gen Y/iY are taking socioeconomic class into account? My knowledge on social class differences is a bit dated, to be sure, but I am still skeptical.)
I've also never been a terribly hands-on parent, mainly because I have other things going on. I've been a single parent since Twelve was a baby, and R did not enter our lives until she was six, so my college and work responsibilities have always shaped my involvement in Twelve's day-to-day activities. Guilt at not being involved enough? You bet.
Twelve went to our local Waldorf school through second grade, which required a certain amount of parental participation. At the very least, I had to pack her lunch and drive her to and fro, and there were definitely periods of time in which that was about all I could manage. Leaving Waldorf was not by choice - see 'broke,' above - but I will admit to being relieved when reduced-price cafeteria lunches at the scootering-distance-away public school became an option.
My social life picked up considerably at about the same time I met R; I had Twelve when I was barely 20, so I didn't do the early-20s thing until I was 26. (This worked out okay - you get to the same place, and probably much quicker and with fewer hangovers.) The older she got, the easier it was to arrange childcare, and finally - finally! - we got to the home-alone stage.
(Note to parents of young children: You will get here eventually. And it's awesome. Note to childless folk: Be very, very sure you want to have children. You can't do anything without them without a hassle. And it's expensive.)
As a result of all this, Twelve is fairly accustomed to not getting what she wants: Sometimes we can't afford it, and sometimes Mom has something else going on. This year, we're more likely to be able to afford it, and Mom is more likely to be home, but Twelve's expectations are well-formed. I can't even remember the last time she asked for something expensive, and she's joking when she asks to be driven to or picked up from school. When something pricey is an option - Downton Abbey DVDs, signing up for volleyball - Twelve gets that it's significant. When we discovered that the reasonably priced cake decorating class at JoAnns required about a gazillion dollars' worth of supplies (it's a TOTAL scam, by the way), she dismissed the idea entirely. Before arranging for me or R to drive her to something, she thinks about whether she can get there on her own by bus or bike.
A few months into the year, when I stopped by to meet a few teachers at her new school, they seemed surprised to meet Twelve's mother. I eventually realized that it was because the other parents at the school are extremely involved with their children's educations - SO involved that the school didn't bother to send home any information about fall parent-teacher conferences. The sign up sheets were in the hall, I was told, and "all the parents are in here so much we've never had a problem" with folks not getting the information. The tone was clear: You're a total slacker mom.
Excuse me? Twelve is by no means deprived or neglected. She has more clothes than I even pretend to keep track of, piles of books, participates in a manageable level of extra-curricular activities (though simultaneous volleyball and cross-country will not happen again), and gets good grades. She's responsible for herself, and I often have the sense that people are not quite sure how to deal with that.
If having raised this kind of child makes me a slacker, than I nominate Newt Gingrich for Loyal Husband of the Year.
I do have some idea of how her college professors will deal with that: Shock, awe, A+.
Right about now, I'm feeling like a parenting rockstar.
Without consciously intending to, I've raised Twelve with an assortment of anti-helplessness tactics - turns out being broke and wanting to maintain my own adult life works.
Financially, we're doing fine right now, which is awfully nice, but ordering the Downton Abbey DVDs was still a fairly major splurge. For most of Twelve's childhood, money has been much tighter, so there's been no chance of her becoming addicted to the latest gadgets, as is characteristic of her generation. (I wonder, though, whether the folks who generalize about Gen Y/iY are taking socioeconomic class into account? My knowledge on social class differences is a bit dated, to be sure, but I am still skeptical.)
I've also never been a terribly hands-on parent, mainly because I have other things going on. I've been a single parent since Twelve was a baby, and R did not enter our lives until she was six, so my college and work responsibilities have always shaped my involvement in Twelve's day-to-day activities. Guilt at not being involved enough? You bet.
Twelve went to our local Waldorf school through second grade, which required a certain amount of parental participation. At the very least, I had to pack her lunch and drive her to and fro, and there were definitely periods of time in which that was about all I could manage. Leaving Waldorf was not by choice - see 'broke,' above - but I will admit to being relieved when reduced-price cafeteria lunches at the scootering-distance-away public school became an option.
My social life picked up considerably at about the same time I met R; I had Twelve when I was barely 20, so I didn't do the early-20s thing until I was 26. (This worked out okay - you get to the same place, and probably much quicker and with fewer hangovers.) The older she got, the easier it was to arrange childcare, and finally - finally! - we got to the home-alone stage.
(Note to parents of young children: You will get here eventually. And it's awesome. Note to childless folk: Be very, very sure you want to have children. You can't do anything without them without a hassle. And it's expensive.)
As a result of all this, Twelve is fairly accustomed to not getting what she wants: Sometimes we can't afford it, and sometimes Mom has something else going on. This year, we're more likely to be able to afford it, and Mom is more likely to be home, but Twelve's expectations are well-formed. I can't even remember the last time she asked for something expensive, and she's joking when she asks to be driven to or picked up from school. When something pricey is an option - Downton Abbey DVDs, signing up for volleyball - Twelve gets that it's significant. When we discovered that the reasonably priced cake decorating class at JoAnns required about a gazillion dollars' worth of supplies (it's a TOTAL scam, by the way), she dismissed the idea entirely. Before arranging for me or R to drive her to something, she thinks about whether she can get there on her own by bus or bike.
A few months into the year, when I stopped by to meet a few teachers at her new school, they seemed surprised to meet Twelve's mother. I eventually realized that it was because the other parents at the school are extremely involved with their children's educations - SO involved that the school didn't bother to send home any information about fall parent-teacher conferences. The sign up sheets were in the hall, I was told, and "all the parents are in here so much we've never had a problem" with folks not getting the information. The tone was clear: You're a total slacker mom.
Excuse me? Twelve is by no means deprived or neglected. She has more clothes than I even pretend to keep track of, piles of books, participates in a manageable level of extra-curricular activities (though simultaneous volleyball and cross-country will not happen again), and gets good grades. She's responsible for herself, and I often have the sense that people are not quite sure how to deal with that.
If having raised this kind of child makes me a slacker, than I nominate Newt Gingrich for Loyal Husband of the Year.
I do have some idea of how her college professors will deal with that: Shock, awe, A+.
Tuesday, February 7, 2012
Crazytime with Twelve
It is usually impossible for me to convey the full extent of Twelve's wacky behavior at home, mostly because I can never remember enough of the crazy shit she says to record it properly. Tonight was no exception, but there was more than usual so I've actually managed to remember a few choice fragments:
"L and I made up silly names for each other with 'fart' in them. Want to hear them?"
"Want to know how I know? I have magical unicorns that fart butterflies and poop gold."
[after haphazardly applying lipstick on me] "Purse your lips like you're about to make out with a real hunk."
"What does "that's what she said" mean? I asked my teacher ... Okay, I didn't really ask my teacher."
[lying in bed, working up excess saliva] "I have rabies! Watch out, I'll give you my rabies and then I will be de-rabiesed."
I can't quite tell what's going on in her brain; it's clear that at least part of her motivation is the shock value, but I think she's mostly just cracking herself up. It's partially a performance, but she almost never does it when other people are around. When she gets going, it definitely snowballs until she can barely talk for the laughing. Of course, this quickly degenerates into you're-driving-mom-bonkers territory: Stop poking me or you're never watching Downton Abbey again! Threatening to take away the iPod Touch also does the trick. Who says there's no reason for children to have fancy gadgets?
Tonight, on the descent into Crazytime, Twelve proposed a new Mother-Daughter Bonding Time activity. On paper, Mother-Daughter Bonding Time is exactly what it sounds like. For example, I might say, "Want to come on a walk along the riverfront? It could be Mother-Daughter Bonding Time" and then we'd go for a walk. Lovely and sweet, yes. In practice, guess how often we go on walks? Yeah.
Most often, Mother-Daughter Bonding Time is shorthand for "Let's go shopping!" Don't get me wrong, this is fine with me. We combine this with Sewing Machine Hunting (for my "business" - let me know if you need a used sewing machine, and I'll hook you up, but it might be a bit of a drive) and have a grand time. We have a usual route through the secondhand stores in the nearby somewhat-larger town as well as the local shops. As we drive, Twelve talks to me without meaning to. Often I'll find a machine or two, and Twelve finds a pile of books and yet another super-cute garment that hangs in the closet while she wears the same blue hoodie every day.
Tonight's proposal was, "Let's have Mother-Daughter Bonding Time tomorrow. We can go to the mall, because there's a Claire's there and I need to get a present for the birthday party on Friday and there's a Bath & Body Works. I love you so much and we'll get to have Mother-Daughter Bonding Time and your hair is so pretty." Of course, she's dissolved into giggles about halfway through this nonsense, and they're very contagious giggles.
Well, I hate shopping malls. Can't stand them in general, and this one is particularly bad. Malls represent all that is cheap, tacky, greedy consumerism-driven, irresponsibly produced, and just plain messed up. Bah humbug.
Although ... I did have my shopping-in-malls stage, and now that you mention it I do remember a particularly nice Orange Ginger lotion from Bath & Body Works that I used to have in a pump bottle ... You love me so much? You want to have Mother-Daughter Bonding Time with me? You think my hair is pretty?
We'll probably go to the mall tomorrow. I promise to complain a lot, though, and point out the uneven hems on the clothes, and try not to buy anything but the lotion and maybe the bath gel.
"L and I made up silly names for each other with 'fart' in them. Want to hear them?"
"Want to know how I know? I have magical unicorns that fart butterflies and poop gold."
[after haphazardly applying lipstick on me] "Purse your lips like you're about to make out with a real hunk."
"What does "that's what she said" mean? I asked my teacher ... Okay, I didn't really ask my teacher."
[lying in bed, working up excess saliva] "I have rabies! Watch out, I'll give you my rabies and then I will be de-rabiesed."
I can't quite tell what's going on in her brain; it's clear that at least part of her motivation is the shock value, but I think she's mostly just cracking herself up. It's partially a performance, but she almost never does it when other people are around. When she gets going, it definitely snowballs until she can barely talk for the laughing. Of course, this quickly degenerates into you're-driving-mom-bonkers territory: Stop poking me or you're never watching Downton Abbey again! Threatening to take away the iPod Touch also does the trick. Who says there's no reason for children to have fancy gadgets?
Tonight, on the descent into Crazytime, Twelve proposed a new Mother-Daughter Bonding Time activity. On paper, Mother-Daughter Bonding Time is exactly what it sounds like. For example, I might say, "Want to come on a walk along the riverfront? It could be Mother-Daughter Bonding Time" and then we'd go for a walk. Lovely and sweet, yes. In practice, guess how often we go on walks? Yeah.
Most often, Mother-Daughter Bonding Time is shorthand for "Let's go shopping!" Don't get me wrong, this is fine with me. We combine this with Sewing Machine Hunting (for my "business" - let me know if you need a used sewing machine, and I'll hook you up, but it might be a bit of a drive) and have a grand time. We have a usual route through the secondhand stores in the nearby somewhat-larger town as well as the local shops. As we drive, Twelve talks to me without meaning to. Often I'll find a machine or two, and Twelve finds a pile of books and yet another super-cute garment that hangs in the closet while she wears the same blue hoodie every day.
Tonight's proposal was, "Let's have Mother-Daughter Bonding Time tomorrow. We can go to the mall, because there's a Claire's there and I need to get a present for the birthday party on Friday and there's a Bath & Body Works. I love you so much and we'll get to have Mother-Daughter Bonding Time and your hair is so pretty." Of course, she's dissolved into giggles about halfway through this nonsense, and they're very contagious giggles.
Well, I hate shopping malls. Can't stand them in general, and this one is particularly bad. Malls represent all that is cheap, tacky, greedy consumerism-driven, irresponsibly produced, and just plain messed up. Bah humbug.
Although ... I did have my shopping-in-malls stage, and now that you mention it I do remember a particularly nice Orange Ginger lotion from Bath & Body Works that I used to have in a pump bottle ... You love me so much? You want to have Mother-Daughter Bonding Time with me? You think my hair is pretty?
We'll probably go to the mall tomorrow. I promise to complain a lot, though, and point out the uneven hems on the clothes, and try not to buy anything but the lotion and maybe the bath gel.
Monday, February 6, 2012
In Which We Conclude That Size Does Indeed Matter
About three years ago I went back to school and couldn't afford to keep paying the inflated mortgage on the house I own. I was devastated, because I had been so determined to keep my house - shyster mortgage broker, adjustable rate mortgage, property taxes and underemployment be damned! Finally giving in, I found renters to pay the mortgage and rented a smaller, much less expensive house that we came across in a fortuitous chain of events.
I had found an affordable, craptastic apartment and was about to pay a non-refundable deposit. We happened to have dinner with some acquaintances the night before, because they were about to move. I mentioned our upcoming move and they said we could have their house, which they had been renting from some longtime family friends. It's an old Craftsman, close to downtown and the river, with a porch and a partially finished full basement. I laughed and said, sure, that would be great, but we won't be able to afford it. The punch line: Rent on the house was less than the crappy apartment. We moved in the next week. (Please do not kill me and take my house!)
While I soon discovered that I adore living downtown for lots of reasons, I am beginning to find that the small size and old-fashioned layout of this house are a boon when one is attempting to raise an adolescent. I can't quite say definitively, seeing as how Twelve may yet become awful, but I've begun developing theory in that direction.
Our house is tiny. Picture a square, with four rooms of approximately equal size; two bedrooms on one side, kitchen and living room on the other. The front door opens onto the living room. Walk in, and R's and my bedroom is on your left, with the kitchen straight ahead. Go into the kitchen, and Twelve's bedroom is on your left. The bathroom is between the bedrooms. That's all there is to the upstairs.
I'm pretty convinced that it takes more effort to perform stereotypical adolescent behaviors when the physical space isn't conducive to them, and this house sure isn't. It's not that there's no privacy - the doors close, and Twelve could go into her bedroom and shut herself off - but there's something about the layout that discourages self-isolation. There are no hallways to stomp down before slamming oneself into the bedroom to sulk. There's no way to spend inordinate amounts of time in the bathroom without somebody soon needing to brush their teeth or pee. There isn't a faraway family room or upstairs great room or anywhere really to go besides the places where the rest of us already are.
The smallness encourages frequent and positive interactions. We can poke our heads into Twelve's room to say hello and see what she's up to with relative ease. It's obvious when someone arrives home and greeting her/him requires no special effort. When R and I are in the kitchen, we're right there; Twelve can join in (read: interrupt and derail) our conversations from her customary seat on the bed. When somebody has taken the face wash out of the shower and left it by the sink, somebody can be easily summoned from aforementioned customary seat to hand the face wash back in. And then she leaves it out again the next day and dares to summon you to get it for her, at which point you comply with a somewhat sarcastic version of your very best Mr. Carson impression, "Can I get you anything else, Milady?" (Mr. Carson's voice is the most fun to try, you see.)
Nice theories, eh? We'll see how I feel about this tiny house when (perhaps if?) all adolescent hell breaks loose, but for now I'm just going to enjoy it, lack of closet space and all. Remind me of this the next time I'm trying to put away a few loads of clean clothes.
I had found an affordable, craptastic apartment and was about to pay a non-refundable deposit. We happened to have dinner with some acquaintances the night before, because they were about to move. I mentioned our upcoming move and they said we could have their house, which they had been renting from some longtime family friends. It's an old Craftsman, close to downtown and the river, with a porch and a partially finished full basement. I laughed and said, sure, that would be great, but we won't be able to afford it. The punch line: Rent on the house was less than the crappy apartment. We moved in the next week. (Please do not kill me and take my house!)
While I soon discovered that I adore living downtown for lots of reasons, I am beginning to find that the small size and old-fashioned layout of this house are a boon when one is attempting to raise an adolescent. I can't quite say definitively, seeing as how Twelve may yet become awful, but I've begun developing theory in that direction.
Our house is tiny. Picture a square, with four rooms of approximately equal size; two bedrooms on one side, kitchen and living room on the other. The front door opens onto the living room. Walk in, and R's and my bedroom is on your left, with the kitchen straight ahead. Go into the kitchen, and Twelve's bedroom is on your left. The bathroom is between the bedrooms. That's all there is to the upstairs.
I'm pretty convinced that it takes more effort to perform stereotypical adolescent behaviors when the physical space isn't conducive to them, and this house sure isn't. It's not that there's no privacy - the doors close, and Twelve could go into her bedroom and shut herself off - but there's something about the layout that discourages self-isolation. There are no hallways to stomp down before slamming oneself into the bedroom to sulk. There's no way to spend inordinate amounts of time in the bathroom without somebody soon needing to brush their teeth or pee. There isn't a faraway family room or upstairs great room or anywhere really to go besides the places where the rest of us already are.
The smallness encourages frequent and positive interactions. We can poke our heads into Twelve's room to say hello and see what she's up to with relative ease. It's obvious when someone arrives home and greeting her/him requires no special effort. When R and I are in the kitchen, we're right there; Twelve can join in (read: interrupt and derail) our conversations from her customary seat on the bed. When somebody has taken the face wash out of the shower and left it by the sink, somebody can be easily summoned from aforementioned customary seat to hand the face wash back in. And then she leaves it out again the next day and dares to summon you to get it for her, at which point you comply with a somewhat sarcastic version of your very best Mr. Carson impression, "Can I get you anything else, Milady?" (Mr. Carson's voice is the most fun to try, you see.)
Nice theories, eh? We'll see how I feel about this tiny house when (perhaps if?) all adolescent hell breaks loose, but for now I'm just going to enjoy it, lack of closet space and all. Remind me of this the next time I'm trying to put away a few loads of clean clothes.
Friday, February 3, 2012
Lady Twelve, Shall I Ring for Tea?
We've discovered Downton Abbey. Needing a break from Breaking Bad a few days ago, I looked it up on the strength of a faint memory of someone having mentioned it on Facebook and a passing reference in an xkcd comic. So I searched for - wait for it - "Downtown Abbey."
Let's just say that I haven't accomplished much this week except resolve to actually learn something about the first World War.
Speaking of which, no one knows anything about WWI. Seriously. You know that Friends episode where Rachel and Phoebe think we fought Mexico? I lived that out a few years ago when not a single one of my friends knew why WWI started. Then when we looked it up and found out that it started when some Austrian archduke was assassinated, we still had no freaking clue. And I still don't.
Anyway, the clothing on Downton Abbey is pretty darn accurate as far as I can tell, the interiors are gorgeous, and they do address gender and class issues, so it practically counts as research for me. And, since it's a PBS production, I figured it would be okay for Twelve to watch it too. This will be great, I thought: We'll discuss early 20th Century class and gender norms! We'll look up period clothing and furniture in reference books! Enthusiastically I hauled them out and made a pile on the coffee table (which turns out not to be the best place to keep expensive textbooks).
Well, it's a good thing that I didn't bother to get out any Mary Wollestonecraft or John Stuart Mill. She does ask questions, but I can only get about a half a sentence in before she remembers that she's not supposed to care about the answers.
Tonight Twelve asked why they still have the disloyal (footman-turned-soldier) Thomas and (head ladies' maid) O'Brien on the show. Her logic seems to be that since they're so nasty, they should go. I agreed that they are indeed bad apples, and explained that they need to keep them around for dramatic purposes. As we discussed the mercurially loyal O'Brien, what struck me was Lady Grantham's total oblivion to her scheming. Cora seems incredibly perceptive when it comes to interpreting the behavior of her mother-in-law, her husband, her daughters, and so on; why can't she see through O'Brien's bullshit?
It's because one of the markers of social power is taking it for granted that your subordinates are performing their roles correctly. You assume they are loyal on such a fundamental level that you don't even know you're doing it. You don't ask yourself if your maid is manipulating you because that's not part of her role. Your mother-in-law might manipulate you - or try to - but it doesn't occur to you that your maid might. Lady Grantham refers to her maid as a close friend because she's decided that's part of O'Brien's role.
I worry a bit about Twelve's role at school. I don't want her to be a Lady Grantham or an O'Brien. I used to be afraid that she'd be a Mean Girl - she's smart enough to be. Lately, though, my concern is the reverse. She's awfully enamored of her new best friend, L, who is an incredibly privileged young woman. There's a note of reverence in the way Twelve speaks of L that bothers me somewhat: Twelve's interest in Downton Abbey increased dramatically when she discovered that L watches it too, she seems awfully attentive to L's preferences and perspectives, and she's currently reading her way through L's favorite series.
This could all be just fine, of course. L seems like a lovely young lady, and she could be just as eager to learn about, please, and emulate Twelve as Twelve is to her. The teachers I've spoken with haven't mentioned noticing anything, but then again they also haven't seemed to notice the elaborate note-passing methods that Twelve and L employ during study hall.
The bottom line is that I'm just going to have to make my peace with not knowing, and with not being able to do anything about it if I did. Of course I'll continue watching for danger signs (which would be ... what, exactly?), but I may never know if Twelve is playing O'Brien to L's Lady Grantham or if it's the other way around. She'll be who she is, and she'll be fine.
Now ... I'm just a few episodes into the second season, and may lightening strike and fleas infest anyone who tells me what happens!
Let's just say that I haven't accomplished much this week except resolve to actually learn something about the first World War.
Speaking of which, no one knows anything about WWI. Seriously. You know that Friends episode where Rachel and Phoebe think we fought Mexico? I lived that out a few years ago when not a single one of my friends knew why WWI started. Then when we looked it up and found out that it started when some Austrian archduke was assassinated, we still had no freaking clue. And I still don't.
Anyway, the clothing on Downton Abbey is pretty darn accurate as far as I can tell, the interiors are gorgeous, and they do address gender and class issues, so it practically counts as research for me. And, since it's a PBS production, I figured it would be okay for Twelve to watch it too. This will be great, I thought: We'll discuss early 20th Century class and gender norms! We'll look up period clothing and furniture in reference books! Enthusiastically I hauled them out and made a pile on the coffee table (which turns out not to be the best place to keep expensive textbooks).
Well, it's a good thing that I didn't bother to get out any Mary Wollestonecraft or John Stuart Mill. She does ask questions, but I can only get about a half a sentence in before she remembers that she's not supposed to care about the answers.
Tonight Twelve asked why they still have the disloyal (footman-turned-soldier) Thomas and (head ladies' maid) O'Brien on the show. Her logic seems to be that since they're so nasty, they should go. I agreed that they are indeed bad apples, and explained that they need to keep them around for dramatic purposes. As we discussed the mercurially loyal O'Brien, what struck me was Lady Grantham's total oblivion to her scheming. Cora seems incredibly perceptive when it comes to interpreting the behavior of her mother-in-law, her husband, her daughters, and so on; why can't she see through O'Brien's bullshit?
It's because one of the markers of social power is taking it for granted that your subordinates are performing their roles correctly. You assume they are loyal on such a fundamental level that you don't even know you're doing it. You don't ask yourself if your maid is manipulating you because that's not part of her role. Your mother-in-law might manipulate you - or try to - but it doesn't occur to you that your maid might. Lady Grantham refers to her maid as a close friend because she's decided that's part of O'Brien's role.
I worry a bit about Twelve's role at school. I don't want her to be a Lady Grantham or an O'Brien. I used to be afraid that she'd be a Mean Girl - she's smart enough to be. Lately, though, my concern is the reverse. She's awfully enamored of her new best friend, L, who is an incredibly privileged young woman. There's a note of reverence in the way Twelve speaks of L that bothers me somewhat: Twelve's interest in Downton Abbey increased dramatically when she discovered that L watches it too, she seems awfully attentive to L's preferences and perspectives, and she's currently reading her way through L's favorite series.
This could all be just fine, of course. L seems like a lovely young lady, and she could be just as eager to learn about, please, and emulate Twelve as Twelve is to her. The teachers I've spoken with haven't mentioned noticing anything, but then again they also haven't seemed to notice the elaborate note-passing methods that Twelve and L employ during study hall.
The bottom line is that I'm just going to have to make my peace with not knowing, and with not being able to do anything about it if I did. Of course I'll continue watching for danger signs (which would be ... what, exactly?), but I may never know if Twelve is playing O'Brien to L's Lady Grantham or if it's the other way around. She'll be who she is, and she'll be fine.
Now ... I'm just a few episodes into the second season, and may lightening strike and fleas infest anyone who tells me what happens!
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)