Leaving the grocery store, I saw a woman ahead of me with a small girl, 3 or 4. The woman's arms were tightly wrapped around a large sack of groceries. The little girl scampered beside her, unsecured, as they crossed the parking lot to a beat up old pickup truck, pale yellow and spackle. The back wall of the cab had been removed, and a bench seat set in the truck bed behind the cab.
The woman opened the passenger side door. I was startled when she carefully eased the groceries into the seat and fastened the seat belt. Then she picked up the little girl and lifted her into the pickup bed to sit on the bench seat, unsecured. The woman got into the truck and drove away.
And I wondered about choices, priorities, and different lifestyles.
Showing posts with label safe parenting. Show all posts
Showing posts with label safe parenting. Show all posts
Tuesday, July 24, 2007
Wednesday, July 4, 2007
Gasoline-soaked clothes hurt people, not sparklers
News brief over the weekend.
A 2-year-old suffered second-degree burns over half her body when she ventured near a teenager with a sparkler after her clothes had been drenched in gasoline. The clothes caught fire and she burned. That's the only information. Seems to be passed off as a dangerous fireworks incident.
Like hell.
More kids die of neglect than abuse. Really. Massive more kids.
How did a 2-year-old douse herself with gasoline? Well, I guess there might be an explanation that might make some kind of sense, though I can't think of one now.
When she did so, what parent would not immediately wash her off, removing the clothing? and redressing her in something fresh or bundling her in someone's clean t-shirt while her own clothing washed and dried? None of that happened. She was left in her gasoline-soaked clothes. And, as per her getting doused to begin with, allowed to wander around, unwatched. And so she encountered the sparkler. When her clothes caught fire, response was slow. So she was badly burned.
I'm sure her family is traumatized. I am hopeful they even care she is hurting and in the hospital. I bet not one of them has agonized "if only I had..." Hey, things happen. Those sparklers are more dangerous than we thought. Not our fault. Never our fault.
To me, this is a clear case of abuse--neglectful abuse. Don't know if CPS is investigating, or what the results will be if so. Possibly nothing. Family party. Kid wanders around, under eye of many people. Hey, an accident.
It didn't need to happen.
A 2-year-old suffered second-degree burns over half her body when she ventured near a teenager with a sparkler after her clothes had been drenched in gasoline. The clothes caught fire and she burned. That's the only information. Seems to be passed off as a dangerous fireworks incident.
Like hell.
More kids die of neglect than abuse. Really. Massive more kids.
How did a 2-year-old douse herself with gasoline? Well, I guess there might be an explanation that might make some kind of sense, though I can't think of one now.
When she did so, what parent would not immediately wash her off, removing the clothing? and redressing her in something fresh or bundling her in someone's clean t-shirt while her own clothing washed and dried? None of that happened. She was left in her gasoline-soaked clothes. And, as per her getting doused to begin with, allowed to wander around, unwatched. And so she encountered the sparkler. When her clothes caught fire, response was slow. So she was badly burned.
I'm sure her family is traumatized. I am hopeful they even care she is hurting and in the hospital. I bet not one of them has agonized "if only I had..." Hey, things happen. Those sparklers are more dangerous than we thought. Not our fault. Never our fault.
To me, this is a clear case of abuse--neglectful abuse. Don't know if CPS is investigating, or what the results will be if so. Possibly nothing. Family party. Kid wanders around, under eye of many people. Hey, an accident.
It didn't need to happen.
Monday, April 30, 2007
Female Bonding in the Olden Days
When I was a girl, May Day was special in my home town. Teachers rustled up all their vases out of the closet, because they were gonna have a deskful. Even the BOYS brought some. But after school was a woman/girl celebration that I now know was celebrated in some towns and not others. In my town, on May Day, the girls made construction paper baskets, filled them with flowers, and hung them on the doors of the women they most admired. It might be a teacher, a friend of the family, a grandmother. We knocked or rang the doorbell. Then we ran like crazy to hide on the side of the house out of sight. The door would open. A woman's voice would murmer, "Oh! How pretty!." Then she would call out, "Thank you." And the door would close. Sometimes no one was home, but the woman honored always managed to work her delight over the surprise bouquet into the next day's conversation.
May Day bouquets weren't just about living where the flowers bloom. I have met women from the Midwest aware of the custom, and women from the South who aren't. I don't know when the custom died out, but it's been a long time, I think, since a young girl slipped a small basket of posies on the door of a woman she admires and rang the bell. Shame about that. I think it was a rather special female bonding gesture.
Mother would pick up me and my best friend from school and we would go home to work on the baskets. It's not that we had legions of women we wanted to give them to (for which my mother undoubtedly gave thanks and probably guidance in that direction), but there were usually four or five. Or six. The baskets were easy--cut a strip off one end of the paper for a handle, and roll the remaining paper into a cone and glue it. Glue on the handle. While the glue dried, we picked the flowers and put them in a 3-lb. coffee can with a little water. Then we transferred the whole mess to the back seat of the car so Mother could drive us to each designated house (being a small town, everyone knew where everyone lived) and we could fix up our fresh bouquets as we went. She would park around the corner or down the block so our car wasn't spotted. Sometimes we reconnoitered the bushes around the house for hiding places to duck in when the getaway would take too long. Fun stuff.
I don't remember doing it much after oh, say seventh grade. That became baby stuff for the younger girls to do. But the women never tired of the bouquets, often saving wilted, bedraggled specimens in vases and glasses for days. One teacher received six one year. She was so overwhelmed she almost cried. It WAS a big deal. We girls were telling these women, "You are someone I like. I respect you. And I would like to grow up to be something like you." That was quite an accolade.
Funny thing about that. My mother was an extremely popular teacher. Kids loved her. But in all those times of her lugging Sarah and me around, I don't remember whether there were bouquets on our door when we got back home. There must have been. But I really didn't notice.
May Day bouquets weren't just about living where the flowers bloom. I have met women from the Midwest aware of the custom, and women from the South who aren't. I don't know when the custom died out, but it's been a long time, I think, since a young girl slipped a small basket of posies on the door of a woman she admires and rang the bell. Shame about that. I think it was a rather special female bonding gesture.
Mother would pick up me and my best friend from school and we would go home to work on the baskets. It's not that we had legions of women we wanted to give them to (for which my mother undoubtedly gave thanks and probably guidance in that direction), but there were usually four or five. Or six. The baskets were easy--cut a strip off one end of the paper for a handle, and roll the remaining paper into a cone and glue it. Glue on the handle. While the glue dried, we picked the flowers and put them in a 3-lb. coffee can with a little water. Then we transferred the whole mess to the back seat of the car so Mother could drive us to each designated house (being a small town, everyone knew where everyone lived) and we could fix up our fresh bouquets as we went. She would park around the corner or down the block so our car wasn't spotted. Sometimes we reconnoitered the bushes around the house for hiding places to duck in when the getaway would take too long. Fun stuff.
I don't remember doing it much after oh, say seventh grade. That became baby stuff for the younger girls to do. But the women never tired of the bouquets, often saving wilted, bedraggled specimens in vases and glasses for days. One teacher received six one year. She was so overwhelmed she almost cried. It WAS a big deal. We girls were telling these women, "You are someone I like. I respect you. And I would like to grow up to be something like you." That was quite an accolade.
Funny thing about that. My mother was an extremely popular teacher. Kids loved her. But in all those times of her lugging Sarah and me around, I don't remember whether there were bouquets on our door when we got back home. There must have been. But I really didn't notice.
Friday, April 20, 2007
The Pedophile I Never Met in 1951
When I was a girl, about seven or eight, there was a flutter among the grownups. Lots of animated conversation I wasn't allowed to listen to. I came upon my mother on the phone, telling someone, "I admire her, I guess. Talk about for better or for worse."
After completing 20 or 30 years in prison, the town's convicted pedophile was coming home.
His wife lived quietly alone in a house with a large yard and garden, where she worked regularly. My daddy was a gardener. I loved pretty flowers and sometimes stopped on the walk just to look at all her beautiful plants. Her home was two houses from the middle school.
She gardened, and worked in her church and shopped, and otherwise stayed to herself. Always a smile and pleasant word. Always a cool dignity. She had earned the town's respect. She was left alone. By now, she and her newly freed husband were elderly, well into their 70's.
So my parents, who had always had some safety rules for me, sat down to reinforce those rules, even as they had taught me how to avoid the rattlesnakes.
It was a given that school children could walk all over town unaccompanied. But, my father said sternly, looking me straight in the eye, he KNEW I sometimes broke the rule about not taking shortcuts through the alley. I dropped my eyes guiltily. Did he know about yesterday? That, he said sternly again, had to stop. There are men who like to hurt little girls, and to do so they have to catch them alone. So I was always to stay on the street. No more cutting through the alley. I nodded, but I remember thinking, "Not even when---" But they went on. They talked about taking candy from a stranger, which sounded far-fetched, or approaching a car to give directions. I was to do neither. I nodded. If a strange man got out of his car, I was to run like the wind for the nearest office/home/store. That sounded exciting, but it had never happened, so it probably wouldn't. When we were out, say, at the county fair, and they told me to stay close, I was not to rebel and go running clear across the fair grounds to "run free." That sounded a little boring, but I agreed. And they said they would point out a sweet-looking, frail old man whom I was never to approach or to speak to. That sounded rude and I was puzzled. My father explained the old man was one of the men who liked to hurt little girls, and a long time ago he had done so. And now he had paid his debt to society, but I wasn't to go near him. And, they finished, if I went to one friend's house to play, we were not to go anywhere else without asking an adult for permission. That was a little harder, because there were about a dozen boys and girls my age in the block where my grandmother lived. We tended to move from yard to yard with only a quick yell to the nearest Mom, "We're going over to Sue's to climb trees." "We're going to play ball in Robin's yard." But I sighed and agreed. My wings were getting clipped a little. But just a little.
I would see the couple from time to time, walking slowly in the grocery store or down the street. He was always in a suit with a starched shirt, she in her slightly formal dresses with her hair in a bun, just as she had always dressed . She always smiled and nodded pleasantly to people she knew, who smilied and nodded back. I never saw them pause to talk to anyone. I never saw anyone be discourteous. They were simply isolated, pariahs. He went to church with her on Sundays. I assume they went for walks, but never when the school children were coming or going. I think I felt a little sorry for them. Nonsense, my parents said briskly. He had acted, and these were consequences. His wife had chosen to stay with him, her choice. And she knew the consequences when she chose.
And life went on. I was growing up, so I was learning about more dangers in the world. It was probably another 10 years before "pedophile" registered with me and I knew what one was. My parents told me there were men who liked to hurt little girls and how to avoid such men.
That's all I needed to know.
After completing 20 or 30 years in prison, the town's convicted pedophile was coming home.
His wife lived quietly alone in a house with a large yard and garden, where she worked regularly. My daddy was a gardener. I loved pretty flowers and sometimes stopped on the walk just to look at all her beautiful plants. Her home was two houses from the middle school.
She gardened, and worked in her church and shopped, and otherwise stayed to herself. Always a smile and pleasant word. Always a cool dignity. She had earned the town's respect. She was left alone. By now, she and her newly freed husband were elderly, well into their 70's.
So my parents, who had always had some safety rules for me, sat down to reinforce those rules, even as they had taught me how to avoid the rattlesnakes.
It was a given that school children could walk all over town unaccompanied. But, my father said sternly, looking me straight in the eye, he KNEW I sometimes broke the rule about not taking shortcuts through the alley. I dropped my eyes guiltily. Did he know about yesterday? That, he said sternly again, had to stop. There are men who like to hurt little girls, and to do so they have to catch them alone. So I was always to stay on the street. No more cutting through the alley. I nodded, but I remember thinking, "Not even when---" But they went on. They talked about taking candy from a stranger, which sounded far-fetched, or approaching a car to give directions. I was to do neither. I nodded. If a strange man got out of his car, I was to run like the wind for the nearest office/home/store. That sounded exciting, but it had never happened, so it probably wouldn't. When we were out, say, at the county fair, and they told me to stay close, I was not to rebel and go running clear across the fair grounds to "run free." That sounded a little boring, but I agreed. And they said they would point out a sweet-looking, frail old man whom I was never to approach or to speak to. That sounded rude and I was puzzled. My father explained the old man was one of the men who liked to hurt little girls, and a long time ago he had done so. And now he had paid his debt to society, but I wasn't to go near him. And, they finished, if I went to one friend's house to play, we were not to go anywhere else without asking an adult for permission. That was a little harder, because there were about a dozen boys and girls my age in the block where my grandmother lived. We tended to move from yard to yard with only a quick yell to the nearest Mom, "We're going over to Sue's to climb trees." "We're going to play ball in Robin's yard." But I sighed and agreed. My wings were getting clipped a little. But just a little.
I would see the couple from time to time, walking slowly in the grocery store or down the street. He was always in a suit with a starched shirt, she in her slightly formal dresses with her hair in a bun, just as she had always dressed . She always smiled and nodded pleasantly to people she knew, who smilied and nodded back. I never saw them pause to talk to anyone. I never saw anyone be discourteous. They were simply isolated, pariahs. He went to church with her on Sundays. I assume they went for walks, but never when the school children were coming or going. I think I felt a little sorry for them. Nonsense, my parents said briskly. He had acted, and these were consequences. His wife had chosen to stay with him, her choice. And she knew the consequences when she chose.
And life went on. I was growing up, so I was learning about more dangers in the world. It was probably another 10 years before "pedophile" registered with me and I knew what one was. My parents told me there were men who liked to hurt little girls and how to avoid such men.
That's all I needed to know.
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