Day #5--Sunnypants Kid

Here's the video that premiered at the fashion show last night. It features Cate and her class talking about the superhero they created, a guy named Sunnypants Kids who fights the harmful effects of UV rays.

Our very own Cate gets to explain what his superpowers are.

365 Day Project--Day #2

It would be an exaggeration to say that I have the full cooperation of the McCanns. They are a stubborn lot. I'm not above sneaking up on them in their sleep, though.

Here Cate has fallen asleep while reading (for the zillionth time) her Pokemon Encyclopedia. I'm not joking when I say she's memorized nearly the entire thing and talks non-stop about various Pokemon characters and evolutions and powers.

In the background you can catch a glimpse of her other all-consuming passion: art. The brown paper on the wall showcases a life-size drawing she made of herself. This photograph doesn't capture all of the other masterpieces gracing her walls.

Portrait of the Artist as a Young Girl

Those who know me know that our battles with Cate, our youngest, over drawing on the walls are numerous and frequent. No trick or reward or punishment or lecture or tears works. She draws on the walls (I say "draws"--she actually draws, colors, scribbles, stamps, places stickers, glues paper...) every chance she gets. (Here I am reminded of something she said in the doctor's office after drawing picture of herself and making sure to include a knot in her hair: "I knot my hair. Anywhere. Anytime." With a devilish grin she said this.) So Brian and I have given in (despite our strongly held parenting belief that given clear boundaries and ample opportunity for self-expression, children will not draw on the walls--clearly Cate was sent to us to poke holes in all of our strongly helf parenting beliefs) and lined her room with drawing paper. The picture above is Cate just after Brian finished the first part of her wall. She immediately grabbed a marker, jumped on her bed and started scribbling. "I'm making crazy art," she said. "When I'm done, it will make you smile." The hat came later because artists where hats. If you look to the left, you can see evidence of the wall art the paper is now covering up.

And here is a picture of the finished project. Cate is just out of frame, knotting her hair. We found her in bed that night looking at all she drew (pictures of all us, superheroes taking the bus home, a turtle, a meat bug, among other things) and trying to cover up the fact that, in addition to drawing on her new wall, she had also drawn all over legs, ears, and scalp. "I wanted to be fancy," she said. And so, having, hopefully, conquered one problem, we embark on another.

I Want My !@#$% Fruit Roll-Up

This morning, Cate woke us up at 7am to request a fruit-roll up. We told her she couldn't have one and should have some real breakfast instead. She insisted, we resisted, until finally she banged her little fists on the bed and yelled, "I want a fucking fruit roll-up." We immediately sent her to her room for a time out and to think about why you shouldn't use bad language; and when she was gone, Brian gave me the "You know, this is all your fault" look.

It's probably true. Frances is a bit of a puritan when it comes to cursing and other bad habits, so she never repeats the myriad curses that come out of my mouth. but Cate--cate loves to curse, almost as much as I do. And I do love it. Actually "love" doesn't even begin to scratch the surface of how much I enjoy saying "fuck" in any and all situations. It's one of the most satisfying things I do, actually.

But clearly, we can't have Cate telling her pre-school teacher, "I want my fucking fingerpaints," so something needs to be done. But as I've given up sleeping in, buying new shoes whenever I want, vacations alone with my husband, Saturday mornings spent reading (instead of watching soccer games and playing ponies), it seems really wrong that I should give up the pleasures of a good curse word.

Kick, Push...and Coast

Our new car has a great new sound system and the girls are getting their money's worth from it. Their latest favorite song is "Kick, Push" by Lupe Fiasco (check him out in the video). When I say favorite, I mean we listen to it incessantly in the car. In the morning, when we are in the car for approximately 10 minutes on the way to school, that means we listen to it about 2.5 times. But on Saturdays, when soccer games and birthday parties and grocery shopping and library trips and play dates keep us in the car off and on all day, I hear this song about 12,693 times. Brian and I are conspiring to get them to like something new (though the sound of the three year old singing the chorus in the backseat is kind of cute).

You know you're being raised in a feminist community when...

Here's a recent conversation with Frances:

Frances: What's Aunt T's last name?

Me: Green

Frances: Isn't that Uncle Houston's last name?

Me: Yeah, honey. They have the same last name.

Frances: (sincerely curious) How did that happen?

Me: Well, some women change their name and take their husband's last name when they get married.

Frances: (completely incredulous) Really?

In the circle of adult women she interacts with regularly, there are no women who share their husbands' last names. In fact, not changing your name is such a regular occurence in our social circle that it's easy to forget that we are the ones who are doing something out of the ordinary. As Frances gets older and starts to interact more and more with people and institutions that don't have anything at all to do with us, we are reminded more and more that the decisions we have made in our own lives and in our parenting are very deliberate and, some times, quite at odds with those we love and thos we come into frequent contact with. The name change thing is minor in this regard, but something like not insisting that she preface a grown-up's name with "Miss" or "Mister" is a big deal, especially when we are back home or at church. I have become so adept at moving between worlds (I of course always address my elders at church as "Miss" or "Mister") that I forget that this is a skill I learned. I sometimes fear that we aren't doing a good job of teaching Frances that skill.

What Happens When Uppity Negroes Have Kids

Here's a funny story: I'm shopping in target with my daughters and have found a cute shirt for the 2 year old. I hold it up to her to see if I like the color against her skin and she says, "Mommy, this will make me an uppity negro just like you." My first reaction is disbelief because clearly she couldn't have used the phrase "uppity negro" correctly in a sentence. But she did. My second reaction was hysterical laughter. Because it's funny.

Part of my job as director of African American Studies at the College of Charleston is to publicize and generate buzz about the program. I attempted to do this by having a contest to pick the new AAST t-shirt. One t-shirt says "uppity negro" on the front and as the AAST logo on the back. The other has the logo on the front and has a large black power fist and "not just in february" on the back. You can see both of them here.

Students love the uppity negro shirt and I, in fact, really want that shirt to win. I want to wear it to class and have students ask me why I'm wearing it and have people understand that calling me uppity (which I assume means that I don't know my place and I presume I am welcome where I'm not and I refuse to abide by prevailing notions of blackness--yep that's me) in no way offends me. But of course it is horribly offensive to some, particularly to black people a generation older than me (who sometimes faced violence and came to horrible ends because of their "uppity" ways), and potentially a problem for the College, especially if it is perceived as willfully insulting black people.

My third reaction to my 2 year old gleefully declaring herself an uppity negro was the thought of how horrified my mother would be. While she would not be surprised that I don't find being called uppity an insult, I am not sure she would approve of me passing that lesson along to my kids. My mother wants all her daughters to be well-behaved and walking around with a shirt that says uppity negro is the antithesis of well-behaved.

But maybe good behavior is overrated. And would that be such a horrible lesson for the 2 year old to learn?

The McCann Girls Go to School

Every year we take a picture of Frances on the first day of school. I have dreams of one day of making a school scrapbook for her that will include these pictures. Here is she on the first day of third grade:





Cate had her first day of preschool this morning. In this picture she was rather annoyed that we are trying to take her picture, so no smile. But do note that her hair is combed, something my mother thinks never happens. Also note her pants--Brian and Frances said they are tacky, but Cate said they make her look like a beautiful princess.





And for kicks, here is me in high school. I think I'm 15 in this picture. Note my giant teeth and enormous blue glasses.