Beware the Ego-Monster
My daughter is one of the most popular kids in preschool. When we arrive at the school, half a dozen little kids rush over to show Millie their new shoes, a hello kitty keychain, or introduce, for the third time, their younger siblings. All the teachers and a few of the older kids know her by name, and they stop to ruffle her hair or say hello as they make their way to their own classrooms. I watch this with interweaving feelings of envy and pride. I was a shy, awkward kid, and I’ve grown into a shy, awkward adult, slow to make friends. Granted, she’s only four, but will my daughter break the cycle of shyness? Will she win miss congeniality, be elected class president, and rule over the school as head cheerleader? She’s got plenty of self-esteem, and is stubborn to boot. It’s not hard to imagine her reaching for the stars. In fact, she’d probably be able to talk the stars down from the sky, or rope someone else into snatching them. It would be much more efficient than doing all that work herself.
Last week, I stood in the corner, watching my alpha-girl as she led all her classmates in a robot dance. “Take me to your leader,” they all said, in a perfect monotone, as they followed Mills up and down the hall. After a while she decided it would be more fun to be zombies, and soon ten tiny little voices started wailing for brains.
Then, I noticed an odd thing. One of the girls, small, bug-eyed, sweet, tried to wiggle her way to the top of the parade. She presented Millie with a stuffed chick.
“See?” She spoke with a slight lisp. “I made it.”
Millie gave the chick a precursory glance, but her face was clearly bored. She reached out a little hand and pushed the girl away.
I was horrified. I rushed up to my kid and pulled her away from her friends.
“That was not nice,” I scolded. “Why did you do that?”
“I don’t like her,” Millie said, shrugging. “She’s boring.”
After I apologized to the girl’s mother, I went back to my car and sat for a while, watching the empty buses pull out of the parking lot.
Shit, was all I could think. Is my kid growing up to be an asshole?
Bullying is all over the news lately, with reporters and analysts and staff psychologists acting befuddled, like it’s a new phenomenon. It’s not. When man first crawled out of the primordial ooze, the first thing he probably did was crack at joke at the expense of a smaller, weaker fuzzy primate. Twitter, facebok, texting, and the rest of the new technology hasn’t really changed bullying, or made it more prevalent, it’s simply the evolution of those wicked anonymous scribbles in the bathroom, and the notes, the slambooks, and the catcalls in the hallways. Kids are cruel. They have always been cruel. The internet just enables them to spellcheck their taunts before they send them out to the universe.
I was both a bully and bullied. Junior High was a horrible time, the stuff of nightmares. I was an ugly kid with braces, headgear, and a horrible home haircut. I won’t get into specifics, as, thankfully, I’ve blocked most of it out, and what happened to me wasn’t as horrific as things that have happened to other kids. It did shatter my self-esteem, and truthfully, I’ve never fully recovered.
In high school, I was a bit of a mean girl, safe in my posse of black-clad bad girls. I remember harassing a particular overweight underclassman, shouting “Whoa” as she trudged down the hall. She never seemed to hear, but I bet she did. Ironic really, picking on a girl for being overweight when the first thing I did when I got home was to weigh myself and monitor every calorie I dared consume that day.
I fully expect my kids will be bullied at some point. Millie’s bound to butt heads with another Queen Bee, and Quin, well, he’s my special snowflake. If ever a kid walked to the beat of a different drummer, it’s my little man. He’s not dancing to the beat, he’s dancing to the melody. And he doesn’t care. And I love him for it.
When I first became a parent I was determined to instill a good sense of self-worth in my kids. I vowed to tell them every day that I loved them, and to make sure they know that my love was unconditional. I might get a bit peeved if they set fire to the cat, or scribble on my autographed Terry Pratchett books, but no matter what they do, I’ll always love them to pieces.
I’ve also taught them not to be intimidated by other kids, even if they seem to be from entirely other worlds. That hulking kid in the homeroom? The ice princess in the lunch line, the one with the perfect hair? They’ll seem terrifying or unapproachable, but they’re kids, just like them. Those intimidating people have dreams and fears, just like them, and if that is hard for my kids to believe, I’ll assure them that both the hulk and the princess have had, or will have, a wretched bout of lower intestinal distress. Yes, my children: Everyone Poops. Hard to be intimidated by someone when you imagine them stuck on the crapper, calling for a new roll of TP.
If my kids wander over to that other side of the fence, if they become the bullies, I will be a complete and utter failure as a parent. This is why I was so shaken when I saw Millie’s healthy ego venture over into mean girl territory. I thought I’ve made it clear that she is no better, or worse, than anyone else. Her feelings shouldn’t trump the feelings of those around her. When she got home, I sat her down and had a talk, hoping to repair any damage that I might have done.
“Why were you so mean to that girl?”
“I wasn’t mean,” Millie insisted, all wide eyed innocence. “If I was being mean, I would have TAKEN the chick before I pushed her.”
I guess four is too early to start talking about these things.
