Free Range Parenting is a Thing?

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So, I saw the news article tonight about the free range kids being picked up by the cops and now the parents are suing.(Welcome to America.)  When did we start referring to kids playing in their neighborhood as “free ranging” chickens?  In my day, it was called things like: “Beat it! You’re getting on my nerves!  Get your ass outside and play!  Get out of the house so I can clean!”  My parents didn’t call it “free ranging,” but I’m glad they did it.  I had a decent sized neighborhood radius that I couldn’t cross and it challenged me, freed me, taught me how to be independent and strong.  I would stay within my radius because my mother was a great cook, folded my underwear and I didn’t want to be kidnapped by anybody that owned a microwave or didn’t understand the value of good fabric softener.

Our group of neighborhood kids looked out for each other, were accountable to each others parents, survived, and learned to set our own boundaries.  My parents didn’t know they were “free ranging,” they just wanted some peace and quiet and trusted in my ability to not ride my bike off a cliff.  My best memories as a kid are from adventurous bicycle rides, walks alone and exploring my neighborhood with friends.  We kept each other safe, observed some really odd things, used our imaginations, pooled our allowances for French fries, and learned how to be independent and think for ourselves.  We always made it back before the sun set; knowing our asses would be grass if we didn’t. (Parents could still spank you back then.) And IF the cops would have had any concerns; they would call our “mother hen” or take us back to the “rooster” FIRST! Without ruffling any feathers, detaining us for 5 hours or calling CPS to intervene.  Those were the good ol’ days.

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Things I Thought About While Babysitting These Past Four Days

1. How in the hell can tiny feet smell that bad? I thought my dog had an accident in the house the smell was so gross. (I gave them an instant foot bath, a lesson on toe cleaning and the importance of fresh socks. Then I loaded them into the car and bought them new shoes and a bag of cartoon socks. They were really excited!)

2. How do mothers find time for sex? Kids sure seem like a sex killer, I am usually up until 1 a.m. or so, but while the kids were here, I was climbing up into my bed by 8 p.m. like I had just circled the desert and finally found a lake of cold water.

3. Saying, “don’t touch that” to a 7 and 7 1/2 year-old is the same as saying, “please play with that as often as you’d like.”

4. Kids can’t resist stacks of peanuts piled up in bins at farmers market. I’m so thankful for the lady that smiled and refused to let me pay. She must be a mother, patience of a Saint!

5. I let the kids make fury mustaches and matching eyebrows, it was so cute! Then we made glittering miniature hats, we wore them on our walk to the playground and did you know that the cliques start so young!? The kids were rude, made fun of their mustaches and hats, and didn’t want to play with my little friends. The parents didn’t even respond when I said, “hi” or told their children to “stop saying things that were not nice!” The children were miniature snobby versions of their parents, it made me sad. However, if they were trying to make us uncomfortable it didn’t work! We thought they were boring, unfriendly, and little 7-year-old “Bea” said, “she would pray for them.” lol (I was so proud of her.) We broke the kids down and eventually became a hit, because they had a grown up with them willing to push everybody on the merry-go-round!(So glad to see those making a come-back those were my favorite as a child.) None of the parents were playing or pushing the kids on the merry-go-rounds? They were on their smart phones or zoned out, it was all very strange. I didn’t know public playgrounds could be so tough or segregated!

6. Little kids love going to the mountains and exploring! That was fun. (and exhausting wow.) They also make great gardeners!(Hole digging for perennials.)

7. I love finding things hidden in my curtains, smashed crayons shoved under my furniture, and lots of new drawings on my fridge and hidden under my pillow when they go home, it made me laugh. Not looking forward to cleaning it all up, but it is really cute.(My bathroom smells like kid pee. Why can’t little boys hit the water bowl? ew.)

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8. Silence is all you want when kids are around but then again, silence was bad. I would panic and imagine they had escaped the backyard and were headed for the next town or picked up by a giant eagle. How do parents relax?

9. My animals have been passed out all day! I didn’t realize how boring and calm our daily lives were until the kids left. My animals were ridden, chased, pulled, tugged, kissed, hugged, colored with chalk, and dressed up. lol (They loved it but they are tired. I’m especially proud of my old cat Gladis she didn’t claw anybody and if you knew her that is kind of a miracle. Bea probably prayed over her. lol)

10. Kids want real band-aids. You really need those, they look at you like you are insane when you make a homemade cotton and tape “band-aid thing” I was not fooling them. They didn’t feel better until they had a real band-aid. lol In my day, my daddy would smother my boo-boo with reddish-brown iodine, slap a cotton ball on, and then add masking tape! (I miss that man) What ever happened to those iodine bottles with the little glass ball on the end? Those were cool and healed everything! 🙂

11. I really respect the way my grandmother and my mother matched all my socks, kept our house really clean, and cooked homemade meals all of the time. In four days, I managed to bake one batch of cookies, but I turned to take-out, my house is shot, and I threw all of their socks into one bag. But I know I gave those little munchkins some great memories and made them tired. If I learned anything in the past four days, its that if you make children tired enough to sleep eight hours and you heard a lot of giggling; you’ve done well.

7 yr old singing Sinatra?

Wow, this is weird.  She IS good though……it’s like Amy Winehouse or Eartha Kitt reincarnated…………

She seems like a sweet little girl but I still find it creepy. Especially when I heard her singing Billie Holidays soulful songs. I hope she plays a lot at home and just enjoys being 7 that should be the priority. 🙂
YouTube Video from: MovieClips

This speech is amazing!

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 This speech by Sidibe Gabourey was freaking amazing!  I am so proud of her!  What an awesome spirit and calling yourself an asshole and fat while necessary sometimes for growth, isn’t ever easy to admit! lol (Fist Up.)

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“I’m so excited to be here. Really, really excited. Okay, I’ll get to it. Hi. One of the first things people usually ask me is, “Gabourey, how are you so confident?” I hate that. I always wonder if that’s the first thing they ask Rihanna when they meet her. “RiRi! How are you so confident?” Nope. No. No. But me? They ask me with that same incredulous disbelief every single time. “You seem so confident! How is that?”

When I was ten years, in the fifth grade, my teacher, Miss Lowe had announced that my class would be having a holiday party right before the Christmas break. She asked if we all could all bring snacks or soda or juice to the class party. She also said we had the option of cooking something, if we like. I was so excited. I immediately decided that I would make gingerbread cookies, and that everyone would love them. I told my mom my plan, and I asked her for money to go buy the ingredients. She thought I should just buy store-bought cookies, but I told her, “Those cookies didn’t have enough love in them!” I had to make the cookies. So I bought the mix, and I bought cookie cutters in the shape of Christmas trees and bells, and I made a practice batch of cookies that went horribly wrong. Good thing they were a practice batch. They were awful. And then the night before the party, I made another batch of cookies. And they were also awful, but they looked a lot better. I carefully put the cookies in a Ziplock bag, so I could take them to school the next day. When I got to school that morning, I could not wait until that party. And I was so proud of those cookies, and all the effort I put into making them, I started to think that maybe I wouldn’t just be the first woman black President — maybe I would also be a celebrity chef! I mean, why limit myself?

The party was set to take place during the last hour of school, and I waited excitedly for it all day long. Finally, it was party time. My teacher asked what everyone brought, and I proudly announced that I had baked cookies for the class. I think I felt prouder knowing that everyone else just bought stuff. I was the only one who made anything, because clearly, I’m a little more clever than anyone else. So as the party starts up, I walk around the class, proudly offering cookies to everyone. No one took a cookie. No one. No one except Nicholas, who was the first person I offered one to. But after a few of our other classmates set him straight, he actually caught up with me as I walked around the class, and gave the cookie back. I walked around the class trying to hand out cookies to my class, until I ended up back at my desk with the same amount of cookies that I started with. I sat at my desk alone, eating those gross gingerbread cookies that took hours to make, all by myself. I put chocolate chips in them, that’s why they were gross. I wasn’t surprised. I just forgot for a moment that my entire class hated me. I had zero friends from the fourth grade to the sixth grade. Who the hell was I baking cookies for? I really got so excited to bake that I had forgotten that everyone hated my guts. Why didn’t they like me? I was fat, yes. I had darker skin and weird hair, yes. But the truth is, this isn’t a story about bulling, or color, or weight. They hated me because… I was an asshole!

Yep. I was a bossy, bossy asshole. See, remember when I said that I thought I was more clever than everyone else? Well, I did! And I told them that — every single day! Those kids couldn’t get a word in edgewise, without me cutting them off to remind them that I was smarter, funnier, and all around wittier than them. I was always sarcastic — I called it my birth defect. And let’s face it, kids don’t get sarcasm. They don’t appreciate it. They never knew what I was talking about. And when they would say, “Wait… huh?” I would say, “My God, Alicia, read a book!” I know. I spoke differently than them, I just did. I sounded more like a Valley Girl than a Brooklyn girl. My classmates always asked me if I was adopted by white people. I’d say, “No. Both my parents went to college.” I know that was rude, but I’m still really proud of that. To be fair, in my neighborhood, not everyone’s parents had the opportunity to go to college. Most of my classmates’ parents were teens when they had them. My parents had me at age 30. My father was born in Senegal. His father was the mayor of the capital city, Dakar, and my dad often took my brother and I back home with him to visit Africa, while most of my classmates had never stepped out of the Lower East Side. My mother was a teacher in high school, that’s why I went there, but my mom also had a voice, so when I was nine, she quit her teaching job to go sing in the subway. She actually made more money as a singer for tips than she made as a teacher! I know! And she was quickly becoming the underground version of Whitney Houston. She was the strongest, smartest, and most talented person I had ever known. Even today, I don’t want to grow up to be anyone as much as I want to grow up to be her. I know!

The point is, I was a snob. I thought I was better than the kids in my class, and I let them know it. That’s why they didn’t like me. I think the reason I thought so highly of myself all the time was because no one else ever did. I figured out I was smart because my mother would yell at my older brother. She’d say, “Your little sister is going to pass you in school. You’re going to get left behind and she’s going to graduate before you.” But she never said to me, “You are smart.” What she did say was, “You are too fat.” I got the message that I wasn’t pretty, and I probably wasn’t normal, but I was smart! Why wouldn’t they just say that? “You’re smart.” It’s actually not that hard. My dad would yell at my brother, “Gabourey does her homework by herself! Why can’t you?” But he never said to me, “Good job.” What he did say was, “You need to lose weight so I can be proud of you.” I know. So I got made fun of at school, I got made fun of at home too, my older brother hated me, my dad just didn’t understand me, and my mom, who had been a fat girl at my age herself, understood me perfectly … but she berated me because she was so afraid of what she knew was to come for me. So I never felt safe when I was at home. And my response was always to eat more, because nothing says, “You hurt my feelings. Fuck you!” like eating a delicious cookie. Cookies never hurt me.

“Gabourey, how are you so confident?” It’s not easy. It’s hard to get dressed up for award shows and red carpets when I know I will be made fun of because of my weight. There’s always a big chance if I wear purple, I will be compared to Barney. If I wear white, a frozen turkey. And if I wear red, that pitcher of Kool-Aid that says, “Oh, yeah!” Twitter will blow up with nasty comments about how the recent earthquake was caused by me running to a hot dog cart or something. And “Diet or Die?” [She gives the finger to that] This is what I deal with every time I put on a dress. This is what I deal with every time someone takes a picture of me. Sometimes when I’m being interviewed by a fashion reporter, I can see it in her eyes, “How is she getting away with this? Why is she so confident? How does she deal with that body? Oh my God, I’m going to catch fat!”

What I would say, is my mom moved my brother and I to my aunt’s house. Her name is Dorothy Pitman Hughes, she is a feminist, an activist, and a lifelong friend of Gloria Steinem. Every day, I had to get up and go to school where everyone made fun of me, and I had to go home to where everyone made fun of me. Every day was hard to get going, no matter which direction I went. And on my way out of the house, I found strength. In the morning on the way out to the world, I passed by a portrait of my aunt and Gloria together. Side by side they stood, one with long beautiful hair and one with the most beautiful, round, Afro hair I had ever seen, both with their fists held high in the air. Powerful. Confident. And every day as I would leave the house… I would give that photo a fist right back. And I’d march off into battle. [She starts crying] I didn’t know that I was being inspired then. On my way home, I’d walk back up those stairs, I’d give that photo the fist again, and continue my march back in for more battle. [She pulls a tissue from her cleavage and dabs her eyes] That’s what boobs are for! I didn’t know I was being inspired then, but I was. If they could feel like that, maybe I could! I just wanted to look that cool. But it made me feel that strong.

So, okay, we’re back in fifth grade, and I just had been rejected by 28 kids in a row. And I was sitting alone at my desk, with an empty Ziplock bag, crumbs in my lap, and I was at this great party that I had waited for all week. I waited all week for this party that I wasn’t invited to. And for some reason I got up, I sat on my desk, and I partied my ass off. I laughed loudly when something funny happened. And when Miss Lowe put on music, I was one of the first ones to get up and dance. I joined the limbo, and ate chips, and drank soda, and I enjoyed myself, even though no one wanted me there. You know why? I told you — I was an asshole! I wanted that party! And what I want trumps what 28 people want me to do, especially when what they want me to do is leave. I had a great time. I did. And if I somehow ruined my classmates’ good time, then that’s on them. “How are you so confident?” “I’m an asshole!” Okay? It’s my good time, and my good life, despite what you think of me. I live my life, because I dare. I dare to show up when everyone else might hide their faces and hide their bodies in shame. I show up because I’m an asshole, and I want to have a good time. And my mother and my father love me. They wanted the best life for me, and they didn’t know how to verbalize it. And I get it. I really do. They were better parents to me than they had themselves. I’m grateful to them, and to my fifth grade class, because if they hadn’t made me cry, I wouldn’t be able to cry on cue now. [Dabs tears] If I hadn’t been told I was garbage, I wouldn’t have learned how to show people I’m talented. And if everyone had always laughed at my jokes, I wouldn’t have figured out how to be so funny. If they hadn’t told me I was ugly, I never would have searched for my beauty. And if they hadn’t tried to break me down, I wouldn’t know that I’m unbreakable. [Dabs tears] So when you ask me how I’m so confident, I know what you’re really asking me: how could someone like me be confident? Go ask Rihanna, asshole!”

My parents wouldn’t have taken that from any kid.

Have you noticed that most recent television commercials depict kids talking back to their parents?  Worse yet, dictating to their parents?  When did this become the norm?  I cringe when I see a commercial with a parent asking permission from their child to eat fruit or play a game.  I don’t find these commercials amusing in the least. If I would have tried that as a kid, well, I’ll never know what would’ve happened, I wasn’t that brave. 

My parents probably would have burst out laughing before they strangled me and said, “We’ll eat whatever the hell we want because this. is. OUR. HOUSE.” 

My parents were not perfect, but I sure do commend them in this area.   

I had respect for my parents role as the ONLY adults in the house,

I stayed the hell out of their way when they had company, I didn’t interrupt them every five minutes after they told me not to.  Or interject myself into adult conversations. (Dear parents, This is not cute, it’s rude to your guest.

Anyway, I eavesdropped on adult conversations from my bedroom door like a normal kid.

I didn’t try to tell my parents they couldn’t eat something they had paid for because I claimed it for myself.

I can’t say I never rolled my eyes, I’d be a liar, but I rolled my eyes alone in my room like a sane kid that wanted to live long enough to see another episode of “Tales From The Cript” and “Yo, MTV Raps.”