Why am I collecting my son’s lost baby teeth?

Last night, I found myself frantically digging at the depths of the secret stores in my bedroom because I realized I had done the unthinkable…..

I have misplaced my son’s first lost tooth.

Our first lost tooth! Little Bear is equal parts proud and nervous as captured so clearly in this expression. 

I only realized this too because the second tooth is dangling just days away from its magical moment of departure and I clearly will be contracted again by the tooth fairy to do some collecting and exchanging.  Its only logical that I would continue to store these little teeth in the same spot like a seemingly organized human, right? 

"I can’t believe I lost his first tooth!"  

The barrage of “Mom Fail” self-talk started to make me question all of my qualifications for motherhood or even more specifically as the tooth fairy. Thankfully, the more logical part of my brain kicked in:

“Why the hell am I saving these teeth anyway?”

I mean, my mom saved all of my baby teeth. But now she has given them back to me and I don’t want them. Why do I want an old film canister full of tiny needless bone material or whatever teeth are made of? Now they even make these super cute baby teeth organizers for the “Super Moms” of the world, so clearly we should be saving them. However, I cant help but wonder if this is one of those things "we" have just always done so now we think it must always be done, but doesn't actually have a purpose or reason in modern day? My imagination flashed to people making dentures 300 years ago with used baby teeth. Clearly, we have better options now for dental hygiene.

So like the info seeking mother that I am, I prioritized researching the history of baby teeth saving and the benefits of continuing this practice today. This is clearly a good use of my time since I have claims to insurances due for my actual job; but, my brain said, "let's chase the dopamine instead," and now I’ll pass this procrastination masked in purpose as a gift for y'all.

What I learned:

1.        There does not seem to be any evidence that we used baby teeth to make dentures.  In fact, it was more common to use animal teeth, which seems like an odd choice when we could potentially have just used our kiddos lost teeth, but I am no prosthodontist.
2.        Many cultures save teeth as a token, omen or relic! For example, some Central American countries fashion jewelry from lost baby teeth. Ancient Viking culture wore baby teeth as a good luck charm when heading into battle.
3.       Many culture don’t save teeth. For example, in China and Japan there is a ritual for burying baby teeth as a way to bid the adult teeth to grow in straight and some cultures in Africa and the Middle East throw their lost baby teeth at the sun to encourage a brighter one to grow in its place.

So what does all of this mean?

In all of my rabbit hole research, the general theory I have for why Americans save baby teeth is that it’s simply tradition. A tradition that stems for an accumulation of varying countries of origin's historical traditions and is generally reinforced by a doting mother’s sentimental attachment to any reminder that her baby is no longer a baby.  For those evolving this tradition, there are jewelry vendors selling pieces using shaped tooth bone as the feature and formal medical tooth storage for saving for future stem cell retrieval.

Long story short, I feel a little less guilty that I don’t feel a particular sentiment towards my child’s lost tooth, but I do feel overwhelming emotion regarding his toothless smile and all of the changes I see happening on his face that remind me every day he is no longer my little baby.

But, he will always be my baby...

Some fun bloggers who did a far better job than me on this topic if you want to learn more. 

https://kidshealthyteeth.com/what-to-do-with-your-childs-baby-teeth/

http://www.campbellsbraces.com/common/pages/UserFile.aspx?fileId=940269

https://www.scarymommy.com/parenting/kid-car-tantrum-scientist-formula

Book Review: My First Book of Feminism (for Boys)

My First Book of Feminism (for Boys) by Julie Merberg and illustrated by Michele Brummer Everett was initially gifted to my son for Christmas, and what a gift! As a boy mom, I of course want to raise a strong and kind son. I want to raise a son who is respectful of women's boundaries and humanity. Understands fully the nuances of consent and privilege, but also is proud of his own masculine existence.  This book hit the nail on the head in an age appropriate manner.

The book starts by outlining this idea that feminism really starts with the relationship you form with your mom. A mutually respectful one where everyone contributes to the household. It then moves to normalize the expression of emotion. Its okay to cry and to have more feelings than "just happy or mad." The content continues to discuss not gendering toys, chores or careers and awards your brain as one's strongest attribute, "flex your brain power... use your words to win fights."

Raising a son in 2020 is an interesting time. We are raising a generation of boys post, Me Too Movement, the full acknowledgement of gender inequality as an unacceptable standard, and the reinforcement of gender expression ranging on a spectrum.  This book empowers our sons to be human rights activists and how feminism is central to that. Its just beautiful. 

Anxious Kids During Shelter in Place

My son...... like lots of littles, has had anxiety about the novel coronavirus. Some days he doesn’t remember or even care and then other days, it’s the only thing on his mind. For example, recently he was confident that one of my 11 month old was saying “coronavirus” and he was too anxious to play in the backyard - insisting on staying inside. Its devastating as a parent because as much as we wanted to protect our children from trauma and the reality of the harshness of our world, we couldn't prevent it from coming to him anyway. I was hoping to protect Little Bear a bit longer, but the drastic changes to his life ruled that impossible. 

Staying home is great! He loves that! He could do that all day and not notice. Good days include playing in the sand pit, kiddie pool and cars. Its when we added in virtual classrooms, limitations on Grandma's visits, and walks where we have to maintain social distancing that it started to not feel like a normal vacation.

Normally, kids stay home from school when they are sick. I didn't realize this at first, but that meant that Little Bear thought we were in Shelter in Place because he had COVID-19. He thought he wasn't allowed to go to school because he was sick. He refused to eat because he didn't want to feed the coronavirus and he drank lots of water so he could "pee it out." He then started transferring his anxiety onto benign things that never bothered him before. Bugs became a central fear. They were something tangible that he could project onto. If we as adults are having difficulty processing and coping during this time, how can we expect a 4 year old to?

I had to come up with some solutions. First, my kid thrives on information. He does not do well without the who, what, when, where, why and hows..... Also, throughout his childhood, we have always used books to supplement material. Books bring an external voice to content that can reinforce a message. However, nothing specific existed yet. How could it? A pandemic to this level has not happened in over 100 years and has certainly never happened during a period with such dependence on international trade, travel, social media and the Center for Disease Control. 

We started teaching the power of social distancing, that these changes in our household were acts of love - to protect not only ourselves but our loved ones. We empowered him as a scientist. He had tools at his disposal to stay safe: washing his hands, drinking water and taking his vitamins.  We made as many connections as possible: virtual play dates, dinner dates via face time, pen pals, drive by visits and lots of extra love. We gave power to magic. The magic of prayer, the magic of love, the magic of time. Lastly, we acknowledge the grief process that both him and everyone else was experiencing. We normalized the anger, the denial, the sadness.... reinforcing that even though his world has turned upside down, this to shall pass.  

White Priviledge, One Mom's Process

By Contributing Writer Danielle Dixon of Irving, California

When My Little Bear was a toddler, I was unprepared for how early she became aware of race. We passed an elderly woman of color in a store and my daughter questioned why she had "different skin than us." My heart sped up and I prayed for the words to answer my child’s innocent question in an age appropriate manner. I wanted to honor the woman nearby who was close enough to observe and hear my reply.

“Yes, God made us with all different colors of skin, you noticed! Some of us are pinkish, some of us are more tan, some of us are light brown, and some of us are darker brown, and there are so many colors in between. Isn’t it beautiful how God makes us all to look so different, but we are all his children?”

What does white privilege mean to you? 

For me, it meant that as a child, I could easily find dolls that resembled me. I saw children on posters and TV, and the little girls looked just like me. I was part of the majority culture—I was comfortable, and I was oblivious.  

As I became a teenager, I thought that living on the West Coast, eating ethnic food, and being friends with people of color somehow gave me a greater understanding… But I still didn’t get it.

In my twenties, I began listening more. It was uncomfortable, listening to friends of color share their experiences.  I slowly took in their stories—their lives—their trauma—I realized how I had continually benefited from the same systems that have oppressed them.  

I remember driving home from college and I got stuck behind a car going UNDER the speed limit. I impatiently passed them, glancing sideways. I noticed that the driver was a person of color. I sailed past, going comfortably over the speed limit—and for the first time in my white mind, I realized that even how I drive is a reflection of my privilege. I didn’t worry about being pulled over; cops aren’t going to pull over a white girl in her little white Beetle... Not everyone gets a free pass. Here I was, frustrated with a total stranger for carefully obeying the laws of the road—because I didn’t have to. Pretty entitled, right?

Once I began considering the areas of my life that my skin color had affected me, I saw it everywhere. I felt gross as I realized all of the ways that I had profited from this system, the implicit and explicit biases. There is no room for defensiveness in this, white fragility. If we say, “...but I am NOT a racist!”, suddenly, the conversation is focusing on us and is an egocentric, defensive reaction. It completely invalidates the trauma narratives shared. Is it any wonder that people of color are beyond exhausted from trying to explain this to us???

I don’t want this to be about white guilt; instead, we must lean into the pain and accept that all of us have played a role. For example, if one of my kids unintentionally hurts the other, I still expect an acknowledgement of the injury they caused. The affect trumps the intent. It doesn’t matter if you unwittingly participated in this broken system; the point is, most white people have. I now view this wrestling as a duty—as an imperative. I am part of the majority culture; I want the narrative to change. My heart breaks for parents that lose their beautiful boys to a modern-day lynching. I can’t imagine sending my girls out for a jog and having to worry if they would be gunned down. It’s atrocious. This is not a matter of politics—it is an issue of morality.

 

Obviously, white people cannot help that they are born white, but if privilege does not acknowledge itself—does not figure out how to use its power for good—then it becomes an instrument of harm, whether consciously or unwittingly. Once one becomes aware of their power, it MUST translate into a sense of duty. I often feel overwhelmed, as I wrestle with all of these injustices—I pray, I beg that God will open my eyes so that I don’t add to the wrongs, and so that I will continue to HEAR my family, friends, and neighbors as they mourn.  My efforts feel small; I pray that my girls will grow up to see a world of color, and that they will also learn to call out injustice—and that they will fight it.

Dont Touch My Hair - Thoughts on Raising my Curlies.

Growing up, I really didn’t understand my hair. My friends comparably had straight hair and I was one of the very few with hair that got bigger if you brushed it, played outside.... or even looked at it.  My mother attempted to style it by blow drying it straight as a young child. This just resulted in one big 80s style poof. Then in middle and high school, I just solved that problem by sleeking baby oil in my mane and slicking it up in the tightest, wettest sloppy bun a 90s teen could muster.  

Conversely, people loved my curls.  Friends would try to convince me to let it down. They would twirl my trendles in class and ask to play with my hair during sleepovers. Parents would notice the color and body in the grocery store or as I readjusted it between sports events. These little moments became the foundation of my new relationship with my hair. 

I wasn’t unlucky to have curly hair. It was just a fact, I had curly hair. People loved it. People would tell me, "people spend big money to have hair like that." I was introduced to ethnic hair products. The baby oil went out and all of the amazing shea, cocounut and argon smelling products filled my bathroom cabinet. After some trial, error and education, I learned I had 2c/3a curls and I could celebrate them as oppose to being a victim to them.  I established a routine and led through adulthood proud of my curls.  I married another curly and that solidified it. My children would also have curly hair and I was on a mission that they would love it! 

Photo by Madeline Richards

My son has the most amazing hair. Its alive. Its vibrant. Its soft and cuddles back with you. If you pull it, it bounces. We like to play the boing game. Everywhere we wonder in this world, people stop to admire his hair. Passer byers will rub a "that-a-boy" tousle in his curls. Its like watching what happened in my childhood x 100000. 

"I love his curls." 

"Look at those curlies" 

"Que Chino."  

 He is growing up so proud of his curls. He loves them too. I like the comments. I like the hair love. The questions. 

"How do you get his hair like that."

"What do you put in it?"

"Is it hard to brush?"

It feels like an innocent curiosity. An opportunity to educate on curly hair and help bridge gaps.

We also live in a city that is predominantly Mexican American. It is perfectly normal here for random strangers to come up and touch or rub your child or baby real quick. This enhances the number of hair tousles my children get. Its cultural to touch what you love or are envious of in order to protect it. Its a tradition/superstition known as Mal de Ojo. 

Conversely, I understand intellectually the layers of history behind African American hair considerations. The pain of perpetuated biases, gawking, jokes, stereotyping, microaggression and minimalization of the African American experience. I understand that it is not culturally appropriate to touch an African American’s hair without first asking permission.... and you better be fairly secure in that relationship. That is not a question for bystanders. I get that this is also the cultural context for my son’s hair. 

I am not black and can therefore have no expertise on the black experience. But I am raising black children who are also reflections of me and my experiences. It interesting to balance all of these factors.  As a result, my approach to my son’s hair and my boundaries with that are likely different than if he was raised by purely black parents. I may have more to learn here or maybe this is the note to hit considering this beautiful hybrid of experience; meanwhile, I just want my children to be proud, confident and kind people. My son is proud of his curls and that fills my heart. My girls are still developing their hair textures and with that we will eventually be able to honor a household of five different types of curls and all of the beauty they possess.   

Photo by Madeline Richards

Book Review: Dont Touch My Hair!

My son's locks at 3 years old. 

Dont Touch My Hair by Sharee Miller caught my attention at the library one day after story time. Not only was the main character a beautiful brown babe, but it discussed an issue that is a conflicting one for me.  I understand the idea and historical significance behind not touching a black person's hair... but I also don't necessarily agree.  As a non black person, maybe I don't get to agree or disagree on this issue; however, as a parent, I feel its my right to take a position regarding my own children. So, I decided to give it a read.

The story begins with a little girl named Aria who is sharing her amazing self love for her hair. "Its soft and bouncy, and grows toward the sun like a flower." Then Aria sets out into her city for adventure. It turns out, everyone else loves and is curious about her hair too. She goes through her day filtering questions and comments about her hair. Then people want to touch it. This gets to be too much for little Aria. "They are so curious about my hair that they even want to touch it without even asking for permission."  People, dragons, and aliens are all guilty of this and she finally has enough. "This is My hair."  The book ends with her learning to set boundaries regarding what she is willing to experience with others regarding her hair.

Its a fun, light, first person narrative that invites the reader to join in the world of a little girl who makes it all the way to outer space and a deserted island from her home all in one day.

I liked this book for so many reasons:

1) It was all about self love and not letting that which makes you different affect your positive self view.
2) It serves to educate people who may unknowingly be offending or making another feel uncomfortable.
3) It teaches boundaries. Anything that helps my kids claim their own bodies and teach them boundaries gets gold stars in my book.

The book ends with some discussion prompts that you can use with your own readers to further the discussion. Its recommended from an audience preschool to second grade. My three year old thoroughly enjoyed it and asked to read it again and again.  There are also tons of Youtube videos of kids reading this book. Its a fun way to read to your kids if you're in a crunch.

Amazon Reviews: 

"Since reading this book with my 3 year old, she has had the confidence to tell 4 adults not to touch her hair! We love this book! It teaches them about consent. I’ve told her many times what this book says, but I think seeing a little girl with hair like her, dealing with the same issue, helped it sink in."

"This book has generated many important conversations in our classroom, grateful to the author for this."

"An excellent book for black girls and anyone of mixed heritage, my daughter absolutely loved it!"

Police can be Heroes.

Our first little bear is officially four years old and solidly into the hero stage. He loooooves all things hero and practices his rescue of people, toys and pets regularly. Prior to even walking, we had discussed the role of the police with him. It took repetition, but every time we would go to a public event or even grocery store, we would stop, greet the officer, and review the rules. "If you cant find your grown up, you tell a police officer and he will help you."

Thanks to Youtube, my son now also has the concept of jail. Apparently, little cars who wouldn't follow the rules of the road would have to go to jail. His world began to open more to the idea of good vs. bad guys.  For example, my car was broken into and the police had to come make a police report, Santa's "naughty and nice list," and of course, those pesky Ninjalinos from Pj Mask.  

On the way to school one day my son announced, "police catch bad guys and take them to jail. Police are heroes right?"

"Yes, son. Police are heroes." But my heart sank a little as I responded. This pure admiration and innocence. He couldn't possibly grasp that while this statement is also true, there is more to the story. As a white presenting female, I recognize this statement is more true for me than it will be for my son.  He will one day be a "black man" in America. 

It was time to get real. 

"Yes, police are heroes. They help people. But bad guys can be sneaky and sometimes bad guys can pretend to be heroes. Right now you are too little to tell who is a sneaky bad guy and who is a good guy. So you can always ask Mommy or Mama and we can teach you. One day, you will be big and will know on your own."

Furthering the conversation little bear asks, "bad guys go to jail, right?" My response, "yes! the police take bad guys to jail. But sometimes other people go to jail too. Sometimes, the police make a mistake and take a good guy to jail or sometimes a good guy makes a mistake and has to go to jail, but he is still a good guy." 

We have had versions of this conversation a few times and its amazing how easy it is for him to grasp. It is also very satisfying to know that while I am not ready - and he is not ready - to grasp the full understanding of these concepts, he is at least introduced to them in a way that wont shatter his idea of the world when they come tumbling into his reality. 

I cant raise my children assuming they will have the same privileges as me. They wont. But, I also don't want to raise them with the full weight of transgenerational oppression and trauma during early childhood. I want them to be confident in navigating the world. I want them to understand how these systems work and translate that into opportunity not marginalization. With the number of multiracial citizens tripling in the last census, systems can change too. There is power in numbers and empathy established when issues start to hit the masses closer to home. However, Trayvon Martin was murdered when I started my fertility treatments. The year my son was born, black men were 9 times more likely to be killed by police. These facts cant be ignored. 

Today is Martin Luther King Day. My inquisitive guy of course wanted to know who he was and why we didn't have school. I explained, "Martin Luther King was a hero. He helped save kind people from mean people. There is still a lot of work to do, but he was a hero too." We went over pictures of MLK and the massive crowd of his "I have a Dream" speech. Little Bear was amazed! Little Bear also has no concept of race. I don't want to teach him about race by first introducing racism.... Good and bad are not directly related to race and I want his discovery of race to be built on appreciation and curiosity.  On this day, regardless of who you are, consider your privileges and what you are doing to make a better world for our children. Also, consider how we start to teach privileged with simplifications like, "police are heroes." Yes. Police can be heroes....