“So, know what you’re having?” goes the standard query of women with small swollen bellies and the early signs of a waddle in their walk.
Nate and I didn’t mind the intrusiveness. We had our stock answer.
“A Democrat.”
We referred to Thalia as one of the Optimism Babies, conceived just before the 2004 election when there was no thought in our mind that the election results could swing any way but blue. One of the first articles of clothing I bought her, yet unborn, was a pink tee so cotton-candy sweet that it belied the President Poopyhead caricature on the chest. Now, as she turns three with a baby sister babbling at her side, we try in our best way to explain those people on Sunday morning TV, and why sometimes Mommy yells at the screen when they come on. Especially that older scowling one, the one they call Cheney.
I don’t consider my child a pawn or unwitting bumper sticker for my own political beliefs—characterizations I’ve certainly seen bandied about in the momosphere. To me, politics are more than just some horse race. My politics in many ways define me. They’re an extension of my values. They are my values.
The way I see it, if I’m not imposing my own sense of right and wrong and ohmygodSOwrong on my children, then I’m not fulfilling my obligation as a parent.
Now we’re not talking hardcore nuanced foreign policy issues here (at least until they hit pre-k). Mostly I strive to teach my kids lessons one would be hard-pressed to contest: Be kind to other people. Help people less fortunate than you. Share your toys. Clean up after yourself. Just take one piece, and leave the rest for other people. Don’t litter. Play nice. As they grow older, it’s a logical next step to explain that there are some people in the world who exemplify these ideals better than others. And that some of those people go into politics. And that we have the responsibility to vote for them so they can keep doing the good things that we want them to do.
If you think about it, it’s really not that far a leap from “pick up after yourself” to the Kyoto treaty.
Children are necessarily an extension of their parents in any number of ways. Whether we’re conscious of it or not, we impose our decorating style, our musical tastes, our love of black and white movies or japanimation on them. We certainly indoctrinate them in our religions without choice—I’ve never heard an observant Jew prefacing the lighting of the Sabbath candles with, “Remember, when you’re older, you can pick your own religion!” To say nothing of their sports allegiances.
Oh, the sports allegiances.
Thalia knew the Redskins fight song before she knew “Twinkle Twinkle,” and heck, if there had been no newborn-sized Clinton Portis onesies, my mother-in-law would have hardly known what to buy our children.
Certainly you could say, Wait a minute—sports are hardly the same as politics. And I’d have to agree. Politics are important. Way more important. Political leaders can create meaningful change in the world even more than a strong first-string offensive lineup. I would not be heartbroken if Thalia came home from college in a Red Sox sweatshirt the way I would if she came home a conservative.
There, I said it.
Since having children, I’ve found myself more fervent about my beliefs than ever and about the world I want my girls to grow up in; I think I owe that much to them. But I can’t do it all by myself. I’m going to need all the help I can get. It takes a village, to borrow an overused phrase. And I want my kids in that village right there by my side.
Forgive me for wanting to stack the deck in our own favor. But I brought my girls into this world. Damn if I’m not going to do everything in my power to make sure that it absolutely rocks.
For the lessons to stick, however, I can’t just yap at them. (Or yell at the TV, which, I’ve found, is sorely ineffective.) Preaching is hardly enough. I need my girls to experience what it means to live one’s values, whether that means trick-or-treating for UNICEF or marching with me on Washington for peace. No doubt if I end up canvassing in a swing state before the election this fall, I will do it with my stack of pamphlets balanced in the canopy folds above our double stroller.
Of course I want my kids to have minds of their own, to become strong, smart, critical-thinking individuals. But if one of them did veer off and go Alex P. Keaton on me, complete with laminated membership card to the Young Republicans club in her wallet and an autographed glossy of George Bush’s first-born grandchild on her desk? I’ve considered the possibility, and I can’t say I wouldn’t be disappointed. I can’t say I wouldn’t run into my room heaving and sobbing, wondering just where I went wrong.
But I would do my best to talk to her. To calmly ask her why. To hear her out, and nod and listen and hope the discussion could continue. And I’d still love her with all my bleeding heart—then stick a donkey button on her backpack when she’s not looking.
Discuss the debate
