“The Myth of Quality Time: How We’re Cheating Our Kids” accused the headline to Newsweek magazine in zillion point font. Kids and parents lined up like hands on a clock. But it differed from most of the parenting articles I read in a key way – it was more than 20 years old.
“I’m not going to be here for dinner tomorrow,” I told my kids. “I’m going to tell the people in charge of the city that I support our neighbors from other countries.” I was going to speak at our city council meeting about a proposed Sanctuary Cities policy. They nodded, then went back to eating dinner. While their interest in local government is pretty low at two and five years old, I hope that I can help get them more involved as they get older.
That’s because local government at the heart of a lot of policies that underlie unjust systems. It’s also a place you can see personal impact. While calling your Congressperson or national representative is important, you can rarely see the same level of individual response and even change that you can on the local level. From climate change to racist policing, getting involved in local government is one of the biggest ways you can teach kids to make a difference.
Here are some ways you can get your kids involved:
“They shouldn’t have given you a time estimate,” the customer service representative said. My eyes narrowed and I resisted the urge to throw the phone across the room. It was 10:30 PM at night. We hadn’t had natural gas service to our house for more than 24 hours. And now this person was telling me that they didn’t have a clue when we would get our heat and hot water back.
This whole thing started two nights earlier, on Super Bowl Sunday. I walked outside to empty the compost when a neighbor walked past me, then doubled-back. Stopping for just a moment, he said, “You know, I smell natural gas on your block.” Sniffing the air, I caught a faint scent of rotten eggs.
“Back in my day, kids roamed the neighborhood without supervision and nobody had these fancy birthday parties,” says yet another article about how childhood was different “back then.” While the world has changed for the good and the bad, I feel like my children’s experience isn’t all that different in some ways than mine or even my mom’s. Looking forward, it’s different in so many good ways as well.
No matter how much I want the photo, I’m never going to make my kids sit on Santa’s lap.
“My kids are notorious for not wanting to take pictures with Santa,” I commented to the person waiting at the mall kiosk. She had just pointed out that we could have made reservations to see Santa instead of waiting in line. But there was no way I was having my mother-in-law pay $40 ahead of time for my two sons to then refuse to be in the picture.
I wasn’t exaggerating. The only photos we had of our kids with Santa were from when they were too young to care. They’re each less than a year old in their respective photos. But once they hit two? Nope, nada, absolutely not. They wouldn’t even go near him. At Sesame Place’s Christmas celebration, my then four-year-old wanted a photo with Elmo, but he was only posing with Santa. So my son planted himself solidly on the other side of Elmo, as far away from the big guy as possible.
But did I try to force them to do it anyway? Nope. I never tried to force them to sit on Santa’s lap. It’s for similar reasons I’ll never make them hug or kiss a relative – or anyone, really.
Passing by the neon sign reading “Guns” displayed in a Main Street store, a shudder of fear ran through me. “No, I’m safe,” I thought. I thought that in part because a gun store doesn’t automatically equal danger. But mainly I realized it because I became starkly aware of my family’s privilege while traveling.
Traveling with little kids is always A Thing. There’s car sickness, whines of “I’m bored!” and the world’s longest bathroom breaks. On our recent three-hour drive, we stopped no fewer than six times. When traveling, there’s always worries about kids wandering off or touching something dangerous, like a campfire.
But one thing that I never have to worry about is our family being discriminated against.
If my grandmother had come to America today, she might be in a cage right now.
My grandmother immigrated to America when she was just three years old. My great-grandmother and great-grandfather has come over to the United States from Poland a few years before. When they started running out of money, my great-grandmother returned to Poland to get help. But she didn’t realize something very important – she was pregnant. Because America didn’t allow babies into the country, the two of them had to wait three long years before returning to America. Passing through Ellis Island, they finally reunited with my great-grandfather. My grandmother’s first memories are of seeing the Statue of Liberty as they came into the harbor and meeting her father for the first time. She said he was the most handsome man she had ever seen.
Now imagine if they were immigrants today.
The headlines never end. More school shootings. White people putting people of color in danger for merely living. The gap between rich and poor growing ever wider. America having the highest rate of maternal mortality in the developed world. The 400th straight month of higher-than-normal temperatures from climate change.
There is so much wrong with the world. I am so damn tired from it all. It’s so easy to be.
Unfortunately, no one’s going to come around and fix it. Change starts with us. It’s about radical kindness in your daily life. It’s about standing up and demanding justice and fairness from our policy makers. The political is personal and the personal is political.
When it feels like the world is awful, here are some ways you can make a difference:
TW: Racism
Reading the text from my husband, Chris, I frowned. “We left the park because [our older son] said something very racist to the girls there.” Furrowing my eyebrows, I typed back, “What did he say??” “That black people look like poop.”
My first thought was, “What the hell was he thinking?” My second was, “How the hell did this happen?”
Two weeks ago, I was finally able to call my husband a chef. Looking at him in his white culinary school jacket with his name on it, I realized this situation wasn’t quite what I imagined when I watched him walk across that stage. Because instead of him being the head of a high-end fancy restaurant, he was teaching a bunch of preschoolers how to cook.