OK, before I start this one, I must clarify that I am completely qualified to distribute disdain and judgement on pageants, because I used to do them. I never did the little girl ones, but I do have some experience in this realm.
Today, while perusing Craigslist, Monster, and CareerBuilder for jobs, I put some trashy daytime on TV for background noise. As I begrudgingly scrolled through dismal job after dismal job, I happened to notice a program called Little Miss Perfect. Have you heard of this one? It's one of these reality shows that trails the comings and goings of the teensy little divas that participate in kiddie pageants. Well, that's sort of misleading. The little girls are more of an afterthought, as center stage is typically stolen by the enormous fustercluck that is a Pageant Mom.
Now, for a moment, let's discuss the disturbing amount of money that is spent to make these kids look like a Marie Osmond procelain doll on crack. Fake hair. Fake tans. Fake eyelashes. Fake teeth. Dresses. Costumes. Shoes. And, of course, props. Oh, how these girls love their props. On today's show, I witnessed a six year old little girl who dressed as a Marine, and danced about with a giant cardboard tank, built around her brother's dirtbike. Don't you know he just loved that? At the end of the day, these moms are spending $3,000 per pageant, at a minimum. Minimum! And for what? College scholarships? A new car? A shot at curing cancer, maybe? NO! At the most, these teeny tots get a check for a grand, a basket of puppies, and a pat on the back. If they even win! I don't know about you, but that's a little something I like to call jacked up.
You may be thinking that these moms are indulging their sweet little girls who dream of being a princess for a day, all in the name of love. You would be wrong. The common denominator in these women, aside from an extra 75 pounds around the midsection, is this primal need to win something. Near as I can tell, these are women who were never exceptionally successful at anything competitive in their own lives and are therefore pimping their babies for a tiara and a sash. And the hilarious thing is that only a quarter of these little girls actually want to do the damn pageants in the first place; most of the time, moms are bribing their little ones to practice interview questions and "walk pretty" with Pixi Stix and Fun Dip. And you wonder why they need fake teeth...
And God bless the ugly siblings of these poor little girls. Most families have one talented little girl and one Eeyore. Droopy eyed and perpetually sighing, the "other sister" just lacks the pizazz that Mommy Dearest sees in the shining star child, and suffers relentlessly for it. This is the kid that hold her sister's papier mache pirate ship in place on stage while the Amazing one twirls about in her pretty dress. The kid who spends her birthday at the dance studio watching her sister rehearse her dance for the talent competition. The kid who gets a pet parakeet to her sister's pet pony.
I suppose what has made me so critically aware of the dysfunction in these tulle parades is the adorable-ness that is my sweet child. Cricket is just one of those babies who will giggle raucously because I put the groceries away. She smiles from ear to ear when she toots in the bathtub. Basically, everything she does is hopelessly cute, and she wakes up every day blissfully pleased with herself for no apparent reason. I know that every mother must feel this way. I mean, honestly, what parent doesn't believe their offspring is the greatest thing since sliced bread? The disconnect comes, however, when the parent makes the most hidious of judgement errors, and assumes that everyone else in the world agrees. So, what is the next logical step? A pageant, of course! Oh God, I can hear the conversation around the Taco Bell table now... "Just think, Bobby. If McKayla Louise is pretty in a Carter's onesie, she'll be twice as pretty in a $2,000 pink taffeta dress, with three punds of fake curly hair pasted on her head and a spray-on tan! Surely, she's cute enough to beat out those other hobo-children and win the grand prize: a basket of semi-purebred Yorkie puppies and a $200 Chick Fil A gift certificate... We won't have to cook for weeks!"
Get real, Rhonda Jo! Sure, your kid is cute. Maybe even exceptionally cute, cuter than the average little rag-a-muffin. But brace yourself, because I've got news for you: no amount of cute is reason to dress your child like something old diabetic women buy on QVC at 2:30 a.m. instead of their insulin. None. And do you know why? Because eventually, she'll grow up. You think a woman with daddy issues is bad? You ain't seen nothin' til you've met a former kiddie pageant survivor. Can you imagine support group meetings for these poor girls? The multi-purpose room at the community center would be draped in chiffon and transformed into a makeshift stage, while they all compete for a busted tennis racket as a trophy....
My point, mothers and fathers, is that your child is precious enough with all the frills and the rhinestones. Nothing in the world can compare to a simple toothless grin from a drooling baby. Because at the end of the day, it's far better to win her love than it is is watch her win someone else's approval.
Tuesday, April 13, 2010
Wednesday, April 7, 2010
Letter to my Cricket girl
You're everything I've ever wanted, and more. More than I expected was possible. More than I believed I deserved.
When you cry real tears, it takes all my strength not to cry too. And not because I can't fix it, but because I know your little world is so small right now, and whatever is making you cry feels huge to you. That something so simple like hunger can move you to tears moves me to tears.
When I rock you to sleep, I marvel at your lovely long eyelashes. I think about how, when you're a teenager, you'll start wearing mascara on those very lashes. I hope that you always believe you're beautiful, even when cruel children try to convince you you're not.
When you stretch out, long and leisurely, I think about how your body already carries what will someday make your children. I hope that you have them in your own time, on your terms. When you're really 100% ready, and with someone who will be your rock. Someone who can be for you what your father is for me.
I run my fingers through your hair, and it feels like down beneath my skin. In a few years, we'll pull it into pigtails for you so you can see while you play. You'll chase and play, tummy sticking out beneath your t-shirt. With skinned knees and a bright smile, you'll run free and we'll watch, amazed at how big you've become.
A few years later, you'll curl that hair and pin it up for a dance. A night that holds the promise and potential of a first kiss, or a real slow dance. The first time you'll hold a boy in your arms and feel your heart beat a little faster, wondering how you lived this long without something so sweet.
And a few years after that, you'll feel the comb of a veil within it, and steady your nerves as you prepare to promise your heart to someone. You'll wonder what he's thinking, and hope that the day doesn't fly by too fast. You'll see your face in the mirror and feel, for the first time, like everything is as it should be.
Someday, you may realize that you do not owe a single person on this Earth a relationship with you. Even me. You may begin to understand that motherhood, fatherhood, friendship, every relationship in your life is a priviledge to be earned, not a right to be taken for granted. That you are unique and beautiful, and you deserve respect and caring from the people in your life. I pray that you do not realize this because of my personal failings.
I implore God daily to give me the qualities that will make me a good mother. To help me do everything it takes to earn my relationship with you every day. Know that I know how special your love is. That I know how much honor and respect you deserve. That I know there's only one you, one me, and one chance to get it right, and getting it right is what I want more than anything.
I love you, my sweet Cricket girl.
When you cry real tears, it takes all my strength not to cry too. And not because I can't fix it, but because I know your little world is so small right now, and whatever is making you cry feels huge to you. That something so simple like hunger can move you to tears moves me to tears.
When I rock you to sleep, I marvel at your lovely long eyelashes. I think about how, when you're a teenager, you'll start wearing mascara on those very lashes. I hope that you always believe you're beautiful, even when cruel children try to convince you you're not.
When you stretch out, long and leisurely, I think about how your body already carries what will someday make your children. I hope that you have them in your own time, on your terms. When you're really 100% ready, and with someone who will be your rock. Someone who can be for you what your father is for me.
I run my fingers through your hair, and it feels like down beneath my skin. In a few years, we'll pull it into pigtails for you so you can see while you play. You'll chase and play, tummy sticking out beneath your t-shirt. With skinned knees and a bright smile, you'll run free and we'll watch, amazed at how big you've become.
A few years later, you'll curl that hair and pin it up for a dance. A night that holds the promise and potential of a first kiss, or a real slow dance. The first time you'll hold a boy in your arms and feel your heart beat a little faster, wondering how you lived this long without something so sweet.
And a few years after that, you'll feel the comb of a veil within it, and steady your nerves as you prepare to promise your heart to someone. You'll wonder what he's thinking, and hope that the day doesn't fly by too fast. You'll see your face in the mirror and feel, for the first time, like everything is as it should be.
Someday, you may realize that you do not owe a single person on this Earth a relationship with you. Even me. You may begin to understand that motherhood, fatherhood, friendship, every relationship in your life is a priviledge to be earned, not a right to be taken for granted. That you are unique and beautiful, and you deserve respect and caring from the people in your life. I pray that you do not realize this because of my personal failings.
I implore God daily to give me the qualities that will make me a good mother. To help me do everything it takes to earn my relationship with you every day. Know that I know how special your love is. That I know how much honor and respect you deserve. That I know there's only one you, one me, and one chance to get it right, and getting it right is what I want more than anything.
I love you, my sweet Cricket girl.
Thursday, April 1, 2010
Bus stop lady
I see her at least once a week.
She's usually sitting on a bench. He face is ruddy, like a character in a James Herriott story that takes place in the English countryside. Like a woman who uses her hands to care for her family. The redness in her cheeks seems like windburn, but somehow I know it's just life. She is in a perpetual state of just finished crying.
She always carries a suitcase. Blue, on rollers. It sits next to her left leg. She's waiting. For what? A bus? A ride? A place to live?
Her hair is supposed to be a dishwater brownish blonde, but she has attempted to keep it young with blonde streaks. It's a litle matted, short and wavy. A soccer mom's short bob that was just never maintained.
She is overweight. She dresses in long, 90's-patterned floral skirts in colors like navy, mint green, and taupe. She wears short-sleeve, loose cotton knit blouses. To stay cool? Is it all she could hold on to from her wardrobe before she left?
Her eyes look into the disance, remembering. Asking why. Her face is pained, and she's unabashed in her honesty about it. As though she deserves to be exposed. As though she believes she deserves this.
I wonder if she was a mother. If she mourns she mourns the children she's glad can't see her like this.
Was it something she did? Was it something she ran away from? Is she crazy or just down on her luck?
Every time I see her, it makes me think of someone I know, and I wonder how long it will be until my someone is on a bench of her own.
She's usually sitting on a bench. He face is ruddy, like a character in a James Herriott story that takes place in the English countryside. Like a woman who uses her hands to care for her family. The redness in her cheeks seems like windburn, but somehow I know it's just life. She is in a perpetual state of just finished crying.
She always carries a suitcase. Blue, on rollers. It sits next to her left leg. She's waiting. For what? A bus? A ride? A place to live?
Her hair is supposed to be a dishwater brownish blonde, but she has attempted to keep it young with blonde streaks. It's a litle matted, short and wavy. A soccer mom's short bob that was just never maintained.
She is overweight. She dresses in long, 90's-patterned floral skirts in colors like navy, mint green, and taupe. She wears short-sleeve, loose cotton knit blouses. To stay cool? Is it all she could hold on to from her wardrobe before she left?
Her eyes look into the disance, remembering. Asking why. Her face is pained, and she's unabashed in her honesty about it. As though she deserves to be exposed. As though she believes she deserves this.
I wonder if she was a mother. If she mourns she mourns the children she's glad can't see her like this.
Was it something she did? Was it something she ran away from? Is she crazy or just down on her luck?
Every time I see her, it makes me think of someone I know, and I wonder how long it will be until my someone is on a bench of her own.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)