The Dormouse Fear Response or Curl up and Hide

Fight or flight?  These are supposedly the major responses to fear, but I know that there is a third.  I hide.

Whenever I watch a scary movie, my first instinct is to yell out, “Hide!”  Under the table, in the forest, in a corner, under the bed.  Just make yourself invisible.  Even though in almost every scary movie, the hiders get found, I can never think of doing anything but.  I have never been a very fast runner, and so flight is out.  And while I imaginatively do serious damage to unsavory characters in movies or on TV, in real life, I am not a fighter. No, my initial response to threats or confrontation is retreat into the dormouse mode.  (Not that I've ever met a dormouse, but A. A. Milne’s hid in a garden of “geraniums red and delphiniums blue.”)

I loathe confrontation and am only brave with a pen in my hand.  In my children’s tween and teen years, whenever a “discussion” reached an impasse, I wrote long letters on yellow legal pad, in ink, explaining my concerns, fears, love.  My script became increasingly larger as my emotions intensified, so much so that the last page might consist of only three words per line.  These were long letters that I folded and stuffed under their bedroom doors. Sometimes they wrote back; sometimes they just nodded the next day and normal home life returned--until the next time.  

I was also an avowed hanger-upper. When I’d said all I wanted to say and heard all the excuses I wanted to hear, I’d slam down the receiver.  I found that Bang! quite satisfying, a feeling that cell-phone-only  users will never know.  I've a little shame about one of those times.  When my oldest was in high school, she was late coming home one night.  She called, and before she could say anything but “Mom.…”  I said, “Just get yourself home right this minute!”  She called again, shouting into the receiver, “Don’t hang up!  Don’t hang up!  I've been in a wreck.”  My concerned mother mode did kick in then, but she will never let me live this one down.  (When the movie trailer for Secrets of the Ya-Ya Sisterhood featured the mother slamming down the receiver, cutting off further conversation with her daughter, three of my four children called to ask me if I’d seen myself in action.  Oops.)

With an adult child, I resorted to texting during one of our conflicts.  That child asked me why we couldn’t just talk about it.  My very adult response was, “Because I want to say what I want to say, and I do not want a response!”  He accused me of “drive-by parenting.”  You see?  I will go to any length to avoid conflict.  I didn't say it was always a mature response.  Effective?  Yes.  Mature?  Not  so much.

I did have a stage in life when I argued about Vietnam whenever I was at home, this in a family that was divided politically.  Mom dropped the hammer on that and forbade even the mention of Vietnam.  When I was in college and after, I demonstrated for Civil Rights and Women’s Rights, but since my forties—well, except twice in my sixties--I've written letters to the editor, letters and e-mails to politicians, used my blog to post opinions.  If I can say it in 140 characters, I put it on Twitter.  I avoid arguments that might lead to yelling.  I write instead.  It feels safer, except for the time I got several threatening hate mails about a letter to the editor in response to our starting a war in Iraq.  I’m not proud of this, but I immediately stopped writing letters to the editor. I started my blog instead.  Sol scared me.  And I’m a chicken.

I enjoy low-crawling and hiding.  I love avoiding people who want to scream at me.  I wish I had more grown up responses to fear, but I am just not comfortable with running or fighting.  For those of you who are able to fight back or run like hell, I commend you.  Me?  I’m happy curling up into a little ball in my virtual garden of geraniums red and delphiniums blue.

Super Heroes Don't Wear Pink

This is the 21^st century, but you wouldn't notice if you’d tried to find a super hero cape for a four-year-old girl.

I grew up in the heyday of comic book reading: Superman and Batman being staples, but I wasn't exclusive.  We neighborhood kids on Front Street walked or biked to Block’s Drug Store to peruse the latest publications by DC or Marvel.  For ten cents, we’d each buy a comic, plop down in our clubhouse in the Plummer boys’ backyard, and absorb a magic world where Good won and Evil was vanquished.  We’d read our own and then trade with each other.  So much magic for a ten-cent purchase.

That comic-book world was dominated by males--yes--but powerful women did exist, albeit in skin-tight attire.  It was the Fifties, a June Cleaver World, but these comics assured me as a young girl, that I, as well as the boys, could be super and heroic.

Sheena Queen of the Jungle first appeared in 1939, before I was even born.   She was followed by Cat Woman (1940) and Wonder Woman in (1941).  Batman met his female counterpart in 1954, and Super Girl strode into a Superman episode in 1958.  In retrospect, I can see that these female warriors were created by men, and, okay, were sexually objectified, but I did not notice this at the time.  They were fierce.  I only noticed that they fought crime and took down the bad guys.

With my grandsons--now nearly 7 and 5-years-old--I play Justice League and Avengers with costumes or action figures, but I did add a Wonder Woman and a Bat Woman figure to the mix three years ago.  I want my grandsons to know that we women are equally capable of fighting crime, helping out in a crisis, triumphing in a battle.  My two-year-old grandson, Lane—who says “Batman” in a low, gravelly voice—makes my heart sing.  Naturally, I bought him a hooded Batman cape for Christmas.

The only girl—Greer-- had been exposed to the DC/Marvel world, having spent summer and Christmas vacations with her cousins, playing with action figures and wearing their capes.  At home, she just co-opted Lane’s.  Greer does love the princess role and has gowns, wands, and tiaras galore, but I wanted her to have her own super person cape, too.

I began my online search, typing in “female super hero cape, 4-6 yrs.”  What popped up on multiple sites?  A plethora of purple and pink capes, some with glittered letters!  A pink cape was supposedly for Bat Girl? A purple cape for Super Girl.  Please!  No way that a female kick-butt super woman is going to put on a pretty pink cape.  She’d no more do that than put on strappy stilettos for a rumble.  It’s just not done.  I finally bought a Bat Woman action figure and a Bat Man cape for Greer.  It looks just like the boys’ capes, as it should, and it is black, as it must be. 

Come on, toy industry.  Yes, we girls do love a princess, but our interests are not as narrow as you seem to believe.  Young girls in the 21^st century are not as shallow as you want them to be.  In real life, adorable only gets a girl so far, and girls should learn that early on.  Pink is a lovely color for everyday life, but there’s nothing super about it..Period.

I Think I'm Funny. Why Am I the Only One Laughing?

Now that I have grandchildren, I continue to have flashbacks to my own child- and motherhood.  My grandsons are now six, four, and 18 months; my granddaughter, approaching four.  If laughter is the best medicine, I should be healthy as a horse.

Boone, the six- almost seven-year-old, is well on his way to being named Class Clown.  He loves to provoke a laugh and will go to any lengths to bring about that laughter.  One of his shticks involves putting odd things on his head, and once, this was a whole grapefruit.  He marched into the living room, sporting the fruit, and I said, “Take that grapefruit off your head right this minute!”  The moment those words left my lips, I laughed aloud, thereby encouraging the bad behavior.  What can I say? He makes me laugh.  Not too long ago, he wrapped a pompom into copier paper and taped it securely.  Knowing the desired response, I unwrapped it and put it behind my ear.  He laughed.  I laughed.  His brother, 41/2, looked up and said, “That’s not funny.” 

Rowan makes me laugh, too.  Not too long ago, while he and his brother were playing dress-up, Boone got into full super hero costume.  Rowan’s costume consisted of Disney underwear, a cape, a sword, and a frightfully well-articulated do rag.  And, he was astride a rocking horse.  He wasn’t laughing. I was.  He spent three hours with me and without Boone a few weeks ago   He had brought a huge cloth shopping bag of toys with him, and I keep a few things here.  We built a few structures with blocks, boxes, and books, half-heartedly played superheros, and then spotted my stick notes.  “I could play with those,” he said, tossing aside Superman and Batman.  He then spent an hour applying stick notes to my ottoman.  After this intensely creative project, he said, “There.  That looks better, “and then he went over to the couch, plopped down, and said, “I’m not tired.  I’m just doing what Boone does.  He sits on the couch after play, right?  This not a nap.”

Next comes Greer, the girl among the boys.  She’s not yet four but is quite the fashionista.  After she’s bathed and dressed in pajamas, been read to and tucked in, she waits until everyone is gone, then gets up and puts on a dress.  It’s a bit of a surprise to see what she’s wearing when morning comes.  She will not wear just any dress either.  It has to have a spin-worthy aspect to it.  If a dress won’t twirl, it just won’t do.  She’s not too prissy to play ball or rumble with her brother or cousins.  She just likes to look good while she’s at it.  Greer did play T-ball and seemed to love it, but she wore her team jersey with a shirt or atop a dress. She, like Rowan, doesn’t always appreciate my sense of humor.  While we were playing in her back yard, I picked up a stick and said, “Bibbity Bobby Boo!” then waved it.  “You just turned into a pumpkin,” I said.  “I’m a girl,” she retorted, then looked at me as if I were quite mad. Apparently, my humor is just too sophisticated for the three to four-year-old.

Lane is the youngest, and he thinks I’m a riot.  He runs everywhere, so much so that his preschool teachers call him “Fast Lane.”  And no matter what I do, if I mean to be amusing, he laughs. Since I think I’m funny, I do like an appreciative audience.  If I make a fish face, he laughs.  If I stick my head around a corner, he laughs.  It’s going to break my heart when he reaches three and finds me less and less amusing.

I may enjoy the fun of grand-motherhood, but I am also a stickler for some things, primarily: You make the mess.  You clean the mess. I can usually get them to do this, but not always.  A year ago, Boone would sometimes test me.  Once, I’d told him to pick up his toys, and he told me it wasn’t his job.  Comments like this turn me into a principled but stubborn woman. “It is your job.  I didn’t put the cars on the floor.” And on it went.  He finally put away the cars, but I longingly wished he’d reached my grand-nephew’s epiphany:

When Will was about six, his four-year-old sister, Carter, was arguing with me about doing something she was not permitted to do. “It’s no use, Carter,” he said.  “Keen always wins.” Now that’s what I call progress.  I’m waiting for the rest of them to reach this conclusion. Ha!