All Rileyed Up

“Can she color within the lines yet?”

That is the question I face as I sit in the doctor’s office for Little No Limit’s four year old check up. The doctor has peppered her with questions, many of which Little No Limit could not (or chose not to) answer. This is not uncommon, as Little No Limit is considered speech delayed (and possibly selectively mute), as I have been told by various speech pathologists, therapists, and doctors over the years.

“She doesn’t color in the lines,” I said, “but she does love to color. It’s her favorite thing to do.”

Awkward silence.

“Well, that’s okay,” the doctor said. “She still has time.”

That’s how it goes at the doctor’s office. I point out Little No Limit’s achievements only to be reminded how she could do better. It’s like reading about an overbearing stage mom or watching the yuppies on Best in Show talk to their Weimaraner. Only not funny.

This is not to say it was a bad appointment. It was quite cordial. But what is it about coloring within the lines? Doctors aren’t the only ones who talk about it. School teachers notice, obviously, but even parents and other children notice. “He’s coloring within the lines now!” one mom will proudly say, or “We’re almost there!” It seems to be such a milestone to color within the lines, but why? Art is supposed to be about expression, and since when is expression reined in by lines?

Much like with artistic expression, I believe there is an aesthetic to child-rearing, which would make parents artists and children, like Charlotte said, their magnum opus. In the world of art, they say that real artists do not cater to an audience, nay, they do not even consider their audience when they create.

Chuck Klosterman wrote this in his metal music book, Fargo Rock City:

“A widely held opinion in the aesthetic community insists an artist is more credible if he doesn’t consider his audience during his creative process; the philosophy suggests that a true artist has to make his art for personal reasons, regardless of whether or not people like it (or even want it). That’s plainly stupid, and Bon Jovi knew it. Art is not intrinsic to the universe; art is a human construction. If you killed off all the world’s people, you would kill off all the art. The only thing important about art is how it affects people. It only needs to affect one person to be interesting, but it has to affect many people to be important.”

I know, I know – Bon Jovi? I can’t believe he went there either. I reference this quote not as an excuse to make fun of Bon Jovi (which I am more than happy to do for no reason whatsoever) but because it focuses on the importance of what other people believe.

An artist puts love, patience, effort, and unpaid time into the creation of a work that in the end can stand on its own. People who take parenting seriously put love, patience, effort, and unpaid time into the development of a human being who in the end can stand on their own. If you were to apply Chuck’s thoughts on pursuit of the aesthetic in art to parenting, which side do you think you’d fall on, the side that cares about what everyone thinks or doesn’t?

I may sound like I’m getting carried away — hello, it’s just a simple yes or no, can she color within the lines — but contemplating lists of what children should be able to do by such and such an age is obsessive, demanding, and overwhelming. Why should parenting and every aspect of childhood development be subjected to rigorous standards while the rest of the world’s artists get away with art for art’s sake?

Sure, there are still rules for art. In the writing world, they say avoid adverbs. But plenty of writers use them, and use them good well. Parents are not granted the same leniency as artists when it comes to rule-breaking. If you choose to not follow the AAP-recommended vaccine schedule, some people might call you a parasite. If you adhere to the AAP-recommended vaccine schedule, other groups might suggest you’re exposing your little joys to serious risks. If you choose to claim Bon Jovi is the greatest musician ever, I might call you a weirdo.

If we look to ol’ Chuck’s description that our art depends on what others think, then as parents, we’re up a certain creek without a paddle. And since we don’t want to be there, we must consider the alternative – answer to no one. This presents a new problem, one that also exists among artists and parents alike: who has the confidence to stand alone?

And now is the time I wish I was twenty again. Because when I was twenty, I knew everything. Now, I know nothing (except in select conversations involving the terms “Bon Jovi” and “original sound”). When I was twenty, I was the consummate babysitter. I’d handled kids from all walks of life, the kind who thought it their purpose in life to make mine hell, the kind who were spoiled brats, the kind who was seriously autistic and would squeeze me so hard when he hugged me that I eventually implemented a No More Hugs rule. Seriously, all kinds.

I also worked with kids. I taught Sunday School for years and I used to be Pocahontas for a children’s entertainment company. I drove from house to house, where little girls squealed, “It’s really her!” It helped that I didn’t have to wear a wig, like those lesser Pocahontas-for-Hires. My hair wasn’t quite that long, but it was long enough, and jet black, and I was the right skin color. Never mind the fact that I’m not the least bit Native American. That fact was of little concern to the girls at the parties. They braided my hair and sat in my lap while I read stories and we made beaded bracelets and necklaces and sang songs.

Because I was always surrounded by children, I became a self-designated expert on them. And in my assessments of problem children, I nearly always attributed the cause to poor parenting. Nature-nurture was a silly controversy, in my not-so-humble 20-year-old opinion. It was always nurture. These parents. They needed to be more firm/less firm. They needed to be home more often/less often. The consequences needed to be more severe/less severe for breaking the rules. And what the hell were they feeding their kids!

When I had my own children, all that patting-myself-on-the-back knowledge went into the trash, along with my bikini and my personal time. What remained was the critical voice. With every decision I make about my children, I can still hear the questions in the back of mind: “Are you sure that’s the right decision?” “How is what you are doing this instant going to affect them down the road?” Like many parents of my generation, I took some peeks at those developmental lists and books that told me how to treat my kids and how to gauge my children’s development. And they left me unsettled.

Well, no more. I am drawing the line, or rather, coloring over it. From this point on, I go it alone. I trust my instincts, I gain back my twenty year old confidence, and I say to Little No Limit: you go give coloring a bad name.

(P.S. There’s never a Jon Bon Jovi coloring book when you need one. But there is this video.)

(P.P.S. This post contributed to Scribbit’s Monthly Write Away.)