Zoe has never showed any indication that she distinguishes between races. Sure, there was that one time when I wondered. But never before and never since have I sensed any sort of tendency on her part to distinguish individuals according to their race, beyond the use of the adjectives “brown,” or “light tan” when tasked with describing someone in a crowd. I’m fine with that.

This year, with the advent of the MLK holiday, Zoe has been coming home with her lessons about Martin Luther King, Jr :

“Martin Luther King, Jr. was a great man!”

“He won the Nobel Peace Prize.”

“He once said, ‘I have a dream!”

They’re sweet and simplified lessons and are a nice introduction to the holiday, the man, and the history of our country.

Or, are they?

“Those peach skinned people were craaazy back then! Why in the world would someone make the brown skinned kids go to a different school?!” she said one day last week on the way home from school.

“Mom, did you know that police men once told their dogs to attack some brown skinned people? Why in the world would they do that?!” was her comment the next day.

And then, “Rosa Parks was a woman who stood up by sitting down. Why did the peach skinned people want her to go to the back of the bus?”

There are no simple answers to these questions. And the answers certainly aren’t sweet.

Thing is, there’s nothing about this country’s history of racial relations that’s simple or sweet. And while I realize that I cannot raise children in this society without at some time broaching the topic, I fear that simplifying it into oblivion at an early age isn’t the right answer, either. How do you talk to a six year old about race?

I’ve always taken a very open approach to talking to my kids about sex. As they’ve asked, I’ve provided information — clear, concise, and, yes, simplified — as best as I was able. It’s made for some interesting conversation and more than once taxed my ability to find just the right words to allow them to understand the answers to their questions.

The difference, though, between sex and race is that one is decidedly natural and normal and the other — in terms of our history — is decidedly unnatural and abnormal. Describing just how a baby gets in mommy’s tummy — and out — requires far less moralizing than describing why some children were barred from their fundamental right to an education. And while one can leave out some particular details about sex and still maintain an accurate description of the course of events, leaving out some details about the history of our race relations seems only to minimize something that simply cannot be minimized.

So, how do you talk to a six year old about race?  I don’t have an answer to that question any more than I have an answer to why the peach-skinned people wanted to send Rosa Parks to the back of the bus.

I was talking to my mother yesterday when she asked to speak to Zoe.

“Zoe Eleanor!” I called, sweetly, into the other room.

“Yes?” Zoe replied.

“Come here, please.”

“Why?” she asked.

“Mimi wants to talk to you.”

As she plodded into my room, I heard an audible sigh of relief from Zoe.

“Mom, please don’t call me by my full name.”

“Oh, okay,” I replied, with only a bit of confusion in my voice.

But all was made completely clear with what followed:  “It makes me think I’m in trouble!”

Well…she has a point.

The difference was apparent immediately.

Yesterday, she’d bounded to the car, filled with glee, unable to contain her excitement about the day. “I loved school, Mom!” she’d proclaimed before she was even half-way in the car. Today was a different story entirely. Hardly half-way in the car, and she tearfully said she’d really missed me at the end of the day. Voice cracking, she could hardly keep it together. And then, through choking sobs, the explanation for all the tears: a yellow card.

A yellow card. In the world of kindergarten’s rules and consequences, the palette of green, yellow, red, and then finally an ominous blue, marks a child’s behavior for the day and the week. Displayed on the wall for all to see, my daughter’s yellow card might as well have been a scarlet letter. The offense: talking out of turn, after repeated warnings. The yellow card her ticket to tears and hurt.

Certainly, she made a mistake. She broke the rules, and she must pay the consequences. Today, no green stamp. And this week, there will be no trip to the treasure box. These are real consequences to her. I believe she’s learned her lesson.

But there are other lessons to be learned which will be much harder to grasp. I’m certain of — and saddened by — this reality she unwittingly faces. Her deep, deep hurt broke my heart today. The tears, the self-disappointment, the anxiety — all of it, all too familiar. She was her own worst critic. And I recognized it immediately. My empathy for her was borne from my own tears. As much as, no, more than I wanted to make sure she understood what she’d done, I wanted to let her know, kindly and gently, that we all make mistakes. All of us. And we must be kind to ourselves when we do. Honest and fair, but kind, too. Because, too often, no one else will. Faced with the puddle pouring into the car this afternoon, I knew that was the lesson that was of import at the time.

Talking out of turn? I’m pretty sure she’s got that one licked at this point. Showing one’s self compassion and kindness? Somehow, I doubt that starting over tomorrow with a green card will be the end of that lesson. If only it were that easy.

Today is technically Zoe’s first day of Kindergarten.  Technically, I say, because where we live there’s this interesting phenomenon called “staggered entry” for kindergarten students whereby each child goes to school only once the first week of school and then ramps up to full time in the second week of school.  I can see the value in it — sort of — but the result is one very befuddled mother who’s trying to decide if she should technically be all verklempt today or wait until next week when it really means something.  But, I digress.

My daughter is very much like a teenager in the sleep department, and getting her out of bed in the morning is quite the task.  We’ve been practicing these last few weeks, trying to get her accustomed to the seven o’clock hour.  Zoe, meet seven o’clock.  She is your friend.  Really, she is. But today was the first day when it all came together “for real.”  Wake up, go potty, get dressed, brush hair, come to the table for breakfast, yadda, yadda, yadda.  Efficiency, Efficiency, Efficiency.  (Never mind the hobgoblin of small minds business…)

“I don’t like getting up early,” she complained, not surprisingly.  Her eyes had barely opened for the day when those words came out of her mouth.  In an empathetic but all-too-adult-like resigned way, I simply reflected, “Zoe, welcome to the first day of the rest of your life.”  As soon as the words were out of my mouth, I kind of regretted it.  Who’s to say it doesn’t have to be that way?

But Zoe’s a damn quick study.  No sooner had I offered her the gloomy prescription for the rest of her life, she brightened with a smile of recognition of one of life’s purest joys.  “I can sleep in on the weekends, right?”

You sure can, Zoe. You sure can.  Have a great first day at school, Boo.  I love you.

Yesterday, as Zoe settled into the car after a play date with her friend, she said to me, “Mommy, you aren’t as thin as Julia’s mommy.” Ouch. Of course, Julia’s mommy runs marathons, so, even though I do in fact prefer a different body than I currently have, I don’t have any desires to acquire that of Julia’s mom’s, particularly if having it requires the running of marathons. Because, really, why? Still, Zoe’s remark — an innocent observation on her part — hit home a bit and caused me to pause.  That’s what self-consciousness will do to you.

I’m so glad my mood can be so easily swayed by my child. Because, today, Zoe had a different observation. When she whined pined for the beach, I told her to draw a picture of it to help her remind her and bring back good memories.  This is what she drew:

And her narrative?  Goes something like this:  This is the beach.  There is the ocean and the sand.  These are the coconut trees. And this is me and my mom in our bikinis.

Dude, I love this girl.

(And no, I decidedly do not wear a bikini in reality!)

“It’s MY room! I’ll arrange it anyway I want to!” said my all-too-sassy sixteen five year old girl one day.  She’d decided that her toys made great decorations throughout her room and was quite disappointed when I’d told her to put them away where they belong.  Really, she was just making yet another excuse to avoid cleaning up her room.

“It is not your room, Zoe.  This is my house, and your daddy’s house, and we let you sleep in this room.  But my rules apply in this room.  You will put the toys where they belong — in baskets, and in your pie safe.” (Don’t ask about the pie safe. Yes, I live in the South.)

Grudgingly, she accepted her fate.  I was pleased to have shown her the nature of the household hierarchy, despite the fact that I sounded too much like my father in doing so.

Apparently, though, I made an impression upon her.

“Go clean up your room, Zoe,” I asked this morning, as we were getting ready for the day.

Hardly a moment passed before I was met with the repercussions of my previous authoritative lesson.

“It’s YOUR room, Mom.  Your house.  Your room. You should clean it up.”

Don’t get me wrong, her attitude most definitely needs some adjusting.  But, damn her –  why wasn’t I that smart when I was her age?

Weeping Willow trees aren’t an every day sight around here. Our climate is just about at the edge of their comfort zone, and these days, it’s just too damn dry to support their voracious thirst. So, while there are Weeping Willows in the area, you might have to go looking a bit to find one.

Leave it to Zoe, our resident detailed observer, to spot one on the road the other day as we were driving to swim lessons. After a few a few miles of descriptions on her part that failed to bring to my mind the species of tree she’d seen, I was forced to turn around and drive back by in order to shut her, er, identify exactly what she’d seen.

“Oh, that’s a Weeping Willow, Zoe,” I explained as I drove past the tree a second time.

“A Weeping Willow?” she asked curiously.

“Yep.  See how the branches are drooping down?  It looks like it’s sad and crying a bit.”

“No it doesn’t!” she protested.  “I think it’s reaching down to give me a hug.  I think it’s a Hugging Willow.”

A Hugging Willow.   Some horticulturist sure missed the boat on that one.  I’m glad I have Zoe to set things right.

Zoe has been rather captivated by space recently.  Stars, moons, planets, orbits and other fascinating details about the universe in which we live have been regular topics of conversation lately.  The recent lunar eclipse was met with excitement and delight.  Getting to experience it with her made it all the more wonderous for me.

Last night, the topic of space once again dominated the evening’s conversation.

“The people that go up into space are called astronauts“, she said in her best didactic voice.

“You can be an astronaut, Zoe, if you want to,” Tim replied.

“Yeah.  That would be great.”

And then a pause.

“Nah.  I don’t want to do that, even though I know I could.  I want to stay down here.  Because that’s where my family is.”

Ambition and drive are one thing.  Knowing what really makes you happy is another.  You go girl.

(Trying desperately to get back in to the swing of writing daily…bear with me)

Zoe can be particularly complimentary at times. “You’re my favorite mommy,” she’ll say, or “You make the best cheesy bagels, Mom.” Now that we’re back in our house, and have our own clothes back (yeah!), her compliments of late have been much more superficial in nature: “You’re so beautiful, Mom, in that shirt,” or “That outfit is the best, Mommy; you look great in it.” And though these compliments come from an entirely juvenile and even slightly sycophantic source, requiring that I must caveat their accuracy, I have to admit I don’t mind hearing them. Hey, if they boost my self-esteem, I’ll take observations blinded by youthful adoration as truth any day.

This morning, though, Zoe was anything but blind.

It had been a particularly frustrating trip out of the house. Production would be more like it. Extracting Evan from his Legos, negotiating the selection of shoes for the day, packing up belongings, and shuttling out the door — all were simply, not simple. I was annoyed, and my patience had worn thin. Zoe’s curious inquisition into all the things scattered about the car — instead of buckling herself in — was the last straw.

“Come on, Zoe! Just get in the car already!” I scowled. Of course the offense did not justifiably warrant the reaction, but I was simply out. of. patience.

Zoe settled herself into her booster seat, and then calmly looked up at me and said, “You know, Mom, you aren’t very pretty when you are angry like that.”

Ouch. Worse, I’m sure she’s right.

I gave her a hug, said I was sorry — and then silently thanked her for possibly the best beauty tip ever.

Zoe left her beloved ring at hom– er, the hotel room — this morning.  When she discovered her lapse, she immediately fell into a puddle of tears, entirely proportional to the severity of the gaffe.  Proportional, that is, for a two year old.  Nevermind that she’s five.

She begged me to return to the hotel to get it.  I would have nothing of it.  The fit only intensified.

Zoe (through choking sobs):  Puh-lease, Mom. Puh-lease.  I need that ring.

Me:  I’m sorry, Zoe, we aren’t going back.  You can have it when you get home.  Now, please, calm yourself down.

Zoe: The only thing that will calm me down is my ring.

Me:  I’m sorry, Zoe.  We aren’t going back.  If you continue to ask, I will take away the ring once we get home.

Zoe:  Puh-lease, Mom.  Puh-lease go back and get my ring.

Me:  That’s one. (In our household, after a request and a consequence for failure to perform the request is declared, the child has “three strikes” before the consequence is imposed.  No arguing, no repeating of the consequence, nothing but counting follows.)

Zoe:  Puh-lease, Mom.  I need my ring.

Me: That’s two, Zoe.  You need to stop asking for that ring.

Zoe:  But mom!  If you go back and get the ring then I’ll stop asking for it!

I guess she has a point.