Plain Red Turtlenecks

The costumes arrived Wednesday in a flurry of tulle and glitter. When I stopped by to drop off some sewing, I asked what the Boy's outfits were, and I got handed a metallic red button down. Plain, but okay. I could live with it.

Imagine my horror when the real outfit was not a metallic red button down. It was a plain red cotton turtleneck, bought at Target. How do we know? The tags were still on them. Worse, they were all too big. Stitch's hit him at his knees, and he wasn't the only one with that problem.

Soak this in for a minute. We parents of boys paid our money for a costume, not an outfit we could have picked up for school wear. Here were all these girls in glitter and frills, and here come the boys in ill-fitting plain turtlenecks. Dumpy, frumpy, and stupid looking, and all the boys knew it. Even thenTot boys were in plain white turtlenecks, sorely out of place with their glittery, fairy winged girls standing right next to them.

So, with a heavy heart, I went to join the ranks of the complainers. I knew the people I was complaining to were not the right people, so I kept it to a short rant and a "We need to do something."

When the boys were done with their number, we hijacked their shirts. We trimmed them, no time to hem, glittered and painted them. I stayed until roughly midnight, and I had to leave so Stitch could get to bed. He had school in the morning. They look better, more like an actual costume and not a Target purchase, but I still hate them. I hate them because they are everything that isn't fair about that show. Not a soloist? Go away. In a Group Number? No one really cares about those. Have a suggestion? Screw off. Want to help? Don't call us, we'll call you.

I glued appliques and stones on the Tot Boys turtlenecks, too. Someone has got to advocate for these little boys.

Notes were left on the costumes, stating "unavoidable delays" and "everyone will look great." Nonsense, don't buy it. A City Manager with his head up his ass is not an "unavoidable delay," and nothing says "fresh out of the package with no time to fall" like a girl with a tutu up around her chest.

But I'm just a Lunatic, Neurotic Mom, so I'm fairly sure that my complaints won't go far. I don't know how many more shows Stitch can do. I don't know how much more I can take of watching him do short choreography in a crap outfit, knowing I'm paying out the ass for the privilege. And there's only so many times I can be accused of being a lunatic before I become one.

Things that Bug Me

This past weekend we had a local street fair, with music and food and local craft vendors. Stitch, Grandma and I of course wandered down to sample things. This fair is slowly being taken over by Peruvian Flute Bands, who seem to purchase at least twenty spaces and fill them with cheap beanie toys, terrifying bows and arrows made of PVC pipe and a gnarled matron to scare the shit out of the kiddies tempted to lift something, but there's also some nice local craft folks who have cute things.

Grandma and Stitch were sharing a funnel cake, and Stitch looks over and catches the sign of a vendor. "No Boys Allowed?" he reads. "Why do they have that?"

"Oh," I glance over. "I think they just sell tutus and tiaras. I guess they figure boys wouldn't be interested anyway. Do you want a tutu?"

"NO! But it's still rude!"

"You should go tell them. I'll go with you."

"No," he sighs, and goes back to the funnel cake.

I've said a lot about the hyper-gendered culture we live in, and what happens to kids who step outside of those lines. The marketing concept of "No Boys Allowed" for a business that specializes in Tutus and Froufrou assumes that no Boy would ever in his right mind would ever play with a Tutu. Also that they sold nothing in shades outside of pastel was kind of freaky. Stay in your lane kids, no deviations.

Stitch had wanted to invite a boy to his party last year, so I was only assuming that Stitch wanted him this year. Yet I was hesitant to make the call, as this boy's father was the first to directly imply that Stitch is gay. How do I invite a Hockey Dad to what will turn out to be a Figure Skating party without inviting the asshat commentary? Should I even care?

There's some weird assumption that Feminists want special rights for women, to the detriment of others. Few things are more short sighted than this belief. Gender Stereotypes hurt everyone, even the little ones. I'm glad that Stitch is aware of the bias. I'm glad he can walk into a store and ask, "Why are all the boy's toys so lame? Why is there so much craft stuff for girls and none for boys? Don't they think boys like to make things? I don't want the Happy Meal Toy. Why do they think I just like action figures?" I'm happy he has this awareness. I'm sad that he notices so much of it.

I also find it sad that the "we don't use paper towels" and "I only buy organic" crowd is buying into this stuff, hook, line and sinker. Because that's the crowd that was buying and selling the "No Boys Allowed" tutus. You'd think a bunch of monied hippies would see the insensitivity in a company name "No Boys Allowed." Why reference gender at all? And what about the girl who isn't into tutus and tiaras? What's she supposed to think of these wares? Talk about your pigeonholed kids.

I dunno. Maybe I'm making too much of something that momentarily annoyed me, but I get momentarily annoyed a lot by this shit. The gendered Happy Meals. The dramatic color difference across the aisle to the girl's clothes at Target. The mean expressions of the action figures. The HerpaDerp persona of male comic characters in media. It bugs me, and the fact that it's getting down to the grassroots level bugs me even more.

Boys Don't Wear Pink

The work is on for Stitch's new program. He wants Pink Panther. Well, that's easy enough, but even Coach and I shared a laugh when she said, "So you'll dress him all in pink?"

Hahahahaha it's all fun and games until you discover that this is precisely what he wants.

"So, Stitch, Coach had the suggestion of all in black but with a sparkly pink bow tie. I think that would be nice."
"No. I have to be all in pink."
"Um. I don't think that's a good idea."
"Why not?"
"Because boys don't wear all pink."
"Why?"
"They just... don't..."
"But I have to be in pink. It's the PINK. PANTHER."
"But, that wouldn't... go over... well..."
"What's wrong with it?"

Because society as a whole decided that blue is for boys and pink is for girls and as much as I want to change the stupid arbitrary idiocy of the collective masses, I can't and I don't want any stupid Hockey Dads making snide comments about your outfit when what they should be doing is paying attention to how good you skate.

That's why.

I sketched a compromise. A dusty pink wraparound top, with black sparkle trim on the collar, cuffs, arms and waist, which would go down the leg with a pink accent. His good leg, in the event the spiral makes a surprise comeback. Stitch isn't 100% on board with it, but it's what I've got.

Life Lesson for Stitch: People are often lame.

Gender Stereotypes and Advertising

This great pair of graphics is making its way around the interwebs, but for a parent it's not really shocking. We see this every day on crap kid's cartoons. Click the images for the full scale versions.

These are the words used most commonly in toys for Boys.



No wonder they don't stick with Figure Skating. As much as I'd love to see a Johnny/Evan one on one matchup with whips and on-ice obstacles a-la Flash Gordon when he's fighting Prince Barin, I just don't see that happening.



Aaaand here are the words used most commonly for girls.



"Babies?" Really? Also note the word "perfect."



Yes, ladies, if you're not careful this will be your life. First they feed it to you, then you get to clean it up.

http://www.achilleseffect.com/2011/03/word-cloud-how-toy-ad-vocabulary-reinforces-gender-stereotypes/

Gotta love Genderriffic Consumer Culture!

Dare to Dream

In any given Freestyle class I've noticed there's one, maybe two boys. There's never more than two. Sometimes there aren't any at all. This is kind of odd since in the Early PreStyle classes there's usually an even mix of boys and girls.

So, what happens? Where did the boys go?

Maybe somewhere along the line, a boy looked up and saw himself surrounded by tutus and glitter and shirts with "GIRL POWER," and doing a quasi-pirouette and realized, "I don't belong here." It's true, coaches in the PreStyle levels tend not to think about the boys when they make them do "arms over the head" ballet moves in Pre-Alpha, which delights the girls but makes the boys twist their faces. Fortunately there's no time for that kind of silliness in Freestyle classes. By then, though, the boys that remain are clearly there to stay.

In my ideal world, my ideal "never to happen ever" learning to skate world, boys would be pulled into their own class from Beta to Freestyle 1. Maybe 2. Just give them a two hour slot on the big ice, let them have an hour of free time all with themselves and then an hour with coaches. Pair Beta/Gamma and Delta/PreFS boys in the same groups, so they can egg each other on. Let the FS1 and FS2 boys help out with the little ones. Boys like older boys who help. Just clear out the Tutus and let the boys have it. Stop playing Katy Perry and turn on some Boy Music. This would be cooler if it was a drop-in thing; turn in two coupons and let the families who show up share the coaching costs.

I've noticed that Stitch and Gordon, when sharing an hour with Coach, do more together. Coach will leave to go fetch something, and those boys will keep working. Sure, she told them to, but a Group Class Coach will tell Stitch to "keep working" too and he will hang off the boards while the girls skate on.

I'm not alone in this train of thought. Jason Brown's coach feels the same way. http://www.dailyherald.com/article/20110126/news/701269979/

For now, we'll keep soldiering on among the tutus. I was thinking of investing in knee pads for Stitch's poor bruised knees, and the main caveat on the reviews was "shows through tights." Wow, with a pair of skating pants, no one will ever know they are there. 

Book Review; Packaging Boyhood

I just got done with this one. Being the mom of a boy, I spend a good amount of time reading and trying to figure out just what the heck I'm supposed to be doing with this kid.

I think we're all well aware of the Cultural Wasteland's effective hyper-genderization of childhood. This book is a companion to "Packaging Girlhood," which examines how the culture steers girls to be little bitches who shop a lot. The "Boyhood" version explores the clothes, books, movies, music and games that steer boys to being tough, unfeeling, super hetero examples of machismo that few boys can live up to, so they can revert to Slacker mode where nothing is expected of them. Most people are aware of the violent video games, the "music", the heavily advertised media world they wander in, the excessive fart and poop jokes that everyone assumes boys like, and so on. What this book doesn't do is advocate shielding a child from it. Instead, it encourages a "Reality Based" parenting model, which acknowledges the existence of this media and tells parents to use it to start dialogues on what boys really do and how they feel about all this subtle messaging. We should teach our kids to be smart consumers of media, not passive slugs eating everything at the buffet of media lunacy.

This is pretty close to what I've been doing with Stitch. When he came home asking me what a collection of profanity and obscene gestures was all about, I honestly told him. Watching toy advertisements, I point out that there's special lighting and camera tricks to make things seem more exciting than they really are. (It helps that we can get him up close and personal with these special effects.) While I do make some effort to limit what Stitch is exposed to, I don't go out of my way to ensure he doesn't see certain things. I won't take him to an R-Rated movie, but I will explain the trailer of one if we happen to get stuck with it while waiting for "Happy Feet" to start.

Figure Skating did get a mention in this book; "Blades of Glory" was offered as an example of the ridiculousness and ridicule of men who dare to step outside of the accepted male model. Don't get excited, that was pretty much it. But it was true. Figure Skating in this culture is not a male activity. Period. While running spots for Ice Show, I overheard a father say to his son, "They play hockey, that's how they can skate like that," referring to the male soloists doing doubles and spins. Little boys who dare to Figure Skate and not play Hockey, like Stitch, get some eyerolls and funny looks from the other Moms and Dads who are buying into our hyper-gendered culture. This is kinda sad, and sometimes I wonder what would happen if I intimated that their daughter was a lesbian because she played hockey and didn't figure skate. (I haven't done it. Yet.)

This book also took on the "F" word. "F" as in "Faggot." I have a coworker who made the comment of "fagure skating" to me once. I laughed and asked him why he said that. "Because they're all gay," he replied casually. So? Who cares? This book takes on "faggot" as the slur that it is, and that it needs to be removed from the cultural vernacular to describe anything that is ultra feminine, froufy or just plain "not hyper male."

It's sad that the Culture children grow up in does so much to shortchange boys of their potential, and this book offers up a lot of ways to counteract that. It's not easy; it involves a lot of talking, a lot of honesty and a hell of a lot of time. It involves taking your child as he is, not as what others project him to be. Stitch has defied convention for a long time, but he's never realized it. In Pre-School he was the lone Dragon among three identical Transformers. (Did anyone wonder why a PreSchooler was dressing as a character from a movie they shouldn't be seeing?) At the craft store he gets mad that all craft kits are geared towards girls. We just don't buy the kits and he enjoys making things all the same. He's passed over the "My Weird School" series for "Junie B Jones," which features a girl as lead. He loves his trains, but the Hot Wheels got played with maybe once or twice, and the Spiderman stuff got dusty really fast. (Did anyone ask why toys for 5 year olds come from an R rated movie?) People ask me what he's "into" so they can buy birthday and holiday gifts, and I don't have a pat answer like "Superman" or "Batman" or "Cars." I have to get creative to match his ever widening and expansive interests, and this makes the relations crazy. I once sent my mom on a scavenger hunt to find the elusive "Owly" comic series. (I HIGHLY recommend this series for young children, it is THE BOMB. Even for non-readers, GET IT!)((Edit, Owly Link, Free Comics!! But buy Andy's books because Andy is awesome... http://www.andyrunton.com/owly/ )

Every child is unique, and Popular Culture is going to try and fit them into a stupid box. This book offers up some great strategies to help you and your kids avoid that box and stay special. I got my copy at the library, but I imagine Amazon's got it, too.

Growing Up

Last night at public skate, Stitch brought his own copy of some Michael Jackson songs. Some old friends and new friends showed up, I sat in the stands to talk, looking up to watch Stitch dance and play. He kept watching me to watch for him, jumping his new jump and doing his new moves.

I got absorbed in the debate over the fit of some child's skates, looking up in time to see Stitch hop from one foot to the other, but trip on a toepick and take a hard dive on his chest. I could see what happened; he'd gotten the wind knocked out of him again, his mouth open and his eyes full of that momentary terror. I stood up, flashing my "OK" sign and when it wasn't returned I moved to the ice door. Stitch looked at me, mad as hell, his face red and tears in his eyes. He motioned for me to STAY PUT.

I sat down, my friend asking if he was all right. "I think so, but he's crying."
"He's still putting on a show for us."
"He is, but he's crying."
Stitch was still skating; spinning and lunging, fighting back his tears.
Friend shrugged. "He's all right."

And Stitch was. After awhile, he got over it. He came off the ice awhile later, still mad.
"Stitch, what's wrong? Are you okay? Do you hurt anywhere?"
He glared at me. "I'm fine."
"Then why are you mad?"
"Because when you're at a theatre, and someone falls, do you do this?" he made my "OK" sign. "No! You don't! That ruined my show! Don't do that!"
"Stitch, I'm your mom. I'm going to worry about you every time you fall; on the ice, on the playground, at home, everywhere. That's my job. I only do OK because you can't hear me out there, you know that. I just need to know that you're all right."
Stitch was mad for awhile longer, but went back onto the ice. Before too long he was smiling and playing with his friends again.

It even happened again, the same accident in the same way, and this time Stitch got up, flashed "OK" at me and kept going. I didn't even have to get up. As it turns out, I even missed a hard fall during lessons that day. It happened while I was in the lobby getting coffee, and I was sorely reprimanded in the car ride home. That night I felt his knees for bruises and his feet for blisters. His knees were dry, and I caught a red patch on his ankle from where the top of his boot had rubbed too much. He rolled his eyes at me as I put lotion and Neosporin on him. "This is my job," I said.

Little boys stop being little so fast. A few nights ago we were looking through the old baby pictures. "Remember the squirrel we took in?" I pointed to a picture. "That was the first one."
"What happened to him?"
"He was just a baby. We kept him for a few days until I could get him to an animal sanctuary. They let him go when he was old enough." That one was wandering aimlessly around a playground and balled between my feet. I picked him up and carried him home, where we fed him puppy milk to get him through those days.
"What about that other one?"
I found that one on the ground during a bad storm, sitting, soaked and growling at the world. "That one was just stunned after he fell out of his tree. He was fine after a few hours. I just let him go." Yes, that squirrel was fine, jumping around in the animal carrier I was keeping him in. I had to hold it at arm's length and dump it upside down for fear of him jumping out and back at me. Wild animals don't have much thought for a good Samaritan.
"Why couldn't we keep them?" Stitch asked. "They were cute."
"They were. But they didn't belong to us."

Ultimately, Stitch doesn't belong to us, either.

Super Saturday

Yesterday was my first glimpse that what we're doing isn't exactly normal. I was sitting up in the stands, watching Stitch blow off the warm up coaches (typical), shivering and anticipating the end of the skating day. He'd started out with a lesson with Coach, followed by 45 minutes of Practice Ice across town, now Group Lesson and then we had big plans.

Skate Dad, with two kids in the program (one of which went pretty far in Ice Dance recently) came up and stood next to me. "Hey, how's your little guy?"

"He's down there. He's doing okay. How's the Dance Team?"

"Oh, they broke up."

Wow! I skooched over and had him sit next to me. Details, please! He kind of shook his head as he gave me the sorry details of the firing of a coach, the hiring of a new coach, planning a new training schedule and then the mom of the partner calling the whole thing off three days later. "Did she give any reason at all?"

"Nope, they just said they were done."

Just like that. "That's too bad, they looked so good together."

"We kind of knew things were going downhill. You can tell."

"What about the other one, how's he doing?"

"He's down there in Freestyle One. He didn't pass out of it last time, which is probably good. He can't get that move. But when they spend half the class doing warmups and just a half hour doing the lesson, it's almost impossible."

"Does he take privates?"

"No. But at these levels, you kind of have to."

"Maybe you should think about it."

"Yeah, but he's only seven. My wife doesn't want to push him like that."

I was shivering more now.

"What about Stitch? Does he do privates?"

"Yeah. With Coach," I pointed. "He does so much better in Privates."

"Oh."

At that point the lesson was about done, Stitch was done with a capital "D" and we said our goodbyes. I felt weird. Why not push a kid a little, even though they're seven? They've got to grow up sometime. I didn't think I had been doing anything strange, tossing Stitch in privates, despite his age.

I also felt bad for the Coach who had lost a team. Way back when, had I known what I do now, I would have asked this one to take Stitch. Now that he's got a solid thing going with Coach Y, it's hard to go back, but I know I've got a backup in mind if I need it. The whole conversation was an indicator of just how fragile skating can be.

I collected Stitch, who was audibly complaining, and talked to Coach briefly about his lack of focus during Group Lessons. I had to cut him a little slack, though, he knew where we were going next. Coach wasn't going to care, so I just had to let it go and say he'd do better next week. She said there were buckets of ice for next week, so we scheduled a put-in lesson. It's nice, just focusing on the skills now and not worrying about a new program. The Waltz Jumps are looking more and more solid; I'd watched Stitch do three in a row with the fancy turns and everything that morning. Even Ms V is liking this little break. (Which they ended up taking due to schedule issues.)

We left quickly, hit the store for some last minute stuff, dashed home, changed clothes and back out the door for the Comic Convention. Two of my friends are hard-core fans, and they stay with us over the weekend to save money on a hotel room. It's great, and this is the first time Stitch has been around for it. (He's usually been shipped off to a grandparent's because he was too young.) But now I felt he was mature enough, so I dressed him up as one of our favorite video game characters, gave him his own spending money, and off we went. I told him that we always order Thai (he loves Thai) we always stay up late and we always laugh a lot.

Sure enough, we ran into my Friends and had a blast wandering the aisles, brushing into Stormtroopers and Cosplayers, Stitch getting his picture taken (they ask, it's protocol to ask before taking a picture) and loading up on Simpson's, Looney Tunes and he even picked up an old book of Casper comics. I bought him a graphic novel of 20,000 Leagues Under the Sea, which the artist was kind enough to sketch in and sign for him (you can't say I don't try.)

But the highlight was meeting his favorite Saturday night TV personality, live and in person. Yes, the guy who hosts the show we watch every Saturday night after skating, he was there. "He's REAL?" Stitch didn't believe me.

"He's right there!" I pointed.

We waited in a pretty decent line, and when we got up to the table I had to lift Stitch up since he was so short. "I'm your biggest fan!" Stitch said, the moment he was at eye level with his favorite TV persona.

TV guy laughed and signed a card for him. We posed for pictures and I said, "We watch every Saturday, but he usually passes out halfway through."

"So do I," said TV Persona.

Laughs all around. A good day. We came home, ordered buckets of Thai, ate ourselves sick, drank beer (not Stitch), and Stitch was remarkably conversational, funny and mature with my friends. We watched the Traditional Saturday Night show, as Friends had never heard of this guy and didn't know what the hullaballoo was about.

This morning we played classic video games and ate pancakes, with Stitch learning all the horrible traps we'd learned when we were his age. And again, he was witty and well-behaved. He stepped up to the occasion and I was proud of him. Every time I've held the bar high, he's risen to it. In this instance, it was: Behave well with my friends, and you can stick around for next time. The past instance was the 3 Turns and the January Comp, but that was more Coach than me.

One of the artists at the show told him, "You've got a pretty cool mom if she lets you come to something like this."

Well, yes. I am pretty cool, but he can handle it. (Sure, there were a lot of things there that were too Adult for him, but he's seen stuff like that. I didn't slam the Magritte book shut just because it has boobies.) I have to think the skating is the same way. Challenge him, and he steps up. Assume he can't, for whatever reason, and he never will.

Special Diets for Little Boy Skaters

Stitch is about to hit a growth spurt. I can tell because he's gone from a perpetual hunger strike to eating everything in sight. Unfortunately his sights usually set on the Rink vending machines.

powered by ifood.tv

A few nights ago we were at a restaurant where he devoured an entire cheeseburger and then complained of pain in his legs.

"Where does it hurt?" I was trying to get him to clarify. Is this a bruise or sprain?
"Just all over."
"Does it feel like it's down deep, like in the bone?"
"Yeah."

Growing pains, then.

He just got tall enough to see over the boards a few months ago, maybe now I won't be tempted to dress him as Captain of the Lollipop Guild for July.

One More Thing

A benefit to knowing the Maintenance Staff on a first name basis is that gives me leverage when Stitch steps out of bounds. Last weekend I caught him gouging holes in the ice with his heel. I told him to stop. This morning, he was doing it again.

I called him on it, in front of Coach.

"Stitch, I've asked you to stop that twice. You know it creates a danger for other skaters, and I won't ask you again. I catch you doing it one more time, and you'll be here after hours with Maintenance Friend, repairing the damage you did. Understand?"

Stitch looked at me. "Really?"

He knows by now that I don't make empty threats. "Really. After hours, because that's when he does it."

He had the double loss of face because I intentionally did it with Coach. He didn't do it again.

Lesson? Know your Rink Maintenance Staff.

My Sparkly Boy

Stitch likes the Sparkle. His only complaint about the new skating costume is that it isn't sparkly enough. There's a solid logic behind this: When he was little and I'd be sitting around making jewelry with all those pretty, sparkly beads, he'd make sad eyes and ask why I wouldn't make anything for him. No bracelets, no necklaces, no earrings. None of that is for boys.

Well, now he's skating, he's watched skating, and he knows that on the ice, it's perfectly acceptable and expected to have some sparkle. So, here's me, a Raccoon in a former life, now making clothing for a figure skater who keeps asking for more. It's a serious issue for me to tone it down, really.

Friday he asked for a practice shirt with "50% sparkly." Okay, I can do that, and I'd been looking for an excuse to play with metallic thread on spandex for awhile. (It's basically tinsel on a spool. Great to look at but hell on tension adjustments.)

"What color do you want?"
"Red," he says. "So people can see me."

Okay, done. I walked over to the fabric store, had a great chat with the great Fab Guy who works there, and scored some of the brightest red stuff I could find. I measured out the next size up shirt, and off I went. I played with metallic accents on the front and sleeves. I tried some embroidery stitching on a scrap piece, but the metallic just didn't want to play. (I'll try again using a backing of interfacing later.)

As I was sewing, though, the thought hit me. He already catches some minor flak from the snobby little girls out there for being so outlandish. The Hockey boys do come up and tease him a little before they realize he can skate them into oblivion and then they leave him alone. (He literally runs away on the ice and they don't follow.) Just the previous evening, a roving troupe of miniature dicks were teasing every newcomer in the place, "You can't skate! Your skating is crappy!" Some poor girl was in tears as they laughed and skated off. Assholes.

Perhaps putting him in a fire engine red sparkle shirt isn't the best idea in the world. Maybe I'd be opening him up for a whole new dimension of teasing.

Wait. What am I thinking? Why am I considering of shutting this down? No one looks twice when a little girl is out at public skate in a sparkly skating dress. I've even seen a full-on Snow White Halloween costume in July. Why can't a Boy do it?

Stitch used to take teasing very personally. He'd really consider changing facets of himself if his schoolmates teased him about them. I sat him down and explained things. "Stitch, if Classmate doesn't like your Nori Roll lunch, that's his problem. A big part of life is learning to determine Your Problem versus Their Problem. If it's Your Problem, then sure, change things that don't work. But if it's Their Problem, forget it. Got it?"
"I think so."
"If you're in doubt, you can ask me. I'll help you figure things out."

Here I was, some yards deep in sequins, red tinsel and fire engine spandex, ready to abort everything because of what amounted to Someone Else's Problem.

If Stitch wants to do public skate in Glitter, then let him skate in Glitter. If Snotty Girls want to tease, then I'll be happy to point out the fact that they're in last year's Spring Show outfit. If Hockey Boys want to harass, then let's ask ourselves who skates in full hip padding and who doesn't. (There's one in particular who tries to imitate Stitch's spins in hockey skates, and that would be quite ironic if he teased Stitch anyway.) Hockey Dads? How awesome would it be to do a full body check, after all? Momma Bear can get up speed, but she sure as hell can't stop too fast. If people are too wrapped up in what Stitch is wearing rather than how good he can skate, then they're at the rink for the wrong reasons.  If someone wants to question/doubt/examine or forecast the sexuality of a seven year old, then they're perverted. That's a big Their Problem. 

I finished the shirt, minus the sequins due to technical issues but I promised we could affix them later. He wore it all day, even to the grocery store, and then to public skate. Excited as he might have been to have a sparkle practice shirt, the rink was as cold as ever and he kept the jacket on most of the time. The one time he took it off and did some "fancy skating" for me, no one noticed or said anything that I heard. He then put the jacket back on.


Now he wants me to make him a sparkly jacket. Hey, I'm a solid fan of black/white crystal combos, and that jacket we have now is going to be outgrown eventually.

Never Mind, He is Sick

Whenever Stitch gets sick, he tends to hide it pretty well. The only times I'm sure he's sick is when he's glassy eyed, slug-like on the sofa and hotter than pavement in July. By then, it's too late and he's down for two or three days. If I can catch it and down him for a day in the early stages, I can limit the effect and duration of the illness by half. The trick is the catch it.

Stitch was sick yesterday morning, he was just doing his normal con job and me, not wanting to cancel on Coach within an hour of the lesson, fell for it. I sent him to school with the orders, "If you feel sick, go to the nurse and go home. It's okay."

Stitch did not go to the nurse. I met up with him and Dad at the train station, and on the ride home he seemed cheerful if tired. This was understandable so I brushed it off. We came home and grabbed skates, and off we went. Stitch didn't complain and seemed really happy that we were going to be on the big rink.

But once he got on, he got that glassy look. He was dragging within a half hour, and then he was off the ice, slug-like in the stands. I called it.

The trouble with ice skating is that my one tell-tale sign of Stitch's fever, Hot Feet, has been negated. His feet were cold to the touch as always, and the rest of him felt cool as well. The Glassy Look was all I had to go by. 

Once we got home, I felt his feet again. Hot. Damn. I stuck a thermometer in his mouth. 101.5. Shit. My rule on fevers is: -101, let it stand. +102, bring it down for comfort. I let this fever stand, gave him some water and sent him to bed. And then I sat there, drinking some rum and thinking, "You slave driver, you suspected it, and yet you dragged him to skating lessons anyway. What the hell is wrong with you?"

This morning, Stitch was up. He felt warm right when he woke up, but he seemed cheerful, was talkative, and ate some Nutella on toast. His temperature was 98.5. (Stitch is like me, he normally runs a cool 96-97.) Huh. Do I do skating lessons or not? If I do it, and he's conning me again, I might be downing him into next week. I was on the fence until he asked me, "When do we have to leave for skating?"
"Why? Are you feeling better?"
"Yeah."

Okay, I decided to risk it. I gave him some Tylenol just in case, and off we went. I did it on the condition that we skip all skating for the rest of the day so he can rest.

We went to the rink, put on skates, and I looked for Coach M as I had been ordered. I asked Ice Dance Dad, who gave me a blank look. "I don't know her. Did you look on the small rink?" Am I the only one who cares about knowing the Coaches? I finally asked at the office, all the while watching Stitch for any sign of illness. Coach M finally appeared. "Oh, yeah, they're on the studio. Just go on in."

And with that lack of ceremony, Stitch barged his way into Gamma. The class was with Coach L, my least favorite of them all. Ugh. I watched, coffee in hand, ready to pounce in case Coach L did her "jerk the kids around" act again. Meanwhile, a mom and her son screamed at each other over hockey versus figure skates. "I already bought hockey skates! I don't care if you hate them, I am NOT buying new skates! Get back on the ice!"
"But mom, I can't do it!" he wailed.
"Get back in there! I don't care! You can skate in those or you can leave, that's your choice!"
This was punctuated with several episodes of her dragging him out of the rink while he screamed, and his little sister started screaming too, just to get in on the act.
Boys don't wear Figure Skates.

Stitch was doing more mohawks, or at least trying to. He was watching, attempting them as best he could, but I became more and more set that this was "Gamma Preview" and not the real deal. Towards the end of the class, I actually heard Coach L praise him, something I'd never heard before. Perhaps she got more personable as the kids got better, I don't know.

A mom pushed her stroller a little ways onto the ice, smiling at the toddler inside. "You want to go on the ice, honey? Okay, here we go!" I swear, these moms just take an inch at a time before they just run miles all over the place. The massive stroller fully blocked the ice door, so Screaming Match Mom and Kid were just further frustrated in their argument.

A Young Coach finally comes over. "Ma'am, you can't do that."
"I'm just trying to keep her from screaming," the mom says, using the notion of a screaming kid as a weapon to get her way.
"You can't have the stroller on the ice."
"It's just a little ways on."
"No. You can't."

Mom rolls her eyes and backs off, and Little Kid inside does not scream. Screaming Mom and Kid go on, so maybe we need to edge them in a stroller onto the ice.

Towards the end of the lesson, Stitch was getting the hang of Mohawks. He was smiling. He came off the ice, shivering. "How do you feel?"
"Okay. Can I have a dollar?"
"What for? You hungry?"
"Yes, I want a snack."

Hunger is good. He got a big honey bun from the vending machine and ate the whole thing while we watched the Freestyle class finish. I felt more confident about his quasi-illness. Maybe I hadn't screwed this up too bad.

He went on for Beta. Fewer big jumps, more ice scraping, and he was definitely slower than normal. But he skated well. Dad showed up and we talked about the various skaters; who had bad skates, who was dressed funny, the moms at the ice door like they can do anything from there, and so on. It was nice to have someone to talk to, and Stitch was really happy to have Dad there. He would look up at us from time to time, big smiles and proud of himself.

We hit Target after lessons, where I got a ton of new gloves on the cheap. They had packs of Stitch's favorite color combinations for $.70, so I stocked up. I also got thin black trouser socks for his skates, because apparently his feet are growing and we're out of that half-size of growth room in his skates. He ate a healthy amount in the cafe, was chipper and cheery, but I was still determined to keep him down for the rest of the day. My other rule on Fevers is: You must be 24 hours Fever Free before you are declared well.

We're on hour 20, and Stitch is barricaded in his bedroom, angry that I am not taking him to Chuck E Cheese as I promised last weekend. I said that I was in no way taking him to that germ-hole while his immune system was compromised. He gave me a dark look and stormed off. He's bored and restless and bound to start causing trouble any minute now. I have some sewing I can finish, and a night off will be nice, regardless of how much he hates me for it. He'll be going to bed early whether he likes it or not, and maybe I've managed to avert a potential disastrous interruption to the preparations for March.

Conspiring with Coach

Stitch was dancing again at Public Skate today. Just out there, rocking in his own little world. Hopping, skipping, crossovering, having fun. I like watching, and apparently he looks for my thumbs-up approval.

Coach was there, with her Sunday students, and it's hard not to notice him. She came over to us at resurface, and the look on her face was ambivalent. "He's wild," she says. "The more he skates on his own, the more out of control he gets. I try to put him in position, but he doesn't like that."

"It's got to be his idea," I say. "It's the same with schoolwork and anything else. If he doesn't want to do it, good luck." I told her about my plan with recognition pins, and even she said, "if he'll buy it."

You can't say I don't try. So I watched some more dancing, and thought. How can I get him to understand that Figure Skating isn't going out there and just going nuts?

One: Keep him Competing. And before I get any howls of indignation from overly permissive parents out there, let me explain: Stitch loves an audience. He demands an audience. I have a distinct feeling that despite all the agony leading up to next Sunday, Stitch will gladly perform for his captive audience, and want another. Further, the work involved just reinforces that there is work that goes with this. Period. End of Story. Until there is a division of the sport for Improvisational Dance Skating, Stitch is out of luck.

Two: Let him in on a Secret, and remove my involvement. Stitch was dragging his old backpack on wheels down the stairs. "This is why I need a Zuca!" he says.
"Oh? Why?"
"Because there's two wheels. That would make it easier to go down the stairs!"
I see my window. "You want a Zuca, huh?"
"Yes!"
"Well, let me tell you something. I was planning on buying you a Zuca once you hit Freestyle. That was going to be a surprise."
He gets wide-eyed excited. "When is that?"
"You'd have to get through Gamma and Delta. So, maybe in the late fall."
"OH!" he whines.
"But listen. I'm willing to change my plan. I will be happy to get you a Zuca when you start skating correctly."
And now it was like fate. Coach comes out of the rink. I call her over. "I was just telling Stitch that my original Secret Plan was to get him a Zuca bag once he hit Freestyle," I explain.
She agrees that this is a fine idea.
"But I'm willing to get it sooner if he starts skating correctly, and for that I need you to tell me when that is."
"In that case," she says. "You could have it much sooner."
Stitch seems intrigued. "Really?"
"Yes," says Coach. "Follow instruction."
"So, Stitch, this is your ticket to your Zuca," I point to Coach. "Coach will tell me when to get it. But not before."

Stitch sets his lip. This is typically a good sign. Coach gives me some paperwork for March, and says he should change music. I agree. On the way home, I convince Stitch that a March competition is a good idea with some jazzier music and that Coach will let him add some of his own movements to the current routine. He says yes.

We came home, and I had Stitch look at the Zuca catalog to see which one he liked. I should have known.

This is the one called "Caution." It looks like a traffic cone.

I'll be spending my week doing subliminal messaging, and cutting some Stray Cats.

It's on.

Observations on the Ice

My legs had the shakes, so I didn't have on skates. This happens from time to time; my muscles feel weird and I'll just feel shaky in general. Friday night at Public it started, and I felt like I was about to go down every few seconds. Today was similar, so I sat this one out.

Stitch was playing ambassador to all the small children with new skates for Christmas. He was coaxing them to come off the wall, talking about his lessons and his coach. He was handing out candy canes. (We have tons.) Generally being a very good boy, and the other moms were loving him. I filled in Stitch's gaps when the moms asked me; Group Lessons, Private Lessons, Ice Time and so forth. Honestly, I hated sitting in the stands with the other moms. It's all, yup, here I am, sitting and watching. Doo-da-doo. Stupid legs.

Gordon was there. He was working on three-turns, looking a bit lost, and eventually he and Stitch ran into each other. They talked and played for awhile before Coach called her students into the small rink for a bonus session. They each did their programs (I'm learning) and I couldn't help but notice that Stitch seemed to be doing his program at a higher level. He also has the best spin. Every skating parent website out there tells you to not compare your kid to others, but I don't see how this is possible. Gordon was cheating his forward crossovers, the girl was doing great but didn't do her awesome spiral, and Stitch was hopping, one-foot spinning and lunging like it was his job.

Gordon's mom came over to the window, and like true skating parents we were both face-mashed into the glass for awhile. I finally decided I was done looking foolish and introduced myself. "Oh," said Ms. Gordon. "Yes, we've seen you. Your son is very talented."

"Thanks. He really enjoys it. Yours is doing some good work, too."

What followed was a conversation wherein I learned: Gordon has been skating for three years. He started in the Tot level, and was suddenly zoomed up to Gamma once he hit six. Gordon's mom had the plan that Gordon learn to skate so he would be knowledgeable on dates. All this, she claims, is a surprise. Now, I don't know about you, but I don't think many people plop their three year old in a Tot Class with the foresight of their future significant others in mind. Gordon's mom cannot sew. Gordon's mom only skated once a week until Gordon started competing, and she really hates the practice ice schedule. "I mean, I don't want to be here too late or too early. That's just not right."

"Well, coming from the theatre, really late and really early is just par for the course. You deal with it. Nutella sandwiches help."

We then talked about Spring Show, how I don't plan on doing it if Stitch will be just doing swizzles and wiggles (Sorry. I'm just so done with swizzles.) and Gordon's mom saying that it was "cute."
"They wore sunglasses at the end."
"Yeah, I think Stitch would like to actually skate, not wiggle."
"Oh, but he'll be in freestyle soon," she says. "They might pass him up faster. It happens."
"We'll see. Whatever happens, happens."
"Oh, no. They will. He's got a lot of natural talent."
"No, he just skates a lot. You should bring Gordon more, they can play together. The boys need to stick together."

Then she rants off again into how horrible it is to spend the day at the rink. (I think there's a stack of free books at the door for a reason. There may as well be a sign; "PARENTS. YOU WILL NEED ONE.")

We had errands to run after skating. Stitch was really upset when we got into the car.
"Honey, what's wrong?"
"Nothing."
"No, really. What's wrong."
*sniffle* "I didn't get a chance to play."
"I'm sorry. I thought the bonus lesson would only be a half hour. I'm really sorry it ate up Public Skate time. How about on Sunday I leave you alone for the entire time. No practicing if you don't want to."
"Okay."

So, while Stitch may be full of "Natural talent," he is still a little boy. And again, while I'm sure that if we stuffed his days full of lessons he certainly would be in Freestyle soon, I have no desire to rob him of his boyhood. He's friggin' seven. We have lots of time, folks.

"Why are there no boys in Figure Skating??"

I can tell you why. You won't like the answer, but I'll tell you.

There are no Boys in Figure Skating, because Figure Skating doesn't understand how Boys work.

Boys need to move, to run, to jump, be active. They need to show off, do daring things, test themselves and get deadly sometimes. Boys don't wait for and largely don't need the same kind of Approval from Authority that Girls thrive on. Figure Skating, which has become the single domain of Girls, forces Boys to act like Girls. Sit still. Wait your turn. Stand like this. Don't do that. Not like that, like THIS. Oh, my gosh, Boys are so difficult! Why are you so difficult? Do it again. Ugh, the Boys are such a challenging group, aren't they? I hope that coach survives.

Because Boys are Boys and Figure Skating curricula don't get this, Boys quickly drop out and move to Hockey where they can be more of themselves and get encouraged rather than disparaged by well-meaning but plainly ignorant folks.

Today was the first prelim run-through of Ice Show. I watched a dozen Boys sit in the bleachers, writhing and wriggling and being told to sit still by parents and others. They were waiting, wanting, begging to skate, but instead were getting the message that you boys are out of hand! They aren't out of hand. Let them Skate! I watched as a Coach plainly said to them that the Boys together are a bad combination, indicating and frankly pushing them to the trouble they were going to make unless someone gave them a constructive outlet for that Boy energy. No one did, and so Coach was gratified when they responded with a chorus of farting noises.

I watched hundreds of girls spin and twirl and jump. I watched a dozen boys, only three of whom are in Pre-Alpha, swizzle, dip and skate plain. When their routine was over, Mysteria chided them from the loudspeaker. "Okay, BOYS. Let's do that AGAIN." Stitch was confused and bored and played with his jacket.

It is truly frustrating as a parent to know that Stitch works hard and plays hard at Figure Skating. He can do a lot and he's proud of it, as well he should be. But now that it's Showtime at Home Rink, Home Rink plainly doesn't care. This morning I watched him start work on a true Sit Spin and do some solid outside edgework which he's never done before. This afternoon, I watched him get fussed at for "not getting it."

Ice Show Coaches got exactly what they expected, which was a ragtag group of uncoordinated Boys. They got it because that was how they treated the Boys from day one. Children will always, always live down to your lowest expectations.  Figure Skating has very low expectations for Boys, and then it cries because there are so few boys.

Fortunately for Figure Skating, Stitch has a Coach that gets Boys. Coach is letting him spin and jump and go nuts, and encouraging him. She shows him new and constructive methods of insanity. I'm glad for her.

On the way home, I told Stitch that if he doesn't want to do Spring Show, that's fine with me. He said he didn't want to do it. So, Home Rink, that's one more Boy you've lost to your Spring Spectacular because you shafted him at Winter Show.

You only have yourselves to blame.