Category: Parenting

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Erie, Illinois: Not Up to Parr

Award winning children’s author Todd Parr had a book banned by the school district in the small town of Erie, Illinois this spring.

Parr Books

Yeah, that Todd Parr.  He is such a badass.  Always writing about love and acceptance and puppies and things like that.  Total thug.

Parr’s offending book, The Family Book, was banned because of a single page with the text, “Some families have two moms or two dads,” accompanied by his signature stylized drawings of two moms and two dads.  A perfectly factual statement that drew the ire and fear of small town America.  This begs the question, How does this even happen?

Based on local news accounts, it appears that The Family Book was used as part of a larger curriculum approved by the Gay-Lesbian-Straight Education Network (GLSEN) to teach about diversity and tolerance in elementary schools.  Seems that some Erie parents took offense to the single page in the book about a family structure sometimes involving two moms or two dads.  These parents brought their concerns to the local school board that, like every fine tuned bureaucracy under the sun, created a panel to review the materials being presented to the elementary aged kids (grades K-4 in Erie).

Offending Page

Interestingly, the panel voted in favor of the book and the curriculum as is.  They found the book appropriate for elementary age children and embraced the mission of educating children about tolerance and diversity.   Well, the parents of Erie would have none of that.  At least a loud and vocal portion of the parents of Erie would have none of that.  When the panel’s recommendations were presented to the school board, to appease the homophobic masses (75-100 in attendance at the meeting) of Erie, the board did the cowardly thing of not only banning the book, but also of limiting the use of the GLSEN curriculum to grades 5-12.

What this means is that as of school year 2012-2013, integrated lessons about bullying, diversity, and tolerance will only be provided to older students.  Those youngsters in K-4 can fend for themselves, yo.  Or, you know, receive that type of important life lesson at home.  From a parent who clearly fears diversity and tolerance.  Ugh.  Brad Cox (Oh the irony — I would make a joke, but that would be mean), Erie School District Superintendant, on interviews on CNN and local news stations simply reiterated the company line — the content about diverse families was not appropriate for elementary age children.  This despite HIS OWN APPOINTED PANEL stating the opposite.

On the one hand, this story is heartbreaking.  Hate is a learned concept and clearly the adults in authority of Erie, Illinois are, if not promoting hate, certainly promoting fear and disdain.  If something or someone is “different,” the message sent by this action is that difference is unacceptable.  It is to be shunned, rejected, avoided, put back into the proverbial closet.  A resident of Erie, a young woman in her 20s, was interviewed by KWQC out of the Quad Cities on a piece that aired last week.  “By the time we got to middle school and high school, it was too late.  People were already being made fun of because they were “different.”  Different, of course, is code for gay.  This makes me angry.

On the other hand, what good does anger do?  Might more progress be made if this backwards, regressive, prejudicial thinking could be better understood?  Brought out into the light and honest conversation be had about how and why these parents and this school board believe their children would be better served by marginalizing gay and lesbian families?  What do we know about Erie, anyway?  Well, let’s see:

Per the town’s official webiste, here is Erie, Illinois (italic snark is mine):

  • Erie is looking for commercial and industrial growth.  Good luck with that.
  • Winner of the Governor’s Home Town Award in 1999.  No great honor, considering Governor Ryan went on to be a felon.
  • “We have many fine churches of varied denominations.”  My guess is this means Methodist and Baptist.
  • “We take pride in our most important resource, our citizens. Volunteers from all walks of life strive to make Erie the best it can be.”  But not two moms or two dads.  Or probably Jews or Muslims.  Let’s not even get into two Jewish moms or two Muslim dads and a Jewish mom and Muslin dad creates friction all around this great big globe of ours, so we can’t pin that on Erie. 
  • As of the census of 2000, there were 1,589 people, 630 households, and 466 families residing in the village
  • The racial makeup of the village was 98.80% White, 0.25% African American, 0.13% Native American, 0.38% from other races, and 0.44% from two or more races. Hispanic or Latino of any race were 0.88% of the population.
  • There were 630 households out of which 33.5% had children under the age of 18 living with them, 61.4% were married couples living together, 8.6% had a female householder with no husband present, and 26.0% were non-families.  If anyone can tell me what a “non-family” is, you will be the happy winner, winner of a chicken dinner, and it is not singles, because they have that stat accounted for (23.7%).
  • The median income for a household in the village was $41,806, and the median income for a family was $46,435. Males had a median income of $35,000 versus $21,447 for females. The per capita income for the village was $18,775. About 4.7% of families and 5.1% of the population were below the poverty line, including 8.3% of those under age 18 and 3.8% of those age 65 or over.

Maphoto

It would be easy to make this into a ‘small towns suck’ litany, but I happen to be a fan of small towns.  My Mom and Dad, lifelong Chicagoans, born and raised, retired to a minute town, Apple River, Illinois, population 366 (2010 census).  The reality is that small towns do not have the diversity that large towns or cities have.  They are lacking culture and art and exposure to different ways of life.   But that doesn’t make them bad places.  They have, often, lovely networks of neighbors and community initiatives that put cities to shame.  Random gun violence is at a minimum in most small towns.  Traffic is non existant.  Fresh air and hospitality are often in equal abundance.  Small towns are fine and dandy — it is small minds that suck.

But no place, large or small, population 300 or 300,000 or 3,000,000 is immune from stupidity or ignorance or problems.  I can practically guarantee you right now that there is a child in Erie, Illinois who is gay or lesbian, and afraid.  And that 26% of “non-families” listed on the Erie, Illinois website?  Yeah, you can be pretty certain that within that non-family statistic are at least one or two of the families that Todd Parr was speaking of, with two moms or two dads.

The Erie, Illinois school district can ban all the books they wish to, they can rely on families to teach their little ones about the mysterious and different ways of the world, but in the end, the truth is the truth — some families have two moms or two dads.  Just like Todd Parr said.

Full Disclosure Time:  I happen to be a big fan of Todd Parr.  In 2007 I wrote to him to ask for his help decorating Donna’s stem cell transplant room, e.g., a poster or something, as I REFUSED to look at Dora or some other licensed character staring at me from the walls for a month as Donna recovered.  Todd sent along the nicest note, a few signed books, and a DVD that both Donna and Mary Tyler Son have enjoyed.  We met him in summer 2009 and Donna blushed.  Yeah, total badass thug, that Todd Parr. 

Signed Books

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Slogging Through the Sludge of Life

Saturday I did my annual planting.  We live in a condo with a postage stamp sized front yard and lots of hosta.  No fuss, no muss.  Hosta fulfills my housewife mantra:  minimum imput, maximum output.  Hosta shows that you care, but you don’t want to spend a lot of time caring, except it looks like you care a lot.  Perfect.

So while I don’t really have to worry about the yard, I do have to actually think about my planters.  I have sixteen feet of containers to fill along my deck. The deck is right outside our dining room, so it features prominently in our home.  There is nothing more depressing than empty planters in July.  That’s not true.  Empty planters with last year’s dead plants would be worse.

So every year I plant.

Here’s the breakdown:  I like to shop for plants.  I like to design where they will go, and yes, what the theme of the planting season will be:  botanical, traditional, grassy.  Yes, I have planting themes.  Shut up.  I like to water them right after planting.  Job well done, and all.  I don’t like to do the actual planting.  It’s a little like torture.  More accurately, it’s like work.  Ugh.  I work enough, right?  Do I really want to make more work for myself?  NO.  Work defies that already stated housewife mantra:  minimum imput, maximum output.

This year was no exception.  The family went together to the nursery.  Mary Tyler Son behaved beautifully, fascinated by the sensitive plant.  Little Scientist in the making, that one.  We were back home by ten and unloaded the plants and soil.  Mary Tyler Dad took the little one to the park to give me some time to plant.  Hooray!  Yeah, not so much.

All those plants and soil and empty planters overwhelmed me.  I puttered a little, but within minutes I was sitting inside watching The Real World San Diego.  Ugh.  Insufferable, self-righteous, ignorant youth were somehow more palatable than planting.

I gave it another shot after one episode.  I brought music with me this time. It annoyed the neighbors two floors up, which thrilled me, as those neighbors are really annoying.  This time I had more fun dancing than planting.  I mean, how can you not have the moves like Jagger when you’re holding a trowel? And all apologies to the new next door neighbors whose dining room looks onto our deck.  My only hope is that when you look upon the lovely plants you aren’t scarred by the memory of me getting my groove on in a really unfortunate way.

I retreated back inside for more Real World, as my real world was too much for me in that instant.  It struck me that planting reminds me of the changing of the seasons, the passing of time.  This is three plantings since Donna died.  Seasons are how I often mark how long it has been since Donna left us.

Something about planting those plants was making me want to hide under the blankets, drowning my sorrow in Coke and chocolate.  A task that should have taken two hours ended up taking nine.  Nine hours to plant six containers.  Pathetic.

This is life in grief.  Not every day, but on some days, every single thing I do is work.  Showering = work.  Dressing = work.  Deciding what to eat for lunch = work.  Going to the bathroom = work.  Changing into pajamas = work.  It is so much easier to watch others struggle with their lives rather than struggle with my own.  The Real World and Real Housewives franchises were made for grieving mothers.

But what kind of life is that?

Not a good one.  Not a pleasant one.  Not a joyful one.

So I got my a$$ in line and planted those plants.  Mary Tyler Dad is patient with me.  He gives me the time and space I need.  The cost benefit ratio is an easy one.  Nine hours of slogging misery against four full months of light and life.  I look out my bedroom window and see life and growth.  I walk through the dining room and see color and hope.  Ugh.  I wish it weren’t so damn hard to get there, but it is.

Part of why I do what I do, plant those plants, and make those efforts is because of Mary Tyler Son.  He deserves no less than Donna.  He is no less worthy of a mom who does whatever she can to bring wonder and joy into his life.  He is a powerful motivator, my little one.  I refuse to let him grow up with an absent, depressed mother.  Some days I need more time to get it together, but I do get it together.

Grief sucks.  Just like cancer.  But just as cancer did not prevent me from mothering, grief is not going to get the best of me either.  I will plant those plants, and cook those meals, and fold that laundry.  I will fly that kite, and splash in that pool, and bake those cookies.

I am Grieving Mother, hear me roar.

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The Humility of Parenting

Mary Tyler Son is sick.  High fever, violent vomit out the nose sick.  Poor kid.

I felt under the weather Saturday afternoon and evening, but woke up Sunday fresh as pie.  Mary Tyler Son, though, was cranky, contrary, and kind of a pill all morning.  It’s easy to get pulled into that, asking him, “What is wrong with you?,” rather than asking myself, “Wow.  He’s really not acting himself.  What might be wrong with him?”

That latter approach was apparently in the parenting manual I never read.

I got a text late afternoon that poor Mary Tyler Son had a fever of 102.  Of course he did.  Mary Tyler Dad and I both did a collective smack of our noggins at that point.  Of course he had a fever of 102.  Let the Tylenol commence.

I know I shouldn’t test the fates by typing what I’m about to type, let alone thinking what I’m about to type.  Aside from seeing my little one unhappy and not himself, I appreciate the strength of need Mary Tyler Son has for me when he is unwell.  There I said it.  Ugh.  Parenting confession No. 13,598 — I like to be needed.  I like to be able to make things better.

I know more than most that children get sick.  Some children get really sick. Some children get so sick that they die.  This is not like that.  I never took pleasure in holding my daughter for hours on end on the kitchen floor as she wailed in discomfort.   There was no pleasure found in knowing that after five days in the hospital with chemo we would come home to wait for the certain neutropenia to set in, knowing that another hospital day was exactly, precisely eleven days away.

Yeah, this is not like that.

Despite what I wrote a few days ago, I trust that I will see this child, Mary Tyler Son, grow into the person Donna will never get the chance to be.  I trust that he will get taller than me and maybe one day, if I am really, truly lucky, love me as an adult.  I hope for this every day.

But on days like yesterday and today, when the little guy is feverish, not eating much, and under the weather, yeah, I am gonna enjoy the hell out of cuddling with him.  Imma revel in stroking the curls off his forehead, feeling him in my arms for more than a quick hug between games, and feeding him bits of too sweet pancakes, just to ensure something is in his belly.  On days like this, I happily fill the washing machine with vomit covered blankets and towels and pajamas.

When Mary Tyler Son is sick, the world stops.  Our world stops.  We hunker down, settle in, slow down.  We watch kid friendly television, make Jell-o in dinosaur bone molds, and place a moratorium on the one sweet drink a day rule.  I hover, I fret, I fuss, knowing in my bones that this sickness will pass.

And at night, when Mary Tyler Dad has been sent to the guest room (our strategy is that at least one parent should be fresh for the next morning), Mary Tyler Son sets up camp in our bed.  He needs the company, so he’s “not too lonesome,” and I make a nest next to the bed with everything we will need:  towels, metal bowl to catch vomit, thermometer, water, crackers, iPad. It is our routine.  And sometimes, a boy just needs his Mama.

Like at 4:17 AM, when moaning, he climbs into my arms and tells me, “everything hurts.”  I know and he knows that my arms make everything hurt just a tiny bit less.  And I hold him close and whisper “there, there” as I pat his back and smooth his curls.  And in those moments I can do for Mary Tyler Son what I could never do for Donna — I can make it better.