Great Expectations

There are people in this world who claim they love surprises. But the reality is, no one does.

Sure, people like unexpected birthday parties and a delivery of flowers at work. But otherwise, no one ever gasps in excitement over flat tires and audits.

I learned this one summer in college when I worked as a waitress at a high-end restaurant on the lake.

I gained a substantial amount of knowledge that summer. I learned how to balance a very large tray—filled with steaming hot plates—gracefully on my shoulder. I learned the ideal temperature for preparing each cut of meat. I learned how to open a wine bottle while continuing to talk and charm those at the table (that one still comes in handy). And I learned how to deduce dessert orders from slurring drunk people (also, oddly handy).

But the biggest lesson I took away from my three months in the food industry was how to manage expectations.

The restaurant I worked at was a veritable hot spot. The wait for a table was consistently over an hour. So running out of a certain dish, or a particular vintage, wasn’t uncommon.

In my first few weeks, I would never tell the table upfront that we were out of prime rib or that the case of ’94 Chateau Montelena didn’t arrive in time for the weekend. Instead, I’d bet the odds that they wouldn’t request either and the issue would never arise. But inevitably, they’d want a hearty steak with a good red wine. And when I would have to quietly inform them we were out of the Porterhouse—after they had their minds made up—they were always incredibly frustrated.

My tips suffered greatly in those instances.

One night I saw a veteran waitress approach a table of Saturday night regulars, predictably in their polos and boat shoes. She said hello and told them how nice it was to see them all again, and then immediately informed them, with a cute cluck of the tongue:

“Just so you are aware, we have run out of lobster tonight.”

I expected to see these very wealthy men stand up, grab the hands of their impossibly thin wives, and storm out of the restaurant, never to return again. But instead, they shrugged and asked the waitress what else she’d recommend.

It was the first time I understood that people, even yacht owning people, can be reasonable and rational in the face of disappointment.

So long as they have a heads up.

Imagine how much more easily people could handle difficult life transitions if they just knew what exactly to expect. I mean, giving birth and caring for an infant isn’t exactly like being told duck l’orange is no longer on the menu, but the idea is the same.

Could someone, anyone, have clued me in on what it’s like to hear your infant cry for hours on end? Was it too much to ask that someone give me a heads up about the after care for episiotomies?

I took this idea, an idea I learned as a young waitress, and I’ve carried it into most every aspect of my life. I believe my response to Jim's marriage proposal was something along the lines of:

“Just so you are aware, I need to talk out all my feelings. All the time. I get uncomfortable with too much seriousness. And there’s a chance I fart in my sleep.”

And he went into the marriage knowing full well what to expect.

In parenting, I try to let my kids know what’s happening. I tell them in the morning what their day holds. And while I hope a few exciting and unpredictable adventures await them, they seem to take comfort in knowing that Daddy will take them to school, Mommy will pick them up, and we are having chicken for dinner.

And I try, as best I can, to use this technique at work. Because in my role, managing expectations is paramount.

For me, the most difficult aspect of being an instructor is writing the syllabus. Not creating the class. Not thinking up challenging and worthwhile assignments. Not putting together and delivering lectures.

But writing up the syllabus.

This is solely because I have about three pages to manage everyone’s expectations of how the next four months of their life will go.

A typical syllabus contains the instructor’s contact info, the course description and objectives, the required textbooks, the reading schedule and the class (and university) rules.

For whatever reason, I always forget how deeply students care about the syllabus. But every semester, when my syllabi get posted a week before class starts, I’m reminded of how much people hate surprises.

And how far they will go to avoid them.

Last week, mere minutes after posting a syllabus for each of my classes, I had a stream of emails trickle in. These emails are never fun to open because never once has a student emailed just to say, “Wow, that’s a damn fine syllabus! Garamond? You dawg!”

Instead, emails come in with questions about the schedule. Did I mean to put those two due dates on back-to-back weeks? Or questions about the textbook. Can I just use an older edition my friend has? There are questions about my office hours. Can I ever meet at 7:00am? And even questions about my attention to detail. Did I mean to have so many typos?

I get it. I really do. When I was a college student I couldn’t wait for the syllabus. I wanted to be fully aware of what I could expect. And what would be expected of me. I had a need to put all the due dates in my planner. And to try to grasp the personality of the professor by the tone of the text.

But from my perspective now, there’s too much pressure on that document. I want to be able to let the class bend and curve with the personality of the group. To allow for organic debates about unforeseen topics (you know Trump is running for president, right?). And yet I can’t neglect the aching need everyone has to feel comfortable, assured, and aware of what’s to come.

Because no one likes surprises.

Least of all the wealthy restaurant patrons in search of top shelf vodka. Or newlyweds braving the adventures of cohabitation. New mothers overwhelmed by their responsibility. Children feeling scared by all the unknowns of life. Students fearing a bad grade.

And yet.

One night at the restaurant a customer was upset because our menu had changed and his favorite dish was no longer on it. To compensate for the foul mood this put him in, I surprised him with a free dessert. The size of my tip that night was certainly unexpected.

In our first year of marriage, Jim had to have unexpected surgery. He was pleasantly surprised to discover what an excellent caretaker I could be.

And one day, when I dropped Lowery off at school, I promised her Jim would be picking her up. She said it again to confirm. I promised. But my mother unexpectedly came into town that afternoon and asked to pick her up from school. The look on my child’s surprised face, according to my mother, was the stuff dreams are made of.

And some of the most meaningful evaluations I have ever received were in courses in which the students’ expectations for the class were extremely low. One wrote that he didn’t think the topic would be interesting, and another commented that she had never heard anything about the professor. And yet many seemed pleasantly surprised at how much they liked the class.

Which leaves me wondering if maybe people do like surprises. I mean, I get it when expectant mothers want to wait to see the gender of their baby at birth. But even they know what species to expect. Or maybe it’s just that people like to be surprised when they know the limited, and possible, outcomes.

But then, our children love to get surprises no matter what it is. I can guarantee that a surprise trip to Disney World would elicit the same response as the toy in a Cheerios box, so maybe people just like the idea of surprises.

Or maybe it’s not knowing the possible outcomes or liking the potential of surprises; maybe it’s that people are adaptable. A friend of mine became unexpectedly pregnant, despite vowing she was done birthing babies. And yet, she claims that baby is the greatest surprise she’s ever received. So maybe the unexpected that might catch people off guard, throw them off their game, disrupt their routine, is something they adapt to and grow to appreciate. Maybe people like surprises in retrospect.

So then how should I continue? Should I let my husband deal with unexpected changes in my personality, mood and life goals? Should I expect them in his? Should I control my children’s environment as best I can to help them feel as secure as possible? Or do I just teach them how to deal with the unknown? And should I work even harder to constantly clarify the expectations of education? Or should I just encourage my students to enjoy the ride?

I guess I just sometimes feel very unsure of exactly how to function in my roles as a spouse, a mother, and an educator.

But that’s to be expected.








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The Barbie Complex

I have very few rules when it comes to parenting.

This isn’t to say I don’t care about certain things like getting my kids a good night’s sleep or making sure they have a sense of humor. My husband and I have made a few choices, like no soda or running with scissors, but in general, we tend to play it fast and loose with the rules.

This is mostly because we are tired.

The promises I made myself—like breastfeeding, cloth diapering and organic baby food making—fell away for reasons of either sustainability or sanity. But those were choices I made. Rules of parenting I allowed myself to bend often, or dissolve entirely.

Otherwise, most everything else about parenting has been a little ad hoc. Jim and I want our daughters to be independent, kind and curious creatures who will view the world as a good place. Now, we can be pretty strict about certain things—manners, backtalk, and whining. That might be more about our low tolerance for such behavior over our desire to raise decent humans, but it should all produce the same result. Mostly, we are just trying to keep them alive and feeling loved. And those are large tasks in which rules would only gum up the works.

Except for one rule. The only rule I’ve ever had that I knew I would never break: No Barbies.

For a million reasons that are quite obvious, I made a rule around the time I was 15 years of age that no child of mine would ever own a Barbie. And no skirting around the rules either with a knock-off brand or one of those Bratz dolls.

I’ve never thought this was a ridiculous rule. It was a rule that was grounded in the need for any child of mine to have a healthy image of what women look like. For her or him to understand that women very rarely have eyes that are bigger than their breasts, or thighs that are wider than their waists. And that most women can bend their arms and knees to accommodate tasks like hard-hitting journalism and rocket science.

But then, what was I worried about? Any child of mine would be so engaged in gender neutral toys like Legos and Lincoln Logs that, more than likely, the issue would never come up. My child would never be the child who would cry and beg for a Barbie in the middle of a store. Nope, my child would always sit quietly in the cart going over the state capitals while I shopped for organic rhubarb and canning equipment.

So, four years and two daughters into parenthood, I’m proud to say that I have never once bent or dissolved this rule.

Even that time, six months back, after Lowery had a sleepover with my sister, and my niece’s Brave Barbie doll—a Disney character who boasts female empowerment through archery and lax hair care—ended up in my daughter’s overnight bag. That night, while my daughter slept, I took the big-eyed, big-breasted doll out of her bag and hid it safely behind the washing machine.

My husband supported this rule. He didn’t think it was over-the-top or unnecessary. He certainly didn’t want a bunch of naked plastic dolls hanging out in the Lego fort.

But then, two weekends ago, my whole parenting framework fell apart. Because of one ruthless and vicious infiltrator.

Better known to some as “Nana.”

My mother had asked to have both Lowery and my niece Payton up for a few nights. She had so much planned, like taking them swimming, watching movies, and visiting all the barnyard animals around their property.

But never once did she mention she might take them to the store and let them pick out a toy.

And so, when my daughter was dropped off—after a fun-filled weekend with her grandparents—she came running toward my open arms carrying none other than, a Barbie.

Stripper Barbie.

Complete with a skintight leather dress and glittery shoes that reeked of daddy issues.

When my eyes lifted from the doll to meet my mother’s gaze, I saw panic wash over her.

“Oh…” she said, looking down. “I forgot about your Barbie rule.”

I could tell her forgetfulness was genuine. As was her remorse. But there I stood, on the porch with my daughter and her new favorite toy. And I didn’t have a clue what to do.

“She was crying and begging for it in the store,” my mom volleyed. “What was I to do?”

“We don’t have Barbies in this house,” I said, to both of them.

My daughter, with her big saucer eyes and bouncy white curls, looked up at me with a quiver in her chin. “B-b-but, I LOVE her!” And with that pronouncement, she burst into tears, ran into the house and up to her room to play with her doll and the stack of tiny one-dollar bills it came with.

My husband, out of town on business, had to hear of this over the phone.

“What am I supposed to do, Jim!? She won’t let go of the doll for a second!”

“Well,” he said, treading lightly, “what is the worst that can happen?”

“Oh, I dunno Jim, maybe she’ll grow up thinking women stand on their tip toes?”

We ended the phone call agreeing that I would try to relax a bit, and that when he returned a few days later, we would strategize an intervention.

For the next two days Lowery went everywhere with the tiny doll she had affectionately named “Barb.” Lowery sat Barb on the table during dinner. She took her in the bath, careful not to get Barb’s long, blonde, unobtainable hair wet. She took Barb to bed at night. And she took her to school in the mornings.

Each night on the phone to Jim, I complained about Barb. I wanted him to end his trip early. The real business that needed taken care of was at home.

One evening during dinner Lowery asked, “Why are Barb’s boobies so big?” To which I first had to question where she learned the term “boobies,” and then had to call my mother to yell at her.

The next day Lowery asked if I would straighten her perfect, white tendrils because she wanted her hair straight and long like Barb’s.

My biggest fear was coming true.

Meanwhile, my sweet, precious, innocent toddler London has just begun to learn words, clocking around a new word a week. Each word is a beautiful surprise, and we all gasp in excitement when we hear a new one escape her lips. Last week it was “yellow.” The week before it was “hot dog.” Every word is delicate and special and are among the first building blocks of my child’s knowledge. And then, with my husband still away and my four-year-old immersed in Mattel, London waddled over to Barb, picked her up and inspected her. She looked up at me, smiled brightly, and as clearly as she’s ever said any word, exclaimed “Barbie!”

I wept the entire way to work.

After a week of having Barb around, I began to feel as though perhaps just this one anatomically incorrect doll couldn’t possibly warp my daughter’s sense of self-worth. But then, when I picked Lowery up at school, I found a large, lumpy bag in her cubby. I opened it to see a lovely note from one of the teachers:

“Dear Meg, these are my daughter’s old Barbies for Lowery. Enjoy!” 

And under the thoughtful note was a tangle of perfectly tanned plastic limbs, peeking out through sparkly spandex and shiny hair. It was a sack filled to the brim with the one toy I never wanted my child to have.

At home, my daughter was more engaged and occupied than I’d ever seen her. Typically, Lowery needs constant attention. A truly unreasonable amount of interaction and feedback. But with the perky-breasted dolls around, she didn’t need a thing from me. She played happily in her room for hours with the sack of dolls. Changing their outfits, curling their hair and acting out interesting and imaginative scenarios between them.

One night, the night before my husband was set to arrive home and help me flush all the Barbie shoes down the toilet, Lowery came downstairs with her arms filled with plastic.

“Play with me,” she said, as she handed me G.E.D. Barbie.

“I’ll play with you, Sweetie,” I responded. “But I won’t play Barbies.”

“Why not?” she asked. “Do you not like them?”

“No, I don’t,” I said. “I am actually not happy you have these Barbies.”

She looked hurt and confused. “But they are so fun to play with.”

“That may be,” I said. “But they aren’t realistic.”

“But mom…” Lowery sighed heavily. “They are just pretend.”

“I know…”

“And they were a really nice gift from my teacher,” she continued.

“That’s true….”

“And it’s fun to play them with London,” she pressed.

It was possible, I thought, that my child was out-maturing me in what was a defining moment in my parenting. These dolls were a very generous gift; I certainly couldn’t deny that. And I had seen how well my two daughters played together with them; it was really the first true playing the sisters were able to engage in. Plus, Lowery clearly understood it was all pretend. If she could grasp that Candy Striper Barbie and Pharmaceutical Sales Rep Barbie were just pretending to be attacked by a dinosaur, then she would probably realize their body shape was also a thing of make believe.

“And they have the cutest shoes!” she declared.

“Right there!” I stood up and threw my hands in the air. “That’s exactly what I’m worried about. These dolls are not a realistic depiction of what women can or should dress like! Have you ever tried walking in heels that high?!”

She looked at me, clearly confused, so I pushed on, forgetting I was talking with a four-year-old.

“Lowery, I’m worried you will grow up thinking this is what women look like.”

She looked at Barb for a long time. And then back at me. Then at Barb again.

“But, this is what you look like!” she exclaimed.

“What are you talking about?” I asked.

“You look just like this doll! Your hair is the same color. Your skin is the same color. You look just like Barbie!”

I looked at her, looking back and forth between the Barbie and her mother, trying to find what exactly was different between us. And so before she had the chance to figure it out, I got down on the floor next to her, grabbed a Barbie and said:

“Let’s keep pretending.”












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