A Conundrum

Some weeks ago, we were having a spell of unseasonably warm weather, and son #1 would not go outside to enjoy it.  We kept encouraging him to go out and ride his bike (or skateboard or scooter), but he wouldn't stay out for more than 10 minutes.

One day on the way to school, I asked him why he never wanted to go outside and enjoy the sunshine.  "Well, I don't want to spend too much time in the sun, because I don't want my skin to look like yours, Mom."  You can imagine the stunned silence that met that.  Add in the shaft of piercing pain for hurt feelings (do I not look good?), horror (what kind of racism is this?), self-blame (where have I gone wrong in raising this child?) and extra horror (has he told other brown people he doesn't like their color?) and you just about have the atmosphere.

"Why don't you want to look like me, dear?"  

"Because I like Dad's color better."

No amount of rephrasing could get a better answer.  There was no nonsensically charming flight of fancy, like "I can see myself at night" or "I prefer milk to ice tea."  Just a niggardly* statement that he doesn't like my skin color.  I told him that sunshine and fresh air are good for him, and that he'll probably always be somewhere in between my color and his Dad's.  But... I didn't address the problem.  I'm really not sure how to tackle it, because I'm not even sure exactly what the problem is.  I don't want to start some long discussion on race, heredity, all men created equal, blah, blah, only to find out that that he uses the "flesh" color crayon to draw pictures of himself and is worried that he'll have to use "burned sienna" if he tans too much.  

So for now, this is just a niggling* issue sitting in the back of my mind.  I'm hoping to come up with some sort of approach for the next time this issue arises, if it does.

*Stop sniggering, this is serious.

Bad Mommy

I've long suspected it, but now I know it is true: I am the type of woman that will laugh at the tears of a small child. Heartily. Then fuss him out so that he has something real to cry about.

Today's example was courtesy of the #1 son, who likes the computer way too much. He came home from school and parked himself at my desk, at the neighboring computer, and began to play his games. We've been fighting this battle for 4 months, where I try to kick him out nicely, while explaining that I have work to do and his games (and his commentary on the games) are very distracting. Today I just skipped that part and settled my mind to ignoring all noise to my right. He was able to play quietly and I was able to work, and all was well with the world. Then the nanny (who keeps #2 while I'm working, and gets #1 from school. Truly, she is the shizzle) reminded him to practice piano. Good work, nanny! I don't even mind the small niggle of shame that I didn't tell him this myself. I instantly backed her up, and encouraged him to go play. While holding my gaze intently, he slowly distorted his face and let his eyes fill with tears. I had a brief thought that perhaps he felt rejected, cast out from my shining presence, etc, but then he said, "But what about my cheetos??"

The cheetos that had been untouched next to him for an hour.

This is the point at which my small frond of maternal sensitivity curled up and died, because I told him in order:
1. You must be joking me.
2. Are you seriously crying over cheetos?
3. You better quit that baby stuff because you are way too old to cry just because you've been asked to practice.

At this point the tears were rolling, the hand has been flung across his face for greater effect, and I just laughed in his face. Then I kicked him out and told him to go practice. I don't know which was worse for him- being asked to practice, or being forced to practice without an audience. If a boy plays piano but no one listens, does it fulfill his deep need for drama and attention?

At no point was I able to summon even the smallest bit of tenderness for this transaction. I am pleased with myself however, for not dropping any words like milquetoast, drama queen, or weeping wendy. It might soon be time to introduce the word "putz" though. This might get him to the next level of drama, where he saves it for an identifiable return. I have fond memories of every relative I have addressing me as Putz. As I grew older, my family name changed for a while to Jaye "Don't Be Such a F-ing Putz" Falls, but now I am back to the assortment of loving insults that were bestowed upon me as a young lass. None of this ever hurt me, or distorted my character in any (horrible, paralyzing) way. Perhaps a gentle "doofus" added to the mix would also help dry his tears. I dunno- I don't want to be rude or anything, or scar him for life.

Things That Make Me Cranky

Well, anything really, but I have some specific things in mind:

1. Being told to write 100 pages a week. That was on Monday, and now on Friday, I have written zero pages this week. Yay.

2. My office smells like skunk. It's just my part of the building, and it really, really stinks. I have a headache.

3. Because of 1 and 2, I had a "disproportionate response" to a software problem this morning. I own a copy of Adobe Acrobat Pro, which is awesome because I get to do a lot of great things with PDF files. However, I also have installed copies of Adobe Reader, for simpler things like web browsing. Turns out this morning that the latest update to Reader took over my registry and wouldn't let me use Acrobat Pro. This is a problem since I paid for that software and intend to use it until it's worn out. So in a total flame, I called Adobe tech support.

"Hello, ma'am, may I have your customer ID number?"

"No. No, you may not. This is because I don't have the docs with me and I can't open the application to give you the registration number."

Short silence as Bangalore Kid absorbs my words and tone.

"OK, describe the problem for me."

Which I did, using my nice voice and my quiet words. But...

"OK ma'am, I'm not sure what went wrong, but we no longer support Acrobat 6.0, the current version is 9.0."

"You can support me, and you will."

"But ma'am, that version is no longer..."

"I don't care about that, just fix it."

"Um... it sounds like the new version of Reader has taken over some Registry keys, and the best thing you can do is un-install Reader. For more intensive support, I'll have to charge you $39."

"You must be joking with me. Why would you issue a version of Reader that interferes with Acrobat? That's nonsensical. By the way, I'm not paying for anything. I bought this software just 5 years ago, and it would be perfectly good if you just supported it."

"Um... would you like a case number?"

"Yes, of course. I'll just un-install Reader while I'm at it, and that better fix the problem."

"Have a good day, ma'am."

So just a service announcement: 5 year old software may not be supported by the issuing company.

Of course I know that I could have just uninstalled Reader in the first place, but then I wouldn't have had the pleasure of harassing a perfectly nice kid in Bangalore. Doing it the cranky way got me extra pleasure and a touch of summer, just like a vacation, but cheaper.

All better now, and I bet I can knock those 100 pages out this afternoon.