Portuguese Man Of War

The most stressful class I took in college was a journalism class with an older, bitter lady who once managed the crime beat for the LA Times. At the beginning of class each week she would hand us a slip of paper as we walked in the room. On that paper would be a prompt, typically just a few sentences. We would get exactly 10 minutes to write a news story based on the prompt. When the time was up, she would clap her hands sharply and randomly point at a student to read his work. Rarely would anyone get through a paragraph, let alone finish his entire article, before she would sharply clap again and say, "You buried the lead! Next!" Or, "You disgust me. Next!" And on and on slapping her papers on someone's keyboard or flicking her hand in dismissal.

One day the prompt said something like this: Mayor of Florida town warning citizens and tourists about an unprecedented number of Portuguese Men-of-War on the shoreline. They are prone to attack and their poison can cause serious harm. Alert authorities if you spot one, and step cautiously around them.

I set to work on my article thrilled by the day's prompt, as I felt this was going to be my most dramatic and impressive work yet. At the ten minute mark, she pointed to the student beside me as the first to read. I was surprised to hear his article and its passive attitude toward these vengeful men ready to attack any American who set foot on the beach. When he talked about the importance of being able to recognize a Portuguese Man-of-War, I chuckled to myself thinking that their poisonous spears and face paint would be a dead give-away. And when he explained how they "shimmy" out of the water, I stopped and thought maybe that was just how the Europeans train their men to fight. Shake the shoulders back and forth to the beat of government-issued steel drums while walking toward the enemy; it lures them into a false sense of security.

The next student called to read her article waxed poetic about their beauty. The closest I'd come to seeing one was the Spaniard in my advanced Calc class, but I would assume anyone from that region has the same lovely skin tone.When she talked about seeing some off the coast of Hawaii, I wondered why everyone was so concerned about the Middle East; seemed we had big problems in Portugal. And only when she mentioned getting to feed one at an aquarium in Cleveland did I start to get a tad suspicious that maybe I didn't have a f**king clue what was going on.

I spent my pregnancy convinced my child would be like my husband.  I wrapped my mind around her having a long, lean face with angular features. I embraced the idea she'd have dark hair. Was excited she would have green eyes. And I accepted the fact that she would be sensitive, quiet, studious and kind.

I was extremely prepared for how to handle a child like my husband. I knew the child would have a consistent temperament, would be quiet and sensitive, would have a high metabolism and long fingers and would be frighteningly smart, 

But much like the alternate universe I created in my head about the vengeful men on the Florida shoreline, how I envisioned my child's personality couldn't be further from reality.

She's not my husband at all. She's me. 

She's extremely vocal. Self possessed. Strong willed. Animated. Affectionate. Happy. Expressive. Emotional. Impatient. Silly. Exhaustingly sociable. And a wee bit demanding. On top of that, she looks  like me: round face, light hair, blue eyes and a turned up nose. And there's a strong chance she, too, is left handed.

And so I had to tear down my old reality of raising a child like my husband, and replace it with the real one in which I would be taking care of, raising and loving--basically--myself.  At first, this was thrilling. There are some advantages to my personality. Being friendly and outgoing has gotten me further in life than any of my other qualities or accomplishments. My trust in people makes me a great team player. My ability to read facial cues and body language helps me engage people in a worthwhile manner. And my sense of humor got me through the trials of adolescents. Yes, perhaps a child like me would be a fantastic thing.

Her similarities to me also means that she's naturally drawn to Jim for the same reasons I am: he's a calming, gentle presence. When he gets home at night, we both curl up on his lap with tears streaming down our faces as he tries to calm us. He's found we both respond well to bottles.

But as I see more and more of myself in my daughter, I've become less enthralled by the idea of her being a carbon copy. I think of my own existence and the way in which my personality has both rewarded me and punished me.

Mostly, I'm concerned Lowery won't get from people what she truly needs.

For starters, I can already tell that Lowery is a multi-tasker. She will have a dozen Cheerios in one hand, a book in the other, and will use her wrists to drink from a sippy cup. All while walking around the house looking for the dogs.

I suppose I like that I'm able to juggle so much at once. That I'm able to tackle motherhood, a dissertation, teaching a couple of classes, researching for the university and cooking roughly three bland meals a week for my forgiving husband. In 12 years of college I've never missed a deadline, never asked for an extension and never, ever skipped a class. In my 7 years in the work force I've never been late to work, never missed a meeting and never got a bad performance review.

Would my child enjoy the Cheerios more if she'd just sit her ass down and eat them? Would she consume more milk if she held it with her hands and not her wrists? Why does she try to cram it all in at once?

Secondly, Lowery's very outgoing. Extremely social. She's far happier around people, and she gets cranky if we are cooped up at home. So out we go, every day, to the mall, or grocery store, or the park or anywhere she can get to talk to people. And talk she does. She says "HI!" loudly to everyone she sees. And they always startle, giggle, put their hand to their chest, cock their head to the side and say, "Well hi! How old are you?" At which point Lowery proudly thrusts two fingers high, exclaims "I am two! Two!" and they giggle wildly before nodding approvingly at me and moving on.

I appreciate that Lowery is friendly to strangers. It may be inherent or it might be learned behavior, but from the safety of my arms or her stroller, I appreciate her ability to engage strangers and get their cold faces to warm.

But I catch myself worrying she's becoming a performer. I'm usually energetic, outgoing, friendly, talkative and happy. But if I'm not, I feel punished. There needs to be an explanation if I'm not on my game. People are put off if I'm quiet. My family is annoyed if I'm not the clown. My friends mistake it as a cue to leave me alone.

I don't want this for my daughter. I find myself apologizing to strangers and friends if she's not her typically happy, bubbly self. And why should I do this? If she's sick, or unhappy, or not up for being friendly, that should be okay. I never allowed that for myself so now I am working overtime to allow my daughter to embrace her emotion of the moment.

Also, Lowery's a bit of a people pleaser. Not in an intentional way, but because I know how she is, I know how to manipulate her into doing what I want. For example, she recently had an eye infection that required drops. And putting those in is like throwing a potato into a garbage can that's a mile away, during an earthquake. So after a few days of kicking and screaming I stopped to think about what would motivate me. Then it hit me. I laid her down on the bed and said, "Lowery, you are such a good girl. Thank you for being a good girl for me and letting me put drops in your eyes." And she laid still. I touched her eye and she winced only slightly. I kept saying over and over how good of a girl she is and how much I appreciate her and she let me lift her lid, drop in two drops and then she smiled at me brightly.

This ain't good.

I've been called a people pleaser repeatedly. Usually by the people I'm trying to please. They say it (while they accept my efforts) as though it's a bad thing. Which I don't understand. I want people to be happy, with me or otherwise, and I like a world in which the people around me are happy and maybe I helped them get there. I worry--to a damaging degree--about my friends, and if they are okay and happy, and if they are getting what they need from me or others. This makes me a fantastic collaborator, but a horrible competitor. It makes me an engaging, though emotionally exhausted, teacher. And I know it's the single thing that makes me a good friend. Because if you are my friend, you can damn sure guarantee I'm worried about you this very minute. You okay?

But people pleasing does not mean I'm a sheep. If people pleasing means that I go around doing whatever anyone asks me, then I would be a very different person. For one thing, I would have gone to the same college as everyone else in my family. Or, I wouldn't have gone to graduate school at the one university of which they truly disapprove. I wouldn't have dated certain guys. I would vote Republican to please my peers. I would like Oprah to please the masses. And I would be a Christian to win the affection of my mother in law.

No, I'm not a people pleaser that changes my principles to appease others; I'm a people pleaser that puts others' feelings above her own. 

And this ain't good.

I suppose I avoid truly talking about myself by putting myself out there. I try to get ahead of questions because, in my experience, questions are usually for the benefit of the asker. Either to satisfy their curiosity or to allow them to answer their own questions. And questions have always made me feel on the defense. Questions about my car accident: my injuries, my inabilities. Questions about my relationships. Questions about the choices I've made as a mother.

So I avoid questions. Would rather talk about someone else. Talk about you. Worry about you. Do for you. And then I spend a great deal of time feeling invisible. Hiding in plain sight.

I'm an absolute head case.

And I'm so in love with my daughter that I worry I've made her one too. Given her all my ticks, my foibles, my fears, my incompetencies. I've constructed a reality in which my kid will have my life. Struggle with my struggles. Worry about my worries. That she will be exactly like me in every way. But I recognize the realities I create are quite extreme. Realities in which a trained soldier, and a jellyfish, can be the same damn thing.

But I am reassured by one aspect of my child's personality: her ability to demand what she needs from others, and to accept nothing less. She will point to vague areas of the room saying "Dat, dat!" while we scramble to touch everything in sight only to have her shake her head disapprovingly. And she won't give up. Won't take less than she wants. Instead, she grunts harder, yells louder and points with more vigor until she is given what she needs.

So my daughter and I may be the same person, exist in the same realm, share the same reality. But we have one very important difference:

She's the Portuguese warrior I envisioned, brave and ready for battle.

And I am spineless.