Ask Your Mother

If you are like me, you have probably been in a situation wherein your child says something in front of other people that you would never, in your wildest dreams, have wanted him to say. As a parent, you may struggle to balance the need for honest confrontation with the strong physical urge to disappear.

Questions like “Why is she so big?” “Is he a leprechaun?” “What happened to his nose?” “Why does she talk like that?” are fine fodder for the privacy of your home or car, but when asked in a public setting, often in front of the person in question, they challenge our reserve and dignity as parents.

If we are lucky to have our own mothers around, a call to them may offer some wisdom on how best to address these well-meaning, but overly-inquisitive, little people.

Once, in an effort to expose my daughter to the variety of people living in our world, I brought her to the nursing home where I worked. What a wonderful idea, you may think.

What a smart, sensitive mom I am to teach my adventurous, inquisitive little four-year-old daughter that there are people who struggle every day. Much can be learned from life in a nursing home, although, as usual, the lessons we learned were not what I had planned.

I was excited for her to leech wisdom from the elders in our tribe. The visit began predictably, as I had explained that it might. Lots of wrinkled smiling people reaching for her hand, touching her face.

She tolerated it and even blushed a few times when they gushed about her beauty and curls, her youth and strength.

I wasn’t even thinking about how Patrice would look through my daughter’s eyes as we entered her room, so caught up was I on shuttling diplomacy between youth and age, innocence and wisdom.

Patrice greeted us skeptically, but not hostilely. Stoic and reserved by nature, she seemed slightly amused by my miniature assistant. When I felt my daughter freeze at my side, I realized my lapse in judgment.

Patrice had one leg, the other a stump that was jutting out of her johnny. She had a patch over her eye and oxygen tubes up her nose. She was tremulous. And, unfortunately for us, she was eating scrambled eggs.

While my child remained hidden behind my legs, peering out nervously, I answered questions.

“Who’s going to clean her up?” “Where’s her leg?” Is she a pirate? Can we go home?”

I began facilitating our conversation in my loud social work voice. “Patrice, my daughter is worried that your eggs are on your shirt. I told her that after you eat, someone will come to help you clean up.”

She burst out laughing and immediately felt what so many of us do in the presence of a child: relief. For the honesty and candor that comes from someone in the room saying exactly what’s on her mind in an attempt to learn about the world.

After all, that’s what we have encouraged them to do. Right? Well, yes. Unless you’re in the department store line of a gender-ambiguous cashier.

“Is that a boy or a girl?” I have never made so much noise in line, talking over my son, rustling the bags as they were being filled, asking irrelevant and asinine questions. And talking in that loud social work voice I use when my world is in turmoil.

Then, to confuse everyone, I began singing “You’re a boy and I’m a girl and we’re buying cleaning supplies!”

The people behind me were amused. They wanted an answer to the question too.

I finally had to resort to an old parenting maneuver: The Smiling Desperate Whispered Plea for Asylum. I know you’re curious, but we really can’t talk about this here. It’s not polite. Wait until we’re outside.

As we headed out to the car, without knowing the gender of our clerk, I found myself wondering why it matters so much what someone’s gender is. I felt annoyed at the clerk for confusing us and at myself for being as curious as my son. I was struggling, as I often do, with just how honest I want my children or myself to be.

We preach honesty and curiosity, until it makes us uncomfortable. I was stumped. I knew it was not polite to ask somebody about their gender, but I wasn’t exactly sure why. Other than being none of our business, I wasn’t sure how to really explain this to my son. I like rules and reasons. I called my mother.

Someone who sees the humor in any situation, she values forthright discussion about anything. I knew her wisdom would guide me. She gave me the best answer I have ever heard on the subject.

Megan, tell him that the cashier knows what s/he is and it would hurt the cashier’s feelings if other people didn’t know.

My son listened and nodded and then I reminded him to save any and all questions about other people until we are alone.

“Can we tell people what we are?” I paused only briefly. Guided by my mother’s wisdom, I gave him the best answer I have ever heard on the subject. “You can tell them, just don’t show them.”

Megan Davis Collins is a mother, writer and social worker living in Billerica.