hens and other layers of my life

My granddaughter, Josephine, was kicked out of her preschool this week. Her teacher said Josephine did not respect circle-time, did not share with other children, and had demonstrated herself to be a "biter." I can verify that Jo is a biter. Once when I was the caregiver she committed a crime against her brother that warranted a time out. I headed into the playroom to administer the punishment. My son, her dad, called to me from his home-office, "Be careful, Mom. She bites." Sure enough, as I was leading Jo to the time-out chair she came at me like a snapping turtle and I had to transport her by the back of her pants to keep myself out of range of her jaws. Having raised six children myself I could have told her that this grandma was not in the least intimidated by a biting child. Her uncles and aunt have tried to take me to that rodeo a few times themselves and it never turned out very well for them. Still, it is disturbing that she uses this tactic so freely. And now she has been kicked out of her preschool.

Jo's mom, Sarah, and I visited this preschool last summer and chose it for its peaceful atmosphere. The front door had no doorbell, no brass knocker, just a set of hollow beads on strings that tapped out a gentle signal that someone was approaching the door. Lovely. On the back porch Buddhist prayer flags hung at eye level and also stirred, catching the prayers and dreams of children playing there and sending them on the breeze to gods who presumably answered the prayers. There was flowing water in tiny fountains and small herb gardens tucked in among flowers edging the lawn. We were charmed. We signed Jo on as a student. Now we are wondering if perhaps this was more a place where Sarah and I wanted to spend time and not such a good fit for Josephine.

Josephine is a young hen in a family of very strong women. We are not aggressive women; we long for peace and look for peace, but there are battles to be fought, don't you know? When life presents us with a challenge we roll up our sleeves, sigh at the unfortunate abandonment of our peace, and tie into the fray. Josephine's great grandmother is almost 98 years old now and only just let go of her daily jog. A couple of years ago she was frustrated by her push lawnmower and gave the stuck blades a kick. The blades whirled a couple turns and chopped off the end of grandma's shoe and three of grandma's toes. She picked up the toes and hopped on one foot the block to the hospital. Doctors there begged her to accept a bed and surgery to try sewing the toes back on but she opted to just let it heal up. The only offer she would agree to is a ride home. The medical staff was alarmed by this reckless choice but the women in grandma's family only shrugged. Any one of us may have made the same decision.

Now Josephine is paying the price for her heritage of feminine grit. When shopping for Jo's preschool Sarah and should have been looking for something that resembled a Marine boot camp instead of a Buddhist sanctuary. The hens in the Nuxoll henhouse submit to authority when it comes from a source of high moral standards (ours) and pure intentions. We follow rules but only if we decide they make good sense. One-way streets, dress codes, and start-times are considered nothing more than worthy suggestions. Tradition, research findings, and established routes often look like the red scarf of a matador to us. My sons have added fuel to the feminine fire by marrying women who look like angels and speak softly as nurses on night-shift but, I suspect, could easily beat an intruder to death with a lego box and then coolly lie to the police about who started the fight.

We rarely bite though.