Angie Kinghorn

Freefall

This is a memoir piece written for The Red Dress Club.

The prompt: imagine that you have died and your daughter/son will be given the gift of seeing a single five-minute period of your life through your eyes, feeling and experiencing those moments as you did when they occurred. What five minutes would you have him/her see? Tell us about them in the finest detail.
The prompt comes with a 700 word limit.  This post squeaks in at 699.

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They say you find God in unlikely places.  In a stable, not a cathedral.  I remind myself of this as we stand trussed up on the tarmac, having indemnified the world against our own recklessness.
“Y’all call it a plane, I call it an antique,” I mutter under my breath.  No one can hear me over the noise of the propellers.  Propellers!  How…quaint.  
We have to climb an actual ladder to get in the thing, right past the cartoon Betty Boop painted on the fuselage. There are no seat backs or tray tables.  Hell, there aren’t even any seats, just metal benches lining both sides of the plane.  Mark’s on the other side, and far enough back that I can hardly see him.
They don’t close the door, not while we load, not while we rattle down the runway, and not even in the air.  I suppose I should be scared, but the hair whipping around my neck tastes like freedom, like my high school convertible hugging curves on back roads as the wind tears “Closer to Fine” from the speakers.
The landscape dissolves into a chess board and I wonder if this is how it looks to God in his heaven.  I think of all the problems I’d like to have left on the ground and my head aches.  They are too heavy to carry.
“Give it to God,” ministers say.  But they don’t tell you how.  I tried once; I wrote my problems on a scrap of paper torn from a church bulletin and tossed it into the silver collection plate as it passed.
Sermons talk about “heavy hearts,” and I never understood the concept until now, now that I have one thudding away in my own chest, and it tells me with every beat that I was stupid and proud to think that I could make my own plan and have it be good, that I am muddling through this life like a blind woman, that things feel too bad to be right.
I am tethered to a blonde girl in her early twenties, and she cinches us tighter as the world  grows smaller.  Her chatter is static.  I am mesmerized by that open door.  All we have to do is go through it.  They told us some people fight it, hold on to the door so tightly they break their arms.  Better to cross them over your chest, they said.
Then it’s time, and over the roaring of the plane, the gaping door, the excited chatter, my mind goes silent, and for the first time in my life I feel like a yogi.  This decision is made.  I guess I could back out but then I’d have to land in this rustbucket, and honestly, the door looks like the safer bet.  
Besides, I need a grander gesture.  Offering plates are for smaller problems.  I don’t think I could fit myself into one, even at the Vatican.  And my whole body is what I need to give.
I give it up, I think.  All of it, all of me.  I trust in you.
Blondie and I scoot our conjoined butts to the front of the bench, watching as pair after pair of our fellow passengers disappears, sucked right out of the door.
To you, Lord, I think, as we approach the door.  I give myself over to you.  At Blondie’s signal I cross my arms over my chest.  So this is what it’s like to give up control.
Oh.  
Give it to God.  Is this “it”?
Before I can do more than smile, Blondie propels us forwards.
We fall.
After it’s over, everyone asks, “Wasn’t that the best rush ever?”  
No.
No rush at all.  Only peace.
There’s a video of it, and it shows a girl that looks like me.  She’s smiling, even gives a thumbs up to the camera.
But what I feel as we fall … it’s not on the video.  I am cradled.  We step out of the plane into the warm palm of God, as tangible as anything I’ve ever felt.  Our arms and legs curve in the concave position of freefall, molded to the shape of his strong, invisible hand.

So, are Chinese mothers superior?

Amy Chua, a professor at Yale Law School, has a new book coming out tomorrow, titled Battle Hymn of the Tiger Mother.  Excerpts from the book made up a recent article in The Wall Street Journal, titled “Why Chinese Mothers are Superior.” 
Chua’s parenting methodology denies her daughters any extracurricular activities of a social nature (including sleepovers, playdates, school plays, TV, and computer games), limits their choice of musical instrument to either the piano or violin, demands at least three hours per day of music practice, and insists on perfect grades, on pain of a “screaming, hair-tearing explosion,” followed by dozens, if not hundreds, of practice tests until the grade rises to an A.
She contrasts her methodology with Western parenting, which she says is entirely too concerned with a child’s self-esteem.  Chinese mothers, she says, assume strength, not fragility, in their offspring, and treat them accordingly.
Obviously, Chua’s intent is to stir the pot.  And she’s succeeded.  Before the book has even hit shelves, it’s the subject of intense debate and scrutiny.  The WSJ article had over 2,300 comments when I last looked.  Several commenters on the WSJ site suggest that Chua’s parenting techniques are so barbaric that social services should get involved and her children should be taken from her. 
I feel compelled to point out that, as the book is not yet available to the public, I haven’t read it and am unable to say whether the greater context of the book would cast Chua’s actions and intent in a more favorable light.  After all, at least one article from Slate discusses the rebellion of her younger daughter, Lulu, at the age of 13.  Yet by American standards, Lulu’s rebellion is tame.  She cuts her hair, quits the violin and takes up tennis instead, prompting the author of the article to suggest that her mother began “scheming behind her back to improve her performance on the court instead of on the stage.”   I daresay most Western parents would welcome rebellion in the form of a tennis protege rather than a drug-addled dropout or a daughter wrestling with an eating disorder or suicidal tendencies. 
Among our contemporaries, my husband and I would be considered fairly conservative and strict parents.  We tend to agree with John Rosemond’s theories of child rearing.  We let our children cry it out so that they developed the ability to soothe themselves to sleep.  We expect good behavior.  We certainly don’t get it all the time, but when we don’t, there are consequences.  The consequences vary depending on the act of defiance, but they are always there.  We tell our children what we expect of them, and we hold them to those expectations.  However, we also try to ensure that those expectations are reasonable given the age and abilities of our children.
We purposely looked for a preschool that was about learning through play, and eschewed programs that forced three year olds to spend large chunks of time and energy in computer labs or foreign language classes.  
Why?  Do we not value computer skills or the ability to speak a second language?  Of course we do.  But before our children learn html, I want them to be accomplished in several other areas; namely; in playing well with others, recognizing and obeying authority figures in the classroom and elsewhere, and in making friends and managing those friendships.
Undoubtedly, in the Chua’s eyes, this makes me a typically weak or soft Western mother.
I’m not sure that’s the correct focus.
More than anything, I doubt Amy Chua and I have the same goals in mind when parenting.  She seems determined to raise her daughters to be world class musicians, fellow law professors, or perhaps, in the case of her tennis-happy “rebellious” daughter, Olympians, whether or not they share those desires.
My goal?  To raise my children so that they, after reflection and experience, can choose their own paths, paths that make the world a better place, even if only in a small way.  And above all, to be faithful, and in that faith and their lives, to find contentment and happiness.  
I realize the above paragraph may make some of you think I’m about to suggest we sit in a circle, join hands, and sing “Kumbaya,” or that I spoil my children beyond belief, caring only about their own happiness.  Not at all.  Children need discipline and a coherent framework in which to grow in order to be happy.  The kind of happiness I wish for my children is not instant gratification; it is not the desperate desire for material gratification that so enslaves our world.  My wish for them is the peace of God, the blessing of love, and the deep, still contentment that comes with knowing your life is being lived according to God’s plan. 
Like it or not, we are all blessed with different spiritual and intellectual gifts.  Jesus speaks of the members of his church as different parts of one body.  A hand, no matter how gifted, can never do the work of a liver, and a toe, no matter how well exercised, could never be trained to do the work of a lung.  And who are we to decide which parts of the body are the best and the most important?  I submit to you that an orchestra composed solely of pianos and violins would be of as little use as a body consisting only of a nose and an elbow.  We need trumpet players, we need opposable thumbs, we need a woodwind section to round out the sound and bring it to life.  
I won’t lie; I’d love for God’s plan to have my twins to grow up into careers that glitter when I speak of them at cocktail parties.  But not if that glitter serves as a facade to hide a hollow and meaningless life.  The twins are four, and when they informed me the other day that their respective life goals were to be a garbage man and an ice cream girl, I stifled my instinct to say, “Oh, no.  Wouldn’t you rather be a neurosurgeon and an astronaut?”  Instead, I thought about my days trekking into work at a prestigious law firm.  I thought about the many times I looked with envy at the barista in the downstairs coffee shop, watching her genuine smile as she steamed milk for morning lattes, her easy rapport with her regular customers, her honest contentment with her life.  I remembered the feeling of emptiness I had when I settled into my desk more than 30 floors above her coffee shop, an emptiness that no amount of cash or prestige could ever fill.  And I said to my children, “You can be whatever you want to be.  I just want you to be happy.”
And I meant it.
  
Above all, I want my children to become independent and responsible, and this is entirely consistent with my ultimate wish that they be happy.  This is why this week’s Scary Mommy post , titled “The fine art of ignoring your children,” resonated with me so much.  If my children were to learn to play the piano or the violin, I would want them to learn the responsibilities that come along with the task.  Those  would include practicing.  While  Chua stood over her children until they’d practiced for three or more hours, I would simply remind my children that they had to have learned x, y, and z in preparation for this week’s lesson.  And then if, at the time of the lesson, they hadn’t learned x, y, or z, I’d think about their practice habits that week and speak with the instructor.  Did they flub the skills because they didn’t practice and lacked the proper discipline?  Or were the skills still slightly out of reach, despite diligence in preparing for the lesson?  If the case were the former, I’d discipline the child by revoking privileges and free play time.  If it were the latter, I’d encourage the child to work on the skill again the following week.  I cannot envision a scenario, where, like Chua, I’d force a child to sit at the piano for hours on end, not allowing breaks for water or to use the bathroom, until a piece was learned correctly.
I also cannot envision a scenario in which I would tell my daughter, as Ms. Chua suggests, “Hey, Fatty, lose some weight.”  Nor can I envision calling either my son or my daughter “garbage” in response to a disrespectful comment.    
One of the best gifts a mother can give to her children is the example of her own life.  Chua seems to have two goals for her daughters (the aforementioned high achievement, and subsequent raising of children as traditional “Chinese mothers”), and those goals appear to be mutually exclusive.  What purpose does all this achievement serve if the end game is to produce more good Chinese mothers who would sacrifice all their achievements to produce the same outcome in their offspring?  And once so devoted to offspring of their own, how are Chinese women to continue to achieve?  Or at that point, is achievement measured in driving one’s own children?  I would think so, but for Chua’s prominently displayed credentials.  It is hard to imagine how Chua became a professor at Yale Law School, let alone the author of three books, if she spent her time so devoted to her children’s pursuits–drilling them relentlessly on math problems, overseeing endless hours of music practice, and never allowing her daughters to have any semblance of a social life.   
One does not become a professor of law at Yale while spending all waking hours engaged in the kind of dictatorial parenting that Chua describes.  Either Chua is using hyperbole to make her point, or she hired someone to act as “Chinese mother” for her.  Or, I suppose, she simply does not sleep.  
Whatever the case, Chua is quoted in The Washington Post as saying that she’s “not good at enjoying life.”
How sad, that of all the things she could teach, this is what she has chosen to pass down to the next generation.  

Flashback

It’s not like I expected this week to be the most fun of my life.  
Ugh.
This coming Monday, September 20th, will be the first anniversary of my father’s death.  Throughout the grieving process, people have told me how hard anniversaries of all kinds can be, but the brutality of this one year mark has shocked me.
Memories are supposed to dim with time, but the flashbacks I’ve had over the past month are anything but fuzzy.  My allergies are so bad I can’t smell a thing, but when my mind takes me back to the hospital a year ago, the smells are so sharp that I cringe.  I can feel textures, hear sounds, and even the muted colors are vivid.
And then Wednesday, our family’s beloved 15 year old dog became suddenly ill, stricken with an extraordinarily painful bladder tumor.  So I spent the afternoon with her at the vet’s and held her as he pushed the plunger on a syringe, sending her to a peaceful end.  
There was not enough Kleenex in this world.  All I could think was why, why, Lord, why could it not have been this easy for my father?  Why the twelve years of suffering?  Why the agonizing death?  Why, dammit, why?
And I’ll never know.  But in that little dog’s death, I did receive a strangely beautiful gift.  In that death, I was able to do what I couldn’t for my father.  I was able to hold her, comfort her, and make sure she didn’t hurt.  
God knows I’ve needed to cry, and most of the time I try not to.  It tends to scare the children.  But they weren’t with me in that office, so I sobbed.  As the tears fell, something else did, too.  Something like a wall between my brain and a deep pool of grief.  It was a profound catharsis.  Now I feel drained, and my mind has gone into what I think of as protective grief mode.  When things get to be too much, I go to sleep.  Weird, I know, but apparently it’s my body’s defense mechanism.  It happened for a long time last year, and I wasn’t expecting it to come back, but here we are.
I’m sorry for the lack of posts this week, but it’s hard to be funny when you’re asleep at the keyboard.
While I go take my nap, y’all go over to Pretty All True for the awesome post of the day.  Tip: refrain from eating or drinking while reading.  Kris is funny as hell and I will not be held liable for computers sprayed with Diet Coke.

Open letter to new moms (of twins)

Dear new moms of twins,

I am having a terrible, horrible, no good, very bad day.  And my twins are three and a half.
I would like to tell you that after all the night feedings and spit-up cease, things become a cinch, but I promised my readers that I would give them things straight up.
So, straight up it is.  You may want to sit down.
Motherhood is hard.  And for me, it is not getting easier as the kids get older.  It’s just morphing into a different type of hard.
Before you brand me a wimp, let me tell you that I am actually quite capable, intelligent, up for a challenge, and resilient.  I made it through law school, passed the bar exam, practiced corporate law, jumped out of an airplane, scuba dived on the wreck of an iron-side steamer in 100 feet of water, went parasailing, endured the loss of both my grandfathers and my father to prostate cancer, got through the medical scare of a lifetime after finding out that my brain harbors a small tumor, then weathered a traumatic pregnancy and birth only to end up with postpartum depression.  (Full disclosure: I got through all this, but with the help of my good friend Sam the pharmacist.  Better living through chemistry, I always say.)
There’s no way to be ready for parenthood.  It’s not an experience for which you could adequately prepare, no matter how much time you had.  I hope you’re one of those new moms who exists in a blissful state of pink-tinged cloudy happiness, and if you are, I’m thrilled for you.  But if you’re not, know that you’re not alone.  Even if your friends don’t talk about it, they have days where they sit and cry for no reason.  Some of them hate nursing but feel like they can’t stop without being branded a bad mother.  Some of them hate nursing but feel like they can’t stop because it’s the only reason they’ve lost weight.  They panic and think they’re pregnant again, rushing out to the drugstore to buy a test, then berate themselves when, after peeing all over their hands, they remember that they may not have actually had sex since their last period.  How do I know this?  I’ve talked to a LOT of new moms.  When you ask how they’re doing and take the trouble to get past “fine,” you realize that the experience is hard for everyone.
You’re not the only one who:
  • Wonders at the end of the day whether you remembered to brush your teeth.
  • Goes out in public with Desitin smeared on your shirt.
  • Needs a shower but would rather nap.
  • Looks at your cracked, bleeding nipples and wonders if it’s worth it.
  • Sees your preemie newborns and thinks, “Ugh.  My babies look like aliens!”
  • Stood up in the hospital and had a gush of blood ruin your slippers.
  • Wonders, while holding your screaming, feverish child in a tepid bath at 2:30 in the morning, why you decided to procreate.
  • Falls asleep pumping.
  • Feels like a dairy cow.
Some tips and general things to know:
  • Crying is ok.  If they’re crying, they’re not dying of SIDS.
  • If you don’t already drink alcohol, consider starting.  If you already enjoy the good grape, consider moving up to hard liquor.
  • Understand that you’re going to feel incredibly isolated for the first year or so.  Not only is it hard to get around with twins, but most of your friends will not have twins.  Every time you relate a particularly horrible parenting experience, they’ll sigh and say, “But you had twins!”  As if you didn’t know.
  • Learn to accept help, even when that help is doing your laundry and making fun of the condition of your delicates.  Accept help even when the help is doubled over laughing at your husband’s boxer shorts.
  • With help comes less privacy (see above).  Best to get used to it now.  You won’t be able to go to the bathroom alone for several years.
  • You do NOT have to breastfeed.  If you have to supplement with formula, or for some reason cannot, or choose not to nurse, it’s ok.  Don’t let anyone make you feel like you’re letting your children down.
  • More than likely, you’re not going to see your “old” body again.  And it will take about a year to feel remotely normal.
  • Any time you have an option, go for what makes life easier, even if it isn’t what you’d envisioned pre-twins.  For example, if you always pictured yourself as the cool mom in the SUV, consider that a minivan, while less cool, will make your life significantly easier, and thus happier.
  • If you don’t already have a dog, get one, if for no other reason than to avoid having to sweep and mop under the kitchen table three times a day.  But also because your dog is infinitely more likely to obey you, unconditionally love you, and greet you with enthusiasm than are your own offspring.
  • But don’t take the easy way out.  Take the kids to church, even if they do get sick every time they’re in the nursery.  They need it, and so do you.
  • Pray with your kids, even when it’s the last thing you feel like doing.  Introduce them to God so he’ll know who they are when you complain about them.
  • Don’t avoid discipline because it’s inconvenient.  Someone once told me, with kids, “it’s pay now or pay later.”  Truer words were never spoken.
  • Remember that your job is not to be their friend, but their mother.
And yes, it is worth it.  Even on a day like today, when my kids have pestered me with the same questions time and time again, when they’ve thrown tantrums, screamed and refused to go down for a nap without a fight, even on the days when someone vomits on my shoes and pees on the bathroom floor.
It’s worth it.  Someday you’re going to find yourself engulfed in a huge toddler hug, and a little voice will whisper, “Mommy, I love you.”  And you’ll know what I mean.
Love,
Angie