Here's a fun read that ran in today's Solutions.
By JEANNE MARIE LASKAS/The Washington Post
My feeling is if the husband isn't going to make it to the PTA meeting, he doesn't get to have a say in which committees he'll serve on. Cookie-Baker Club? Tea with Teachers Committee? Hmm. Nothing is immediately jumping out. (Last year, he ducked the whole deal by making a donation.) I imagine him serving on the Warm and Fuzzy Welcome Committee or the Kindergarten-Screening Refreshments Committee. Why do I enjoy this process so much? "Hello, honey, I just signed you up to lead the chaperones' dance at the Snowflake Petal Boogie Hop!" How many times does a spouse get to say that?
Sue walks up. She is Makenzie's mom. Makenzie is my daughter Sasha's best kindergarten friend.
"Your husband inspired me so much at soccer yesterday," Sue says.
Inspired her? Really? "Did he tell you Sasha ran off the field crying?" Sue asks.
Um, no. He neglected to mention that. He told me that she scored a goal, as if that were the important news.
"Oh, it was a big scene," Sue reports. "The coaches ran up, trying to find out what was wrong. And the kids were like, 'Come on back in and have fun with us!' "
Why didn't he tell me this? What is the matter with him?
"And Sasha just buried her head in his shoulder, sobbing, refusing to speak. And do you know what your husband told her?"
No, I certainly do not.
"He said, 'You don't have to answer, Sasha. You don't have to explain yourself to anybody.' "
Hmm. I'm not sure what I think about this. Have we gotten to the inspirational part yet?
"I would never have done that," Sue says. "I would have joined the crowd, insisting that Makenzie tell me what the problem was."
Me, too. This is what normal people who see crying children do. We ask, "What's wrong?" And we try to fix it. Have we gotten to the inspirational part yet?
"OK, first of all it is play," Sue says. "A 5-year-old shouldn't have to play anything she doesn't want to play."
Of course not. But a crying child is a crying child. Humans need to know what the problem is. She doesn't think it's weird that he didn't ask? Why didn't he ask?
"Your husband told Sasha that she didn't have to justify her feelings to anybody," Sue declares. "She was allowed to just – feel. It was nobody's business why she felt what she felt."
As Sue is telling me this, she is beaming, as though she's just been to a guru. I don't mean to burst her bubble here (or to downplay my husband's guru work), but does she really think a 5-year-old can understand a concept such as "justifying her feelings"?
Sue pauses, looks down, then flashes one of those knowing smiles that enlightened people offer when they encounter dolts. "It was his message," she says. "He was letting her off the hook, giving her a safe place to hide."
OK, I'll give him that.
"I went right home and told my husband all about it," Sue says. "Because I know I would have tried to talk Makenzie into going back on that field. I would have encouraged the other kids to talk her into it. What message would that have sent?"
She extrapolates. She imagines Makenzie at 14, having to justify her decision not to take drugs, or not to have sex, or not to do what the other kids tell her is fun.
"She doesn't need to tell anyone her reason for not following the crowd," Sue says. "She has her own mind, and she has my support as she stands her ground. That's what I learned from that moment."
Well ... good. So did anyone ever figure out what was wrong with my daughter?
"Oh, your husband got the story out of her," Sue says. "But in her own time. You heard about the kid with the eyeballs?"
No. He never tells me the good stuff. (Next time, I'm going to soccer, and he goes to the PTA meeting.)
"One of the boys got new glasses, kind of like goggles," Sue says. "Sasha thought he was an alien. That's why she ran off."
She tells me that the kid later took his glasses off, revealing for Sasha his true identity, and the problem was solved. She went back in and kicked a goal.
My husband tells me about the goal?
When I get home, I complain. "You didn't tell me any of the good stuff about soccer," I say.
He has no idea what I am talking about, and asks me, for comparison purposes, to tell him about the good stuff at the PTA meeting. I tell him all about Sue's declaration of adoration. He gets all puffed up in the chest, struts around like a rooster.
"I handled that situation with Sasha very well," he says, "if I may say so myself."
No, my point is that Sue went home and told her husband about this event. And my husband didn't even mention it to me. "You always leave out the drama!" I say.
He shrugs. "Anything else happen at the PTA meeting?"
"Not really," I say. "I signed you up for Holiday Float Committee and Chicken Bingo."
He looks at me blankly. "No, you didn't," he says. "Did you?"
Of course I did.