While riding my bike several weeks ago, I got hit by a car. This post is not about the accident. That story will not be heard by the general public until the insurance claim is closed. However, the accident was significant enough to be included in Brennan's most recent autobiography. He writes monthly memoirs. At 8. God help us if he becomes famous.
If you have siblings you've done it. You have accused your parents at some point of having a 'favorite' child. When I was younger (last week), I was pretty sure that my parents loved Maggie/Kari/Johnny more than me (my parents have four children). As a parent I know I will be accused of loving Zoe more than Brennan and Ava. I was actually accused of this, implicitly, this morning. To defend myself against the explicit accusations which will surely be launched in the future (most likely with this blog being used as evidence - I'm confident there are more Zoe posts than anything else), I would like to propose that I don't have 'favorites,' I simply have 'differents.' Let me explain.
I will frame this post around Zoe, not because she is my favorite, but rather because last week was her sixth birthday. I say 'last week' because it lasted seven days. Zoe has a birthday like an Indian has a wedding. I adore Zoe. I adore how she sprints up to school every morning, as fast as she can. I adore how she smiles and giggles incessantly while playing soccer. (A relevant aside: photos of Lori were featured in our local newspaper no less than 10 times her senior year of High School. Volleyball, graduation, softball, etc. And in every shot, regardless of activity, Lori is smiling and/or giggling. I also found that adorable.) Last night in order to feign abundance despite our current meager circumstances I bought a small container of Dibs ice cream nuggets for the kids to share on our way home from running some errands. I gave the container to Ava so that a) she could be in charge, which she is good at and b) so she could share, a lesson she still needs to work on. She did famously with this little task. At some point I turned around in the car to ask for one, but Ava responded that none were left. I said, "What!?" quite loudly, and before I could follow it up with a "just kidding," Zoe had taken one of the ice cream nuggets out of her mouth and offered it to me. Zoe loves chocolate and ice cream. I adore that despite this love, she loves me more. So, a confession: I probably do adore Zoe more than Brennan or Ava. It doesn't mean that I love her more; I love her differently. I admire Brennan, and I revere Ava. I'm ok with these distinctions (until they lead to therapy) because to love them all the same way would be disingenuous, denying them of their individual uniqueness. It simply means that I like hugging Zoe more than I like hugging them. Which is convenient, because unlike the other two, Zoe hugs me back.
The downside to this adoration is the need I feel to protect - something adorable also has the tendency to be treated as vulnerable, or weak. Like a bunny. Have you ever seen a cat kill a bunny? I have. It's awful. I fear that as her father, and as the result of her being as adorable to me as she is, I will feel the need to intervene when I should otherwise allow Zoe to exercise her own power to overcome whatever obstacle she is facing. Lori and I would do anything to make life easier for our children; but in so doing we may rob them of the chance to exert their own influence, develop their own confidence, and harness their own strength.
Last week during the annual Fall festival that is Zoe's birthday, we took brownies into her kindergarten class. The kids were excited about the brownies and the singing, so as soon as we walked into the room they jumped up and got a bit rambunctious. Zoe, adorably, told everyone to sit down and wait until the brownies were handed out. They all listened. She then, adorably, chose a quiet little girl sitting towards the back of the class - not one of her good friends - to help pass out the brownies. After the brownies were passed out and the song had been sung, the kids left the brownies on their desks and began to mill around a little bit, paying their individual respects to Queen Zo Zo. I noticed that one boy, I'll call him Josh, was paying a lot of attention to Zoe. I was sure it was due to the general attention she was receiving, but I was intrigued nonetheless, so I kept watching him. He finally called out her name, and when she looked in his direction, he blew her a kiss. If it had been one of those sweet little kindergarten kisses that kids blow to their parents, it would have been fine. But no. Josh's kiss to Zoe had, "I learned this from a Ke$ha video" written all over it. It was dirty, and I wanted to break his pinkie toe (scary specific, I know). Zoe was clearly (thankfully) unimpressed, so my worries were assuaged. She can take care of herself. She is, and will be, fine. We've taught her how to deal with twerps like Josh.
I can let Zoe be adorable AND strong. I can let her grow and get hurt, and I can detach when my emotional over-involvement would lead to unnecessary pain, resentment, control, and anxiety. I can do this. Even for our little Zo Zo.
I may or may not have put a booger on Josh's brownie.
