The exquisiteness of 3 year old princesses and high-school musicals

Tonight I took my almost 4 year old daughter to see Beauty and the Beast at our local high school.  I am a reformed princess-hater (see my earlier post about Princess Hater? Not so much anymore).  I wonder if there is a term for hating princesses, like regiphobe?  I have overcome my issues with fairy tales and commercialism of Disney and fully embraced princess make-believe with my kids.  So, here we are, walking up the steps of the high school, my daughter wearing her Sleeping Beauty Halloween costume, a size too large so it lasts, with a few rips and tears from the many dress-up games, but none the less sparkly, ruffly and resplendent.  She clutches her princess toys, Cinderella and Belle, while she holds up her too-long dress, clambering up the steps carefully to avoid tripping in her sparkly, Hello Kitty boots.  Looking at her, I am overcome with emotion.

I assume that other parents are also regularly struck sideways by the exquisite vulnerability of their children, as I am.   Almost daily, I envision horrific scenarios while performing mundane tasks; I see them burned, lost, cut, bruised, etc, from scary things that just might happen.  Don’t be alarmed, I am not thinking of harming my kids.  I just have flashes of ways they could get hurt and there are many, many, many ways that children under the age of four can be hurt.  I think of motherhood as a thin skin covering a blister of worry.  The blister of worry began the moment I found out I was pregnant and has grown ever since.  The skin that covers it keeps it under control, but sometimes I have to poke at it, just to make sure it is still there and it is still real.

Today, it was not a physical worry that poked the blister of motherhood.  She was just so darn adorable in her pink and sparkles, gripping her princesses, so trusting that she was going to see something magical. I had a visceral reaction to the incredible faith and vulnerability of my little girl going to see her first play, so excited because Mommy says it’s going to be great.  For a moment, I envisioned disappointment:  what if someone is mean to her in her dress?  What if someone takes her toys or makes fun of her?  What if I was wrong about the time and day of the play? What if the play is terrible and she’s scared of it and we have to leave?  None of those were likely and none of them would result in long-term damage.  Still, I am so very protective of her enthusiasm, her delight and her trust in new experiences.

My momentary fears were for naught.  The play, not surprisingly, turned out to be wonderful.  People seemed delighted at all the little girls in princess costumes with their toys, the actors were talented, and she was transfixed.  She kept asking, “Mommy, what’s happening next?” and she screamed in terror and delight when Gaston stabbed the Beast.  It was so special to hold her on my lap and watch her experience the wonder of live theater.

I might have hated princesses, but I always loved theater, especially high-school and amateur theater.  I prefer high-school theater to professional theater the same way I prefer local, amateur musicians to professional live music, and I prefer 4-H horse shows to the World Championships.  I don’t love the amateur versions because of the quality of the performances, but because of the enthusiasm and the rawness of the performers.  I love the fact that it is such a big deal to the players, that they are not putting in their time for a paycheck, or that they have another gig coming down the pipe tomorrow that is much more important.  I love how much it means to them.  The student actors are just as vulnerable as my mini-princess when she climbs up the steps, skirts in hand.

I remember the glorious triumph of high school musicals.  My view of the action was most often from the back stage, or from the back of the chorus during a large number.  My lack of talent didn’t diminish the transcendent nature of the experience.  I remember the trust in magic, trust in the talent of our cast and our director, trust in our youth and enthusiasm.  Our director used to pull us aside before every opening night and tell us a story.  He told us that our lives were made up of moments, that special moments were memories in the necklace of our lives, and that tonight was going to add a pearl to that necklace.  He was right.  My fellow performers, managers and crew gave those performances our best, leaving all our talent on the stage and holding nothing back.  We did not worry about what might happen; we put our best out there and trusted in the grace of the world.

I keep thinking of the vulnerability of my little girl and of the actors in the play tonight. I think that we become parents so we can experience the vulnerability of youth again.  As an adult, I have learned my strengths and learned to protect myself.  I hedge my bets and temper my excitement and I live safely within my own sphere of competence.  Parenthood threatens that bubble of competence.  Poking the blister of worry reminds me of the fragile nature of life.  That’s when I open up to new experiences, wearing sparkly princess costumes, clutching precious toys, ready for the magic that awaits me. 

The Slippery Nature of Loving Your Neighbor

There is a mystery in Christianity, which moves if you look at it too closely, which shifts in surprising ways.  I guess that is why they call it “the mystery of Christ”.  It is like one of those trick pictures, the ones with the young girl, then if you look again, it is an old woman, then a young girl, then an old woman, back and forth but never both at the same time and never perfectly clear which is the right one (because they both are right).  For instance, the Trinity, the three-in-one God, is something that cannot be nailed down.  It is the best metaphor for the unchanging God we long for, the personal God we seek, and the Spirit which we find in our seeking.  But, it’s not something you can nail down.  Then, there is the incarnation, the God-made-man, holy word encased in flesh, fully-human-fully-divine.  I can understand the historical Jesus.  I can worship a God that gives up his life for us.  But, I can’t quite hold them both in my mind at the same time.  I get one in my thoughts and then the other image comes around and shifts the whole scene.  Just because I can’t nail them down doesn’t mean they aren’t absolutely true, or at least the truest version I know.  Still, it’s slippery, isn’t it?

Another thing that is kind of slippery is how we relate to other Christians.  Recently, I’ve seen some articles posted around Facebook about Christians behaving badly:  not tipping waitresses in the name of the church, condemning the LGBT population, yelling at people in car crashes.  The understandable refrain, from Christians, atheists and other people is, “That’s not very Christian of them!”  I agree absolutely.  How does stiffing waitresses, condemning our neighbors and screaming at accidental mishaps resemble the words of Christ?  Not very much; not at all, actually.  No one wants to be associated with “those type of Christians”. I sure am grateful to not be like them.

Whoa, something feels slippery to me here.  Something seems too easy and too satisfying about my train of thought.  I was just about to pray, “Thank you, God, for helping me to be understanding, kind and tolerant of those with differences.  Thank you for giving me patience and generosity and thank you for helping me to be a good tipper.”  Wait a minute?  Isn’t that dangerously similar to the Publican who prays in the temple, “God, thank you that I am not like that other guy, that I fast and I tithe”?  Remember him?  Remember the hero of the story, the sinful tax collector who just prays, “God be merciful to me, a sinner (a poor tipper and a homophobe)”  Oh boy--what the heck am I supposed to think now?  I know that we’re supposed to love our neighbor and our enemy, so what if our neighbor and enemy are not loving others?  How are we supposed to love hateful people and still stand on the side of love?

I am asking this question honestly, not rhetorically.  I do not know the answer.  I am a newly renewed Christian; living into this faith and trying to love instead of judge is a new thing for me.  It seems like the minute I feel like I’m understanding something, I fall into pride and congratulate myself, and then I’m right back where I started.  If some lady with a Jesus fish on her car cuts me off in traffic and then flicks me off, am I supposed to yell at her for being a hypocrite or pray for her?  Or both?  These are the things I think of while driving to work. (I know, I have been told I think too much.)

The disciples are the most direct models for followers of Christ that we have.  They are the first generation, the eye-witnesses.  I know they did not actually write the Gospels, but the Gospels are still our best evidence.  Did the disciples act “very Christian”?  Well, sometimes, but they certainly had their bad days.  They fought with each other over seating arrangements, they wondered who would get the best reward in heaven, they misunderstood him, they denied him and they (one of them did) betrayed him.  And they actually hung out with the guy in person!  If they screwed it up, what hope do I have at all?

Maybe the answer is in the relationship with others.  If my best friend is having a bad day and goes off on someone who cut her off, would I condemn her?  No, I would sympathize with her frustration, without letting her off the hook for being a jerk.  I would try to help her see things differently so she didn't treat people so poorly in her anger.  What would it be like to treat all the people I encounter in my life like I treat those dearest to me?  Is it possible to love a nasty person without validating their nasty behavior? Is that the point?  I better not get too excited about my hypothesis, because I’ll get it wrong soon enough.

In the midst of fleas and throw-up: thoughts on the incarnation

In the last few years, I have become undeniable aware of the messiness of human life.  I am the mother of two small children, and if living with several animals wasn’t enough to find the nitty-gritty of life, little kids bring the message right on home.  I mean the literal messiness of life, here.  I mean the snot, the puke, the pee, the poop, the dirt, the fleas of every-day human life.  One or the other of the creatures I care for is usually covered in something sticky and I don’t really ask questions about what it is.  There’s nothing new to this at all; I am just newly and constantly aware of it.  Given a recent batch of infestation and illness of my messy little charges (human and canine), I joke that I am just trying to keep my sense of humor in the midst of fleas and throw-up.

Modern humans try very hard to be civilized.  We scrub, shave and spray away the dirt, hair and stink of regular people.  We teach manners, hygiene and grooming and we expect fellow citizens to follow our customs.  When we go out in public, we are presentable and we hide the nitty-gritty of our existence.  But, it still shows through, especially when we’re around little kids and even more with adorable little babies.  Babies seem to hold (and spew at inopportune times) more bodily fluids than their tiny frames can hold.  Human life begins in mess and indignity.

So, thinking about the mess, the profane of daily human existence, brings me to thinking of the Incarnation.  The Holy Word of God became human, fully human, not some handsome super-hero with x-ray vision who could fly and was impervious to illness.  Jesus showed up as a messy, blood-covered, screaming, snotty, human baby, right in the midst of fleas and throw-up. That mess and indignity is where the miracle happens.  

Easter is the big show of Christianity, the extravaganza of the resurrection, the festival of the dying and rising God.  I came back to Christianity because of Easter.  It was Easter that lured me into church again; the idea of a god who gave up his life to save me, the idea of dying to my old life and starting anew.  That is what brought me through the doors of an Episcopal church during Lent.  I wanted the extravaganza, the passion, the whole enchilada.  

As in life, the unbearable grief and unbelievable triumph of the death and life overshadow the daily mess.  This coming Christmas season, I find an even more personal, messier, less glorious miracle in the incarnation.  The miracle of the Holy Word of God becoming human, with all the ordinary trappings of human life.  

Before Jesus could be the sacrament, before he could show us the power of forgiveness, before he could embody the love of God defeating death, he had to be a dirty, smelly, personal human.  He had to become regular person, dealing with family squabbles, jealousy, hunger, temptation, fear, frustration, and daily indignity.  To imagine the Word of God in that indignity, that profane, mundane existence--that is scandalous and ridiculous.  Frederick Buechner says, “The incarnation is "a kind of vast joke whereby the Creator of the ends of the earth comes among us in diapers... Until we too have taken the idea of the God-man seriously enough to be scandalized by it, we have not taken it as seriously as it demands to be taken.”

Are we scandalized enough by Christmas?  Are we scandalized enough that God himself became a helpless baby, born into the dirt, mess and pain of human life? Something absolutely holy and wondrous became part of the ordinary. In the daily mess of life, Jesus came to the world; the Holy Word made flesh in the midst of fleas and throw-up.

Princess Hater? Not so much anymore

I admit it--I was a princess-hater.  I was derisive and dismissive of all that had to do with Disney princesses.  I disliked the depiction of women as a damsel in distress, I disliked the idea that all will be solved by a prince’s rescue and I disliked the incessant merchandising of absolutely everything.  I swore that there would be no princess crap in my house until my daughter asked for it by name.  Lo and behold, by her second birthday, she wanted a princess doll.  So I caved in. For her second Halloween, she dressed as an adorable Snow White.  That Snow White dress has earned its keep again and again; she wore it to day care, to the mall, to church, to the barn.  I didn’t argue, I supported her play with a veiled eye roll.  I was still too cool to embrace the princess culture.

Lately, a few things have made me realize I was wrong, wrong, wrong.  First of all, princess culture has its benefits.  Disney princesses are polite, and they clean up around the house, especially Cinderella, after her annoying step-sisters, and Snow White, with all those messy little dwarves.  It’s pretty convenient to say to my sassy three year old, “Cinderella would pick up her toys, wouldn’t she?  Snow White is kind to others; you should be kind to your baby sister and not knock her down when she takes your toy.”  Manipulative?  OK, but a mom’s gotta take any advantage she can these days.

Today, I was skimming my facebook feed, which is where I get all my news from the outside.  Our t.v. is permanently tuned to Dora’s latest adventure, not the national news.  There was an interesting article about an artist who turned ten important women into Disney princesses.  Here is the link:  http://www.womenyoushouldknow.net/flatten-heroine-artist-puts-disney-princess-filter-10-real-life-female-role-models/  He took people like Ruth Bader Ginsberg and Marie Curie and drew them as Disney princesses.  I believe the idea is that when we make people into flat, 2-dimensional, silly-looking cartoons, it diminishes them.  That’s true, I’m sure.  But, my three year old came by the computer and pointed to Rosa Parks as a princess, “Mommy, who is that pretty girl?”  “Kiddo, that is a woman who worked very hard to make things more fair for other people.  You know what ‘fair’ is, right?”  So, we had a short todder-version conversation of civil rights.  Then, she went off to color.

I am not above using princess culture to teach other lessons.  I can’t blame my daughter for loving pretty things, sparkles and ruffles.  I can’t blame her for being attracted to pretty drawings.  In this case, those pretty drawings were of really important women and I was very grateful for her to hear their names.  I wish they had a 10 Women You Should Know Princess coloring book.  I would be the first one to buy it.  Even better, a t.v. show where those 10 princesses go around bringing social justice to the world.

Most importantly, I now realize I was underestimating my kid with my princess resistance.  Recently, a good friend recently wrote a blog in favor of princesses.  (Here is the link:  http://searchingforingleside.blogspot.com/)  She is a strong, educated woman who I respect immensely.  She wrote about how she played kick-ass princess when she was young, not princesses who just waited around for some man to marry.  It was like getting hit over the head--Duh!  I, too, had played princess as a kid.  My princesses ran through the fields, rode imaginary hawks through the sky, fought to save Narnia from the evil witch, and rode really, really impressive horses.  None of my fantasies involved weddings or even princes at all, unless they were sword-fighting with me.  How could I be so blinded by the merchandising that I forgot the beauty of fantasy?  My daughter plays pretend in all sorts of ways, with a Snow White dress and crown or a hard hat and cowboy boots.  Why shouldn’t I give her the credit she deserves, to create her own kick-ass princesses?

I am a princess-hater no more.  Get out the diamond tiara because I’ve got a kingdom to save.