“You’re going to see [classmate] today. You should really use sunflower butter,” I say to my kids, who are making “peanut butter” and jelly sandwiches. My older son has a classmate who is severely allergic to nuts, so I’m being cautious.
“Sunflower butter!” my three year old exclaims, not being put off at all by the change in PB&J plans. When I was a kid, I wouldn’t have any idea what sunflower butter was, much less accept it out of hand. Yet, for them, switching is perfectly normal.
“Goombas don’t have arms,” my three year old’s small voice declared from beside me.
Sitting on the floor next to his bed, I replied, “Hon, please go to sleep.” As fascinating as the anatomy of Mario brothers’ video game characters are, it was not a conversation I wanted to have that moment. I just wanted him to go to sleep.
“See, see!” my three year old demanded from the backseat of the car.
We were listening to a favorite album by a local children’s band; he wanted to see the album cover displayed on my phone. It wasn’t the right cover at all – my computer had mashed it up with the listing for a subpar Arcade Fire album. So instead of a happy looking singer in front of bright colors, the cover was of overly dramatic white marble statues in front of a black background.
“Hun, it hasn’t changed in the last two minutes,” I said. I had showed to him just a moment earlier. “Besides, it’s not even the right cover.”
“You can do it! You’re almost at the top!” I screamed as I huffed and puffed my way up a huge hill, following my five-year-old on his bike. A cookie stand with fresh-baked treats awaited us at the top. But first we had to get there.
“We have to tell my dad he can’t buy those worms,” I told my husband, panic rising in my voice.
As we were on the way to a fishing trip, this was a major problem. New plan – obtain white bread for our hooks instead of night crawlers. No worms would be harmed in this outdoors experience.
Normally, my kids are fine with the more gruesome parts of the “circle of life.” They know where meat comes from and we’ve seen deer hit by cars and trains. Worms shouldn’t be a problem.
But this was different.
Honk! the saxophone squawked as I held it just inches from my face. I winced. My five year old blew into the mouthpiece again, but thankfully didn’t produce any sound this time around.
“You made a noise! That’s great!” I cheered.
I flashed back to when I first started playing the saxophone in fifth grade. I was much older than my kids are now, but I’m pretty sure my initial efforts weren’t any better. My mom talked me out of taking up trombone – I understand why now.
“I want daddy,” my older son (nicknamed Sprout) responded when asked who he wanted to read bedtime stories with. In the past, I would have been choking back tears. These days, I feel differently.
“Mama, [kid’s classmate] told me he was stronger than me,” said my five year old, nicknamed Sprout. “But I’m faster than him.”
“Well, you can tell him that you’re faster than him,” I responded, then immediately regretted it. “Actually, no. That wouldn’t be a good thing to say.” One, I had no idea if my kid was actually faster than the other kid. Two and more importantly, starting a comparison war was going to lead to nowhere good very quickly.
“I don’t mind if my kid doesn’t read in kindergarten,” I thought to myself when I heard about schools raising standards of what they expect kids to know. “That’s so early anyway.”
But my lack of expectations didn’t keep a smile from spreading over my face as we sat with my five-year-old on the couch. Book in hand, I was listening to him recognize short sight words and painfully sound out longer ones. “My kid is reading!!” my mind and heart screamed, like a fan girl at a teenybopper concert. Instead, my mouth said, “You’re doing awesome, honey! I can tell how hard you’re working on reading.”
“I know there’s no guarantees, but this is the group that probably won’t get arrested, right?” I asked our leader as we stood outside of Union Station in Washington DC.
“Yes, that group already left,” he said, smiling. I breathed a sigh of relief. If I was going to get arrested for protesting climate change, I needed to make more accommodations than just getting a half-day off from work.
As someone who has been passionate about climate change for more than a decade, I’ve participated in my share of protests and political actions. Since becoming a mom, I’ve adjusted my participation accordingly. Here’s what I’ve learned about being an activist parent: