We have a social fetish

I have noticed a few disturbing trends as I have been working on taking better care of myself. People, but mostly women, so please forgive me if I focus on women here, when they are trying to get fit focus on entirely unrealistic goals. It happens for a few reasons. One would be the ubiquitous use of Photoshop, so that even the models cannot attain the bodies that, according to their print ads, they have. Another would be choosing someone who you will never, ever look like as your inspiration/motivation. I could pin a picture of Heidi Klum to my Pinterest boards as a goal, but it doesn’t matter what I do. I simply won’t look like her. For one thing, she’s around a foot taller than I am. For another, her body is simply proportioned differently than mine, so even if you stretched me or shrunk her, we would not have the same figures, ever, regardless of how healthy we were or weren’t.  Another iteration on this, are the women who say, “Healthy is the new skinny.” I think that’s a wonderful sentiment, but they then proceed to post pictures of athletes in peak condition as their inspiration. Most people will never look like that, even many of the athletes don’t when they aren’t training.  They still look good, but not every muscle is ripped beyond belief.

I am not saying that you shouldn’t try to tone, sculpt, lose weight, be healthy, etc. I am certainly doing those things, and most Americans probably should, given the sky-rocketing rates of obesity, heart-disease, and diabetes, just to name a few. What I am saying is that your goals should be realistic. You should want to look like the best version of you that is sustainable, not an air-brushed picture of someone who doesn’t even share your body-type. Get yourself to a healthy weight, and please note, that while the BMI charts can be generally helpful, they really aren’t the be-all and end-all; there are people well within their BMIs who probably aren’t that healthy and people who aren’t who are extremely fit. You should consult with your doctor and come up with a healthy weight range for you.

That being said, this setting of unrealistic goals for ourselves is dangerous and counter-productive. First of all, the fact that we sell ourselves on the idea that looking like ourselves isn’t good enough. Being healthy is necessary. It contributes to your overall well-being. Being skinny, being curvy, having big breasts, small thighs, etc. etc. are not necessary. Some people are naturally very thin. A woman who is naturally very thin is generally not very curvy (think Lisbeth Salander, a fictional character, but someone who is very thin and small). A woman who is very curvy (Marilyn Monroe) is never, ever going to squeeze herself into a size zero and be remotely healthy, yet Lisbeths tend to want to be Marilyns and vice versa. We then have the fall-out from that. Some women scream that the “stick figures” aren’t healthy and we shouldn’t look to them while at the same time we watch curvy women and make sure they don’t get too curvy. Christina Aguilera has very publicly added to her curves. She does not appear to actually be overweight, but because she isn’t as thin as she once was, we need to bring out the pitchforks. The willowy stars are told to eat cheeseburgers, etc. How is anyone not seeing that there is no “perfect” figure? Tearing down what you are not doesn’t make what you are better, and it decimates everyone on the inside.

I feel that this constant focus on unattainable appearances, the air-brushing of already very thin models, the presentation of an artist’s ideal as a norm to which women and girls should aspire, the nitpicking on every pound gained or lost, the fact that nearly every female celebrity has her detractors for not being something (curvy, thin, too much booty, too little booty, etc, etc) has contributed to and possibly even created our fetishization of low self-esteem. If you are not perfectly beautiful, you are not a good person and you deserve very little, even the fairytales we tell our children support this notion. Cinderella is beautiful and the stepsisters are.  .  . not.

It is not okay for a woman who is healthy, but not pin-up worthy without air-brushing (is anyone, though?) to be confident. She can’t say, “I’m healthy, happy, smart, and beautiful!” because she isn’t perfect. Without perfection, she must choose her flaw(s) and focus on it (them), and not a fixable flaw(s). Of course, all of us should work to improve ourselves. If she has a problem with her temper, this woman should work on that, and it would benefit everyone, but that isn’t the flaw we want her to fixate on as a society. No. Her derriere is not perfect. Maybe it’s too big, maybe it’s too flat, maybe it’s just a little uneven, regardless, it’s not something that all the working out in the world will fix, but she is supposed to feel bad that she doesn’t have a perfect rear, not confident that she is all the other wonderful things that she is. If she doesn’t have an issue with it, we hate her for it. “How dare she walk around feeling good about herself with an ass like that? I look better than that, and I hate myself.”  If you think you haven’t done it, or that we as a society don’t do it, you should check yourself and/or the comments section of any piece of celebrity fluff journalism. We have to have low self-esteem, particularly as young women. Being happy with yourself is just not done. Every magazine, every ad, most television shows, and movies all tell us that. The mean girls are the confident ones, and they lose in the end. You have to go through a process of self-improvement and beautification to earn a smidgen of confidence AND be a nice girl.

 I am here to say that this needs to stop. We need to stop telling ourselves that confidence and conceit are the same things. It’s okay to know you have a few (or more) pounds to lose or that you need to work harder in some aspects of your life, and still like yourself. It’s okay to be happy and NOT be perfect. This fetishization of low self-esteem holds us back. It keeps us from walking with our heads up, from speaking up in the classroom, the boardroom, and when that jerk cuts in front of us in line. It also keeps us from being our best personally. If I want to look like Heidi Klum, I will probably give up on my journey to be the healthiest me that I can be because I do not have a realistic goal, just as if I want to work on my generosity of spirit, comparing myself to Mother Theresa will find me lacking. Just because I can’t be Heidi Klum or Mother Theresa doesn’t mean that I can’t be a good person. The same goes for everyone. Find your gifts, physical, emotional, and spiritual, and celebrate them! You have every right to be confident in the fact that you are a person of beauty inside and out.

If you don’t start with the confidence that you are a good person, but you’d like to be even better, then you will probably fail. If you start from the position of hating yourself and wanting to be somebody else, all the diets, working out, self-improvement, meditation, prayer, etc. won’t help you achieve your goals. You are never going to be someone else. You will always be you. Love you, then fix what can be fixed and move on. That’s how you grow. You can stagnate in the scummy pond of low self-esteem that society has sold you, or you can bloom in the sunshine and fresh air of self-confidence. I know it’s not always that easy, and that real psychological and physiological conditions can contribute to disliking yourself. I am not saying “boot-strap yourself out it.” Find a good support system (this can be friends, family, therapists, doctors, support groups, on-line, in-person, etc.), and work on your issues, and don’t contribute to the poison that’s out there by tearing others down. Let’s try to save another generation from feeling like they have to hate at least part of themselves to meet society’s expectations. In the process, we can like ourselves better, be healthier, happier, nicer, and make better choices in general. What an example that would be.

Just say no to voting. . . unless you do it properly

On November 6, 2012, if you are an American citizen, over the age of 18, and registered to vote, you may do so. You will see a lot of people telling you to exercise your civic duty over the next twenty-four hours or so. I know I will be exercising mine. I vote. I have voted since the first election in which I was old enough to vote. I love it. I am a bit of a political junkie, and because of that I feel very strongly about voting.

You need to take this right and duty seriously. You need to be informed. You need to understand for whom and for what you are voting. Why would you vote otherwise? If you honestly believe our sitting president is a Muslim (not that it should matter anyway), and that he is secretly trying to implement Sharia law, you need to step away from the voting booth. Conversely, if you believe that Mitt Romney thinks his undergarments are magic and that he will use the power therein to bewitch us all, please take a look at the real issues.  I may not agree with you, your opinion, or your reasoning, but if you are voting on facts and choose differently than I would, that is just part of the process.

If you are choosing based on rumors and lies, you need to stay home tomorrow because this is a responsibility for which you are not ready. That’s right. I said it. If you cannot be informed and responsible with your choice, don’t vote. Everyone tells people to vote, and I am here to say that if you are a birther, believe your federal taxes have gone up in the last four years, have anything to say about death panels other than to laugh at them, or you like to pretend that homosexuals and feminists cause hurricanes all the while denying that climate change exists, you need to ask yourself some serious questions and examine your sources before you vote. Don’t vote if you can’t articulate your candidate’s positions. Don’t vote unless you have a clear understanding of the responsibility which you are undertaking.  

Now, that we have that out of the way, please do vote if you are ready, willing, and able to be an adult about it. Go to the polls armed with the facts and your convictions, and vote accordingly. Be courteous, kind, and respectful, and wear your vote with pride. I know that I will be enthusiastically voting for President Obama and Senator McCaskill to retain their positions for another term each. I would love it if you would join me in supporting them, and would be happy to tell anyone why, but if you won’t or can’t (for instance, you have to live in MO to vote for Senator McCaskill), please make sure that you are voting based on real issues and facts.

If you want to be extra prepared, Missouri voters can find sample ballots here: https://www.sos.mo.gov/elections/voterlookup/default.aspx

Others can find their own sample ballots by doing a quick internet search.

Peace.

So, You're Not A Feminist

I’ve noticed a somewhat disturbing trend most of my life. Women about my age and younger proudly declaring they are not feminists. Women in college and in the workforce who wanted to let you know that when Rush Limbaugh hollered about feminazis who still gave a damn about equal pay for equal work they weren’t one of those women. After all, they liked men. They had boys who were friends and boyfriends. Many later went on to have husbands, all the while letting the world know that we didn’t *need* feminism in the US of A, anymore. We have the right to vote and we can be anything we want to be, right?

Even then my head would spin right round, baby, right round like a record baby right round. First of all, why is there an assumption that women who care about equality regardless of one’s genitalia hate men? There is really absolutely nothing to support that assumption. We may dislike men who assume they have authority over us simply because they have penises (penii?) and we have, wait for it, VAGINAS, but that is actually more of a dislike of a cultural construct and an attitude than an entrenched hatred of, or even battle with, an entire sex. Also, just to be accurate and show my scholarly roots, it really is properly feminisms. We are privileged to not have to discuss things like access to health care (Wait no, that’s not right...), equality in the workforce (Hmmm… 70something cents on the dollar compared to men doing the exact. same. jobs?), equal representation in places of power (Ummmm, *some* counts, right?). Okay, seriously, we really do have it better than women in many other countries where women have far fewer choices than we do (Hey, at least we can drive ourselves places!), but we don’t do those women or ourselves any favors by pretending that inequality is dead in this country.

As a matter of fact, I would posit that the attitude by too many of my peers that we didn’t need feminism anymore has helped contribute to the current “war on women.” You don’t think it’s real? What about when a poorly written piece of legislation ends up requiring that you receive an additional ultrasound to relive the horror of your missed miscarriage before you get your D&C to clear everything out so that you don’t get an infection? How about when you have to supply a doctor’s note to you or your husband’s employer so that your prescribed medication that is actually part of your insurance plan can be covered by your insurance? Mind you, the insurance plan already has any pertinent information. This little violation of your privacy would just be so your employer feels better about what you and your doctor have decided is best for you. You wouldn’t have to do it for heart or cholesterol medicine. That would be against the law, but it’s okay to violate HIPAA if it involves your lady parts. We can’t name them too many times. The wives of Republican lawmakers in MI might read the word vagina and that would be awful. Many in my generation, and those that have come after, quit fighting for things to get better because they were afraid of being accused of unsavory things, content with their lot, or both, and in the process of declaring feminism dead and unnecessary, they put it on life-support and have made it more necessary than ever.

We have the worst maternity leave in the industrialized world. We have the worst protections for working moms. We have a pregnant woman named CEO of a major company (Yahoo!- both my exclamation upon hearing the news and the name of the company) who feels the need to announce that she isn’t even taking the substandard maternity leave that is mandated (Boo!). She’ll only take a few weeks, and she’ll work right through it. Some would argue that CEOs don’t get the same life-work balance as the rest of us, and I would say that that is actually a HUGE problem because a CEO who doesn’t have it usually sets the tone for the company. Life-work balance is absolutely necessary, and it is another area where the US sorely lags behind many other countries, but that is another blog post. Now, she absolutely has the right to work as much or as little as she sees fit. She has resources at her disposal that many other WOHM don’t. That little fact won’t matter to people who want to chase women out of the workforce by keeping our horrible maternity and family leave policies in place. They will point to this example and say, “See, you don’t need six weeks leave or accommodation for your severe sciatica! She didn’t need anything. If you can’t handle it, here’s the door or your glass ceiling. Have fun, dear.”

Some will also say, “This wouldn’t be a big deal if it were a man with a baby on the way.” That, unfortunately, is true. It is a big deal that she was pregnant, disclosed it, and was offered the job anyway because, despite the fact that it is 100% illegal, people discriminate against pregnant women when it comes to job offers and promotions on a daily basis. Expectant fathers don’t face the same bias, or frankly, the same pressure to be the parent who is there (again, this is a post for another day). I also happen to think it’s awful that new dads are rarely given, or expected to take, leave. It is required by law that they be allowed up to 12 weeks, unpaid, which is exactly what every company is legally required to offer women. Most women who take “paid” maternity leave have saved up their paid time off (vacation, sick days, personal days, etc.) to do it, and if they stay out the whole twelve weeks are likely taking at least some unpaid time off. 

The big problem is that it pits women against each other. Again. It has also brought up the whole SAHM vs. WOHM thing. Again. There are mothers out there with high-powered careers, and they would be being dishonest if they didn’t say that that meant sacrificing time with their children, just as the fathers with high-powered careers do. I would be being dishonest of I didn’t say that my decision to SAH has affected my lifetime earning potential, my ability, and even my desire to have a high-powered career. What American feminism has bought us is the ability to make these choices, and the ability to choose to not have a family at all if that isn’t right for us. What we seem to be missing is that not only are women in important positions still enough of an anomaly that it makes headlines for days, but that when they make it we have to debate all of their choices. Are they mothers (Whether or not one is a parent will always be mentioned for a woman, but not for a man)? If not, are they still of child-bearing age? If they are no longer able to have children and don’t have any, they will have far fewer distractions after all (again with the fact that the distraction of having children is not figured into the decision to hire an equally qualified man).  If they are mothers, let’s question their abilities both as mothers and as employees. We don’t debate the choices of the men who climb the corporate ladder. We don’t make men feel unwelcome and scrutinized just because they are men. We do it to women, though, and we call that a huge step in the right direction because they are even in the positions to begin with. This, my friends, is not the sign of a country that no longer needs feminism.

Also, it almost always comes down to appearances. People will mention how attractive (or not) the powerful woman is. It is rare to hear, “Steve Smith, the new CEO of ACME Sprockets is a bronzed, Greek god,” yet I do know the new CEO of Yahoo! is not only pregnant, but a “blonde beauty.” I can rest easier knowing that they didn’t hire some hag.

While we have many choices in this country thanks to those bra-burning, marching women (and those who came before them) whom so many of my sisters are afraid of resembling, we are backsliding. We need to make sure we have real choices. I choose to be a SAHM. Someone else chooses to have a career, with or without children. We are all respected for our choices, rather than criticized (within reason; if you kick puppies for a living, I will criticize you). Equal pay for equal work is a reality. We have access to healthcare unfettered by politics. Our bodies are not hyper-sexualized and air-brushed to the point that no one can meet those expectations. Rape is seen as a serious crime and not a messy “he-said/she-said” or “Well, you *were* wearing *that*!” These things, amongst many other feminist ideas, are my dream. We need to be vigilant. We need to take back our rights that our foremothers won and that are slipping away before our eyes, and fight for the rest, ladies. I *am* a feminist, and I am damn proud of it, and I think you should be too.  

R-E-S-P-E-C-T

It seems that one theme that runs through a lot of my posts is treating others with a basic level of courtesy and respect. This post will be no different. Today, I am going to tackle another aspect of the “Mommy Wars” (*gag*). The stay-at-home-mom vs the work-outside-the-home mom battle is one that has been raging for quite some time and shows no signs of slowing, which is aggravating as Hell because here we are fighting amongst ourselves over who works “harder” while the politicians are busily chipping away at our rights to vote, be treated equally in the workplace, and make the best choices for our reproductive health, amongst other things.  Don’t fool yourself; whether you are pro-choice or anti-abortion much of the current legislation will do little to stop abortions and much to curb you and your Dr.’s authority to make the decisions that are the best for you.

Let’s get one thing straight. It is a privilege to be able to talk about this topic at all. It’s very First World. I can promise that none of us work as hard as those who live below the subsistence level. Also, back in the First World, this debate completely discounts single parents (who are amazing), child-free people, and what and how men should be contributing. The whole of this topic is too big to cover in one post, so I will likely return to it at some point.

As the title of my blog implies, I am a SAHM, and have defined myself as one since my oldest was born.  I have actually only been a full-time SAHM since my youngest was born. Previously, I had a seasonal job that I was able to work around my husband’s schedule. After the birth of my oldest, I worked close to full-time hours that first summer, but as my husband is the main wage earner as his job demands changed, my availability changed because I did not make enough to justify paying a sitter, gassing up the car, and commuting. It is a position in which many people have found themselves. While the experience of one person is not definitive, I will say that that first summer wasn’t easier or harder than being home, but it was different.

Many things have inspired this post lately. The weird dichotomy of Mitt Romney being upset when Hilary Rosen, a Democratic strategist, said that Ann Romney had never worked a day in her life contrasted with the Mitt Romney who was the governor of MA and offering/forcing on women w/ very young children the “dignity of work” while forcing them into dead-end jobs. Which is it Mitt? Either what Hilary Rosen said is true, or that “dignity of work” thing was a load of BS in an attempt to put a pretty bow on a policy that was forcing a lot of single mothers into an untenable position. Also, while I suspect what Ms. Rosen was trying to say was that Mrs. Romney, with her staff, money, etc. didn’t understand those of us who don’t have those benefits (and it is what Ms. Rosen claims she meant), many people took it as a knock on the SAHM. Hilary Rosen even apologized for the comment, later. Still, it was not a politically bright thing for someone who is a political strategist to say.

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Then there is the tired, old “This is What a SAHM is Worth” articles that tend to come out around tax time and Mother’s Day. I hate them. First of all, I am not a psychologist, a nurse, or a chef. Yes, I deal with emotional conflict, first-aid, and I cook. I am not actually trained in any of that (although I do have an expired first-aid certification and I was a psychology minor, so I’m totally qualified), and for the heavy stuff, I would still go to the professionals, the people who went to school and trained for years to earn those titles. I don’t need some outside organization to crunch some numbers and validate my choices. What I do has value. Yes, part of it is monetary, but much of that value is intangible. Those articles also raise the hackles of many women who work outside the home. “Well, *I* do all that AND work. Should I get two salaries?” Actually, they don’t do all of it, and they don’t do as much of it. Yes, they care for their children, but someone else does that while they are at work (This is NOT a judgment; it is a statement of fact; much like the fact that while being a SAHM is work, it isn’t a job in the sense that you have a boss, office politics, and a salary, is true), someone they likely pay, unless it is a family member who is gracious enough to do it for free. Since they aren’t home all day, there is less daily care of the house, less cleaning up the family room after the whirlwind, fewer diaper changes, etc. They also sometimes have to call on those of us who don’t work outside the home for help, “Can you please get Billy to soccer practice for me? I have a late meeting.”

That being said, of course they raise their own children, take care of their own homes, and juggle a lot of the other things. The charges to the contrary are ridiculous. Working outside the home and then coming home and being “on” for the family can be hard. Of course, there are also the days with late meetings and travel. There are days when a WOHM might not get to see her children at all, and not because she’s having a fun night out, either, but because she is out there busting her hump. Not that there is anything wrong w/ time away for fun; we all need that, sometimes.

 I once read an abstract of a study that found that WOHM work harder than SAHM, but when I searched for more information and dug into the study, I discovered that the results were based on self-reporting and journal-keeping. When interviewed and asked specifically about tasks around the home, it turned out that the WOHM were much more likely to report every single activity they did in and out of the home, and the SAHM just sort of hit the highlights. If the SAHM actually logged the housework, childcare, and errand-running, amongst other things, as assiduously as the WOHM, it was probably a wash. In other words, while it is tempting to draw a conclusion about who works harder (and those who ran the study did, despite the evidence of the interviews; that is bias at work right there, folks), one really cannot be drawn here, although I would love to see a follow-up study on how women value what they do and their time and whether working a job affects the value we place on ourselves. I will tell you there are plenty of people who work harder than I do, and plenty who don’t work nearly as hard as I do. It has little to do with who has a paying job and who doesn’t, though. I honestly hate that this study was even run. It just propagates everything awful about the SAHM vs WOHM debate out there, and leads to things like this: 

Now, it is tempting I suppose, if one has a “little gig on the side” to see this, high-five other women in the same boat, and let us bon-bon eating people who *only* raise kids and run a house know how it really is. They obviously work harder and are superior to us. Of course, those of us who actually stay at home and prefer Peanut M&M’s to bon-bons thankyouverymuch, may take issue with this little “joke” that isn’t actually a joke. Then we are sensitive and can’t take a joke because we see that there is a little bit of basic respect lacking here, and a lot of not understanding what it is we do all day. Did you know that SAHM are much more likely to be depressed than the rest of the population? Did you know that one of the reasons is that we are continually told that we have no or less value than people with jobs in many ways (unless we’re getting head pats in “mom salary” articles, or worse, from Focus on the Family), including things like this little “joke?” Also, it is full-time, not full time.

“Hey, you get a break from your kids and house for at least eight hours, five days a week, and you get paid for it! It must be nice to only parent and run your house part-time while you eat lunch w/ out worrying about sweeping and cleaning after! Here’s your bon-bon!” is terrible, un-true, hurtful, and not funny.  If I saw that, or something similar, I would seriously be appalled.

If all the things the “other side” says about you are un-true and hurtful, why oh why would you assume that the things said about them are any more truthful and any less hurtful? Is it so hard to understand that we’ve all made the decisions that we felt were best for our family, and that we all work hard for our families? I respect any woman who is trying her best for her family. I don’t assume I do everything she does and vice versa, even if we are both SAHM. I think it is high time SAHM were offered the same courtesy as a whole. WOHM don’t do everything I do, and that is okay; I certainly don’t do everything they do.  

I sometimes think that in fighting to be allowed to do other work and to be respected as just as, if not more capable than men, in every field, we have helped devalue what is seen as “women’s work” (*shudder*). Instead of equality, where people choose what is best for them, and all work is respected, we have come to a place of women disdaining other women who make the choice to be home, and in return, the women who are at home are lashing out at the women who have jobs. It sets everyone back when all work isn’t respected. I also include blue-collar and service work here. Those jobs used to be seen as important work, but now too many see it as beneath them. I won’t get into how women’s rights and worker’s rights are intertwined. That topic is a different post entirely, but just remember that ALL work has value, and we couldn’t get by without each other.

The Eyes Have It

Yesterday, I celebrated my ninth wedding anniversary with my husband. We dated for around five years before we married, so we’ve been together fourteenish years, and we knew each other for a couple of years before we started seeing each other, so I’ve basically been at least friends with my husband my entire adult life. Neat. Now, we will actually go on a date on Sunday as we had other commitments last night, and it was mid-week. We’ll have dinner at the restaurant where our rehearsal dinner was held and do something else. It isn’t really important what we do, just that we’ll do it together, and I would say that sums up the last decade-and-a-half rather nicely.

I’ve been reflecting on our life together, recently. We’ve had some wonderful times and we’ve had some difficult times, although our relationship has remained strong through it all. I can honestly say that there is no one I would rather have by my side when things look their bleakest and no one that I would rather share my joy with when they are at their loveliest. I sincerely wish this sort of love for anyone who desires it.

All this reflecting has led me to music. Pop music, because it is what I know the best. “Our song” is “Tupelo Honey” by Van Morrison because it is the song my husband played for me when he gave me the necklace he had made me near the start of our romantic relationship. It is a beautiful song. It was the song to which we danced our first dance at our wedding. Ross from Friends also cited it as the most romantic song, so there is that going for it as well. We made each other mix tapes and mix CDs with a lot of great music on it, in our younger days. Now, we’ve taken to sending each other links to Youtube videos via email or Facebook when the mood strikes us. Recent selections have included Adele’s cover of “Make You Feel My Love,” “Chasing Cars” by Snow Patrol, “In Your Eyes” by Peter Gabriel, and “The Luckiest” by Ben Folds.

One thing all these songs have in common, other than a theme of deep and lasting love, is eyes. Every single one mentions eyes at least once. Granted “Make You Feel My Love” may be stretching this a little because it really only mentions tears, but you can’t have tears without eyes, so it counts. Three of them speak of recognizing the other person or oneself in the other’s eyes. We see our best qualities reflected in the eyes of those who love us. We recognize the souls of the ones we love in their eyes. I know this to be true. I cannot look into my husband’s eyes and miss his lovely spirit, and I see the best of me reflected in his love for me when I look into those wonderful blue eyes. I know he must see something similar when he gazes into my own eyes because I know how I feel about him, we are here, and we are strong.

I will close by telling a story about his eyes. Anyone who knows both of us knows that my husband generally sports a full beard, and has had one nearly the entire time we have known each other. One day in college I was walking home, and I heard someone call my name. I looked around, didn’t recognize anyone, assumed someone else must have been being paged, and continued on my way. Then I heard someone pick up his pace, and call my name again. I turned around, and it was my husband, although at the time we were just friends (that situation would change a few weeks later). He was clean-shaven for the first time in years, and I had not recognized him. I was only really sure who it was when he smiled, and I looked into his eyes. There he was. There I was. And here we are. 

99% of You Will Not Comment on This Post

Some of my least favorite things on Facebook are the chain statuses. You know the ones. “Re-post this if you think clubbing baby seals is mean. I bet *insert made up statistic here, usually in the 90s*% of you won’t re-post. <3 for those who ARE BRAVE ENOUGH TO SAY THAT CLUBBING BABY SEALS IS WRONG!” I have a friend who has posted about this recently as a status update. Liking and/or re-posting a status update does not do a thing. I don’t need to prove that I would hug a baby seal rather than club it, that I think cancer is bad, and that I love my husband/children/siblings/parents/planet, etc. by re-posting a poorly-worded status.

I think most who start and re-post these things mean well, and I usually just scroll past them. I used to feel that they were harmless, if annoying. Then I began to think more about it. Do people really think they are making a difference? Is re-posting a status self-satisfying enough that it may prevent someone from doing something useful? Does it even send a subtly harmful message while trying to send a positive one? I think the answer to that last question is most certainly, “Yes.” Let’s take the anti-bullying C&P status. There are a few, but they are essentially all the same, and they read something like this:

On the surface, it seems harmless enough. Don’t bully. You don’t know these people, and you’re piling hurt on the undeserving, but there is an implication, however subtle and unintended, that there are people who deserve to be called terrible names and pushed around. What if the girl that was called a slut had been having sex with a different guy every night? What if the pregnant girl had consensual sex? How about that boy who was jeered as being lame? What if he just went home and read comic books all night, nothing grand and noble, just normal? Let’s think about the boy who was crying. What if he’s just really sensitive? And the old man with the scars? What if he got those setting off illegal fireworks or actually doing something extremely harmful to society, like cooking meth? Would they then deserve the mockery and nastiness heaped upon them?

People shouldn’t bully. Period. It doesn’t matter if the girl being called a slut has had sex w/ 0 people or 100 people. She doesn’t deserve it. I won’t even get into how promiscuity is encouraged in young men while being frowned upon in young women, and how dangerous that is for both sexes, or how I frankly feel that anyone who is that young and that promiscuous is battling demons, regardless of their combination of Xs and Ys. That’s an entirely different post. I also won’t get into what I think of the word slut beyond saying that it is foul, and is used to keep women in line. This virgin/fallen woman theme carries on to the next example of the pregnant teen who was raped. What an awful scenario. Why would that need to be the case to offer her friendship and support? It seems to me that anyone in a crisis pregnancy is deserving of at least that much. Does anyone need to be called lame for any reason or have insults heaped upon him because he cries? In a society that prizes physical beauty and eternal youth the way that ours does, is there anyone who should have to hear about scars that he bears for whatever reason? Is it only a war hero who should be treated with a modicum of dignity and respect? You don’t need to know someone or their situation to refrain from being nasty to them. You simply have to, I don’t know, be nice.

What those who bully, and even those who write and share statuses like the ones above don’t seem to realize is that not one person deserves to be treated poorly and made to feel less than human. We are all deserving of love and kindness, regardless of our sins. What one person says about another is less a reflection on the person being spoken about than it is on the person speaking. The things people choose to say about and to each other are often a reflection of their own insecurities and fears.  Maybe they fear they are actually in possession of the trait they are giving the other. Maybe they are lacking something their victim has. What they definitely need is compassion and a new perspective on valuing life and dignity. It isn’t just kids, either. They learn it by watching us. They see the subtler forms of bullying pass as entertainment for the masses. They listen to us snipe about each other. They are exposed to what passes for political discourse in this country. How are we to tell them to be kind, to treat each other as human beings on an interpersonal level when we can’t manage to do that very same thing as a society? When the best we can seem to offer is a status update that implies that not everyone is deserving of the small mercies of an outstretched hand and a smile? If the cited status is the best we can offer each other in our efforts to help stop bullying, then we have a long way to go, my friends.

The Reason I Can Celebrate Mother's Day as a Mother

I first wrote the essay/post below on Mother's Day two years ago. I won’t be peeling potatoes today; my then-four-year-old is now six and getting his first adult tooth. My then-toddler is now three and is full of life and sparkle. The fluttering fetus in the story is now a lovely little toddler who brightens our days. What remains the same is that none of this beauty would be possible were it not for earlier pain. The rarest of gems are formed through the application of pressure over time, and as difficult as things can sometimes be, the wonder that awaits us is worth struggle. I hope those of you who have read this before don’t mind the repeat, and those who find it new enjoy it. Happy Mother’s Day to all.

This Mother’s Day (May 2010) I had the great pleasure of peeling fourteen potatoes while my four-year-old chopped them and put them in a pan of water so we could boil them. Now, I don’t normally love peeling potatoes. It would generally be a perfect punishment, but the company was excellent and the conversation delightful. In the midst of it, I was struck by how very lovely my life is. My husband was outside in our yard playing with the toddler, I was happily engaged in conversation and work with the pre-schooler, and I could feel the fetus fluttering away inside of me.

The thing is, this day could very easily not have happened, or at least not like this. I was diagnosed with Lupus when I was ten years old. It took them three long years to figure out why my kidneys and joints seemed to not want to function properly. When I was younger, I hated the Lupus. I felt like it took me from me. I wasn’t allowed to run and play as often; I spent over half the year in hospitals away from my friends and siblings. I took medications that made me feel awful, stunted my growth, and made me fat. I wasn’t healthy enough to be medication-free until close to the end of my freshman year in high school. I felt like the Lupus had robbed me of my childhood and early adolescence. As I grew older and the remission lasted, I came to terms with the Lupus. It had helped mold me into the person I was, and I liked that person, so it was what it was. Then, in March of 2006, something happened that I never would have thought possible. I became eternally grateful for the Lupus.

Despite the fact that I have been in remission my entire adult life, my pregnancies are considered high-risk. With the first, I was very carefully monitored, which I didn’t really mind. I received extra ultrasounds, and the non-stress tests were comforting, if a bit boring. I was able to hear my baby’s heart galloping along while I waited for movement, so I could press the button to record it. The pregnancy itself was perfectly routine and healthy. I was healthier and happier than ever. The baby seemed to be perfect. There were no problems. Without the Lupus hanging over my medical history, I never would have needed the non-stress tests, and things would have gone horribly, horribly wrong.

For those of you who don’t know my oldest child’s birth story, my husband was on his spring break and came along to my 37 week appointment. We were planning on going out to lunch followed by a movie. I knew the baby was transverse and/or breech (he was flipping between the two), so I wasn’t going into labor that day. As a matter of fact, the plan was to schedule a version for my 38 week appointment. . .

After the visit with the doctor, who was awesome, we went back for the NST. It seemed to be taking longer than usual. They had me drink some juice to get things moving. Then the doctor came in to chat with my husband and me. They wanted to send us over to Labor & Delivery triage for monitoring. The baby’s heart rate was decreasing when it should be increasing. I’d need an ultrasound. We walked across the bridge to the hospital. It seemed the umbilical cord was pooled under his head and any time he tried to move he compressed it, which is what was causing the decrease in heart rate. Since I was already considered full-term, and while the situation was not emergent in that I didn’t need to be rushed to the OR posthaste, it was time, for the good of the baby, to deliver him.

I had really wanted an all-natural birth, but I was pretty philosophical about not having one if it meant better things for the baby. We called our friends and family to tell them that today was the day and to beg assistance from them/impose upon them: Could they get into our house and finish packing the suitcase that was on the bed (we had planned on finishing that after our date)? Could someone bring a camera? etc. etc. I was wheeled into the OR and had a very routine c-section. As we had chosen not to find out the sex of the baby until birth, the doctor delivered our breech son and held up the proof of his sex while asking my spouse if he knew what those were. My husband told me we had a son, and we immediately named him. Then, he didn’t cry. They whisked him away while I was stitched up, with the doctor doing her best to calm us while looking a bit anxious herself. Soon enough we heard the cry we had been awaiting. Relief flooded the room and joking commenced. My husband went back to see our son and then returned. They briefly brought the baby to us. He needed to go to the NICU. He needed CPAP and a blood transfusion. He had aspirated meconium and was severely anemic. That brief little hug was the closest I was to get to holding my son for a day and a half. I could touch him, but not hold him. It was agonizing. I do not know how mothers who have children who are in incubators do it.

To this day, there is no diagnosis behind the acute anemia my eldest suffered at birth. We do know that it was not related to my Lupus, and that he is perfectly healthy and as normal as any child of ours has a hope of being. What I also know is that without the Lupus I would not have been receiving the non-stress tests. My sweet boy could not have survived without a blood transfusion much longer due to the severity of his anemia. Would I have listened to my mommy instincts telling me that his movements had changed, which they had, and called my OB in time to save him? I don’t know. What I do know is that it didn’t come to that. My Lupus saved my baby. I would give my childhood a million times over so I could be a part of his. For this gift, I am eternally grateful. My Lupus may have made so many things so much harder than they needed to be, but it gave me today. It gave me this life, and I couldn’t ask for anything sweeter.

On Mothering, Really

On Mothering Parenting Mothering, Really

It’s been a while since I’ve posted, but I do plan on keeping to my goal of at least one to two posts a week, now that I’m back. With Mother’s Day fast approaching, the next couple will be about parenting, and then I plan to move on to other topics because I like to talk about many different things.

Time magazine has fired yet another salvo in the “mommy wars” (a term I have grown to detest, by the way) just in time for Mother’s Day. If you haven’t seen it, the cover depicts a young mother nursing her three-year-old child, who is standing on a chair and latched on as the mother stands staring at the camera, next to the tagline “Are you mom enough?” I will state right here and now that I haven’t read the article because you have to be a subscriber to read it online and I won’t buy the magazine.  I wonder if for Father’s Day, we will see a photo of a young father wearing a pre-schooler next to the tagline, “Are you dad enough?” Somehow, I doubt it. It irks me to no end that nearly every parenting debate is a mothering debate, and nearly every mothering debate is more about pitting women against each other and playing on our worst fears, that we are somehow damaging our children and not doing something right, and it will be our fault if something happens to our children, than it is about a truthful, open discourse where we can learn from each other. After all, Norman Bates didn’t have daddy issues, did he?

Since I have not read it, I won’t address the article. I will simply talk about the picture and the backlash. People on all sides are offended by it. I don’t find it particularly offensive. I am annoyed, but not offended, that they obviously did it to be titillating, rather than spark an honest discussion about attachment parenting and extended breast-feeding. Those are both interesting and intertwined topics. I am also annoyed that people took the bait. It isn’t titillating. It looks a little uncomfortable, but not indecent. I would certainly rather sit and have my child snuggle into me while I nurse, but if the chair thing works for you, have at it. I would rather see a picture of what most women who engage in extended breast-feeding look like when they nurse because it is a more honest place from which to begin a dialogue. I promise that it would still have enraged those who were going to be put-out by it, but it wouldn’t have made people feel like they have to defend a picture that doesn’t necessarily depict what they do. People would be defending something real, not something designed to be as inflammatory as possible. I am so sad that women who make a choice that is already looked on with suspicion have been put in the position of either defending this photograph or saying “I don’t do it like that!” Both things are ridiculous, and neither will mollify those who are offended by the act in the picture.

Speaking of the people who are offended by it, I am even more annoyed with them. This picture is not the end of the world. It isn’t child abuse, and it isn’t indecent. It is just a mother doing what she thinks is best for her child. Where were your voices when the hundreds of other truly exploitive and degrading magazine covers and ads that are published every month were released? Pictures where you see airbrushed breasts that are being used for no other purpose than to be ogled? Pictures where women are nothing but objects of unattainable beauty and sexuality put there to satisfy the male gaze(even the models in the pictures don’t actually look like that, in real life)? Pictures of women who are barely old enough to vote climbing all over each other in various states of undress? Pictures of women climbing all over ridiculously oiled and hairless men? Pictures of women bending to the will of others and of objects? We see those images every month, every week, every day, but this picture is what has you foaming at the mouth? Priorities, people.  

I have absolutely no desire to nurse my pre-schooler, but I don’t care if another woman does. By American standards, I nurse for a long time. My oldest was just a week or so shy of two when he weaned, my middle child was 22 months, and my youngest could wean any day now, and I would be thrilled, but she will be weaned by her second birthday. That is my comfort level. It conforms with the WHO guidelines, and it works for my family. I see it as my duty to support any mother who feeds her child in any way that is healthy and keeps everyone happy. Do you need breastfeeding support? I’m your woman. Do you need someone to let you know that your child won’t die and is not being denied a future Pulitzer Prize if you formula feed? I’m there for you. Do you need someone to not look askance when you nurse in public regardless of whether your child is three weeks or three years? I’ve got your back. Are you somewhere in the middle? That’s cool, yo.

Here’s the thing. We should all support each other. What good does all of this endless debate and fighting about the “right” way to do something that there is actually no one correct way to do, do for anyone? If I make a different choice for my family than you did for yours, that is not a reflection on my opinion of you or your parenting. It is a reflection of what seems instinctual and best for me and my family, and vice versa. What works for one child in the same family might not work for another. With that being the case, why on earth would we think that what works for one family will necessarily work for another? If I offer advice, it’s because I think it will help, not because I will be offended to the core if you don’t take it. If I don’t take your advice, it isn’t because I don’t like and respect you, it’s because it didn’t feel right for my situation. We need to let go of our own fear of being judged, and respect each other. This need for understanding goes for pretty much every non-abusive parenting decision people make. I used to be much more defensive about a lot of my parenting choices because it’s hard to feel completely secure when you’re responsible for someone else’s life. I am much more secure in my choices now than when I began my parenting journey. I may never be mother-of-the-year, but my kids love me and they are good kids who know they are loved. At the end of the day, what more do we want? 

Six

I’ve been a mother for six years, now. It wasn’t always certain that I would make such a milestone. At first, it wasn’t certain that I would live to childbearing age, then it wasn’t certain that I could and/or should have children. I jumped those hurdles. I actually practically flew over them.  I went into remission in 1992, and I have been there ever since. Rather than being one of the women whose Lupus flares when she gets pregnant, my numbers improve, if anything, when I am expecting.

Of course in between going into remission and becoming pregnant the first time, a lot of things happened. I graduated three times, met my husband, married my husband, and bought our first house together. Life was good, so we decided to make it better by adding to our little family.

I cannot describe how much more intense everything has become since having a child, especially this child. He is a joy and a wonder. He is one of the most empathetic people I know. He has a heart as big as the world, and has a capacity for forgiveness that is both amazing and awe-inspiring. He is also whip-smart and extremely curious, which is an alternately wonderful and terrifying combination. I fear things it never occurred to me to fear before becoming a parent. Arrows and slings aimed at him cut me deeply, and I hope my wounds save him some pain. I do know that I cannot and should not shield any of my children from all hurts, but there is a very unreasonable, instinctual part of me that would like to do just that.

His birth story is not the typical one. He was transverse and born via c-section. He was whisked away to the NICU for CPAP and a blood transfusion as he had aspirated meconium and was acutely anemic before I could do more than give him a quick hug, and I wasn’t allowed to hold him for over a day and a half. I know many mothers have it much worse, but it was not an easy time. My sweet boy pulled through and thrived. I used to joke that he was such a snuggler because he was trying to make up for that first 36 hours or so. Since both of his siblings are cuddlebugs, I suspect that our kids just are that way.

Now he is six. He talks at the speed of lightning, and often at the volume of a stage performer. He will be in an elementary uniform in the fall. He is tallish and wiry w/ a mop of light brown curly/wavy hair. He aspires to be pretty much everything when he grows up. He used to want to be an emperor, but now he has set his sights on paleontologist, detective, author/illustrator, rock star, and father. I have watched him grow from that teeny baby hooked up to too many machines to a six-year-old who can most often be seen w/ a book in one hand and an apple in the other, and every cliché about it going too fast is absolutely right. He can’t be six, but I am so glad he is.

Speaking of Free Speech

“I have a right to my opinion!”

“Excuse me, I thought this was a free country!”

“What about freedom of speech?”

You may have heard or seen these arguments or some variation on them when you have witnessed or been a part of a disagreement. I feel that it is especially prevalent online, so let me explain a few things. Outside of libel if you’re writing, slander if you’re speaking, revealing classified info if you have access to it, threatening someone’s life, screaming “Bomb!” in an airport, and a few other special cases, you do indeed have the right to say and/or write whatever you desire without intervention from the government. That last bit is key. Freedom of speech and expression is not, nor should it be, freedom from others expressing their disagreement with you. It is also not Freedom from Facts. You can believe the earth is flat. You can spout off about it, quote the “scientist” who wrote a book about it, and post links from the Flat Earth Society, but you will still be wrong, and people will tell you that you are. They are not infringing on your right to free speech by exercising their own.

 Like many rights, it comes with consequences. If you are posting on Facebook, for instance, you need to abide by their terms of service, or your content can be removed. In extreme cases, your account can be terminated. This bit of information happens to be true all over the internet, and is also likely true of your contract with your ISP. You can say what you like, but if you don’t abide by the rules, which you have agreed to follow, you can lose your services. The government isn’t shutting down your Facebook account because you posted your Hustler spread. Facebook is because you violated their TOS. Whether one agrees with the restrictions and enforcements of the terms of service of various websites and ISPs is a different topic.  In addition, some people’s opinions of you may change after you explain why you believe the earth is flat. As a matter of fact, some people may not even like you anymore. It is not an infringement on your rights, but it is a consequence of your actions. To put it another way, you can smoke, but that doesn’t mean that you won’t get cancer.

Also, to paraphrase pretty much every speech from the Voice of Reason to a Superhero, with great power comes great responsibility. The freedom to say and believe what you want is power. It is one that much of the rest of the world doesn’t have. Don’t believe me? Ask a Syrian. When you are not responsible with that power, you can do terrible, hurtful things. At best, when you just say things to say them, without expressing your thoughts civilly, with no desire to check for inaccuracies or logical fallacies, and without making sure that you are not needlessly hurting someone (sometimes the truth hurts, but it is necessary to tell it for the Greater Good, in keeping with the Superhero theme of this paragraph), you look like an idiot. At worst, you become a Supervillain of the information age, spreading lies and inaccurate information, engaging in ad hominem attacks, treating the slippery slope argument as if it were a god, rather than a smokescreen, and just generally contributing to the serious lack of civil discourse we are experiencing in this country. When someone finally stands up, takes off his or her glasses, puts on the spandex, very politely but pointedly makes known all the inaccuracies, and states the truth, the Supervillain retreats behind free speech, attempting to hide behind the mantle he or she has just sullied. In the end, the Supervillain is a coward who yells, “I thought this was a free country!” rather than actually respond to anything that could challenge him or her. Those lines should be reserved for times when there is an actual abuse of power, like the infamous pepper spraying of the college students. They are not to be used when someone merely disagrees with you.

All that being said, I love comments, and I do hope people will comment on my blog when they feel compelled to do so; however, if I feel that what is being said is not respectful to me, other commenters, or anyone else, I reserve the right to delete your comments. Those are MY terms of service, in addition to the Blogger TOS. If you possess it, you can take your vitriol someplace else.

Of Nail Polish, Kilts, and Glitter Shoes

You may have heard a very girly squee of delight this afternoon. My toddler allowed me to paint her toenails and then indicated that she would like her fingernails painted (I use child-safe, non-toxic nail polish). She then wanted to paint my nails. We did my toes, but as I have an injured finger, we stopped there. She is 16 months old. I know she has seen me paint my toenails on occasion, but never my fingernails. I just don’t do it, except for special occasions, because it lasts approximately .07 seconds. I have no idea where she came up with the idea to want her fingernails painted. She may have realized that I had just trimmed both her finger and toenails, so decided they should both be polished as well. Who knows? Now, I may have painted her toenails, never her fingernails, once or twice last summer for my own amusement *whistles innocently,* but she hasn’t seen the stuff since last June or July. Regardless, she wanted it, and I was VERY excited b/c this was a first for me.  My boys have witnessed me applying polish to my toenails before, and while they were interested in the process, they were never interested in having any on them. I know. I offered. There will be no J Crew catalog kerfuffle for me and my boys, at least not when it comes to nail polish. Anyhow, I was excited to have a child who WANTED nail polish. Squee!! Don’t take my feminist card just yet, though.

Gender identity vs biological sex and how they do and don’t intersect is one of my favorite topics. I’ll probably return to it many times as I write.  I have two sons and a daughter. My daughter is the youngest, and we didn’t know she was a girl until she entered the world. Well, my oldest son did, but that is a story for another day. Nearly as soon as people heard she was a girl, they began asking me if I noticed any differences between her and the boys. I have to say that other than the obvious biological/physical differences that there were no real differences at that age. Her voice was a little squeakier than either of her brothers’ voices had been, but they all sounded like newborns and infants when they were newborns and infants.  Even now, there are very few differences that I would say have to do with her being a girl, although there are some. How many of them are societal cues on which she has already picked up and how many are innate? If I could answer that question, I would be published the world over.

I have to admit to having been slightly annoyed when people would ask if my infant daughter was so very different from her brothers simply because she was a girl. When I had my second son, people didn’t ask me how different he was from his older brother, and, believe me, they are two very distinct little people. Why would any differences have to be attributed to her sex? She is her own little person, and while she is a little girl, she is also the baby of the family with two older siblings who dote on her. I would say her birth order may affect her personality as much as anything else. 

My oldest son wants a kilt because “That’s a skirt that men can wear,” he LOVES picking out dresses for me to wear, and he is obsessed w/ heroes of myth, legend, and pop culture. My younger son wears sparkly shoes because, hello, they are sparkly, and he prefers that his hair be as short as possible. My daughter plays with cars and dolls. She loves shoes. She really, really loves shoes. She will hug them and carry them around. She also likes to wear her brothers’ neckties.  All of these things are outward signifiers of gender in our society, but not one of them actually tells you whether they are comfortable in their own skin.

Without writing a long, gushy post about my children, I can tell you that they certainly seem to be very happy with themselves. That comfort to wear what they want, like what they want, and NOT have those things define who and what they are is something that my husband and I try very hard to provide for our children, so I think I can squee when my daughter likes nail polish, just like I gush when my younger son wears his sparkly shoes, or smile when my oldest son tries to talk me into wearing a ridiculously formal and dressy outfit for running errands. I also enjoy when my children all rough-house together, my youngest plays with trucks, my oldest runs around digging up things and slaying dragons, and my middle guy pulls out his trains. I try not to worry about their gender; I worry about their ability to be themselves.

Lies And Damages

I’ve been thinking a lot about the damage a lie can do these days. One or two well-placed untruths or half-truths can have devastating and far-reaching effects.

I have had a few times in my life when the lies being told about me and/or someone I love have reached devastating proportions. One such incident occurred when I was about nine and struggling with an autoimmune disorder. I was diagnosed with Lupus about a year or two after the incident I am about to describe, but at the time we didn’t know what, exactly, was wrong with me. I had been sick and getting sicker for years, and it had been narrowed down to an autoimmune disorder of some sort. Does anyone remember which autoimmune disease was in the news in the late 80s? Somehow, in the game of telephone that occurs when people don’t really know what they’re talking about, but are talking anyway, someone said I had AIDS. It spread like wildfire. Despite the fact that we knew that I did not in fact have that particular immune deficiency, very few people bothered to ask me or my parents what the truth of the matter actually was and/or just refuse to engage in the gossip. These few people ended up forming the core of our support network.

Parents stopped allowing their children to play with me, and some children said rude and frightening things to me, including that I was going to die, and when I died I would go to Hell because I must be gay as only gay people get AIDS. There are so many problems with that statement that I would have to start at least one more post just to unpack them all. Now, even if I HAD actually had AIDS, or more accurately HIV, this would not have been the correct response. We were a little too young for the drugs and sex scene, and I wasn’t going to give any blood transfusions to anyone on the playground. The other children were not in any danger from me, regardless of which autoimmune disorder I had. 

The others were actually much more of a danger to me than I was to them. Every little cold was a problem that could spin off into an eventual hospital stay for me. Every snub and cruel word made what was already an extremely difficult situation worse. Now, I can understand fear for your child and yourself. I can understand fear of the unknown. What I cannot understand is the cruelty that was allowed and, in some cases encouraged. I also fail to fathom the initial decision on the part of the person who started and decided to repeat the lie. Did s/he really believe that I had HIV, and that my parents just weren’t disclosing it? Did s/he just hear autoimmune and jump straight to AIDS? Was there some other reason? Also, even at nine, I knew that you couldn’t get AIDS from playing with people. Why did so many adults react with fear, anger, ignorance, and, even hatred?

What I didn’t understand at nine was why my parents seemed to be much more upset than I was, and I was pretty upset. I thought my mom and dad were going to explode with anger when they heard the gem about me going to Hell. At first, I thought they were angry with me for being sick and making everyone talk about us. When I realized they were not actually angry with me, I did not understand why they were so mad.   They didn’t stay that angry for that long after my sister was mean to me or vice versa. There were people my mother could barely tolerate years later because of this fiasco.

As I grew up, I would understand on an intellectual level why it bothered my parents so much. Since becoming a parent, I also understand on a visceral level. I am now comprehending how hard it must have been for them to just give the facts when the opportunity arose, and not lash back, with things that were true, but would not help, things that would wound the people who had been attacking their child, but would serve no purpose other than to inflict pain for pain. They were also bound by wanting to make things as easy for me as possible and by the need to allow me some privacy and dignity. I now have a very clear and poignant understanding of this motive as well.

Sometimes, when someone is spreading rumors about you, you can simply put your whole truth out there, and others, it isn’t as simple. Other times, you are bound by forces of whatever nature from disclosing everything you would like or would need to disclose in order to clear your name. I suppose, though, that that doesn’t matter. Once a lie is out there, spreading like a cancer, there will be people who believe it no matter what. You can offer hard evidence that it is untrue, and they will not budge. Some people blow with the winds of change and popularity. One day it is the thing to believe that Beyonce is not really pregnant, the next you remember her bikini picture, and then she has her baby and appears in public with a very real post-baby body. Now, most people believe she was pregnant, but even still, rumors persist that it was an elaborate hoax all because her dress folded oddly during an interview. 

I have tried to avoid “blind item” gossip about celebrities because I’ve been thinking about the damage a well-placed lie can do to someone for a long time. Blind items are even more cowardly than regular gossip, and they can hurt people who are not even involved because they won’t name names. They just drop hints. They are also almost always salacious. I would love to say that I have never been a spreader or a believer of harmful gossip about people I do or don’t know. I don’t think I can, though. I doubt anyone can. It is human nature to want to know what is happening, and it is also human nature to want to choose a side. It is much easier to see a wrong and a right, to have a villain and a hero. Certainly, our current political climate reflects this attitude. It is much harder to know and accept that not everything is clear-cut, and that you may not ever have all the facts. One thing to keep in mind is that not possessing all the facts does not give you the right to your own set of facts. Filling in your own blanks is dangerous and hurtful, especially once you fill in your own blanks and repeat that as the truth. That method may be how I ended up having AIDS, although I'll never know for sure. 

Sometimes there is a very clear right and wrong. The drunk driver who drove the wrong way down the highway and hurt and/or killed people is very clearly wrong. Those cases are easy. When two of your friends fight about something, it often isn’t so easy. The older I get, the more I realize that unless I know everything about a situation or someone is clearly in the wrong, that there may not be a side to take. I cannot assume everything from hearing just one side, and I cannot assume that someone who is clearly angry or hurting may not be embellishing and omitting facts. Sometimes things are just sad and hard, and I have to be there for everyone. It makes life easier and harder all at the same time.

One of the things I’ve come to know, is that while the lies about me are obviously damaging to me, the things I say without first checking my facts are also damaging to me. Not only can they damage my credibility if they turn out to be untrue, but they hurt me by causing me to dwell in the muck and the mire. They hurt me by making me a hurtful person. I have never in my life wanted anything so much as to be a good person. I cannot bear the idea of hurting someone with something that while I may have believed it to be true, was not, in fact, true. The many unjust and unfair things in this world upset me, and I do not want to contribute to them. I am not sure who first said this, but I was reminded of this quotation while listening to a scientist speak about climate change on Science Friday, “You are entitled to your own opinion, but you are not entitled to your own facts.” 

I don’t know about you, but I would like to be finished damaging others, and lies damage, sometimes forever.   

What’s this all about? Why now?

I realize that this should have been my first post, but the NPR post was just good fun, and felt like a good way for me to jump into blogging. For anyone reading this blog who wonders what I will be writing about, the short answer is: Whatever strikes my fancy.  The longer answer is that it will be about the things that are important to me. It won’t all be funny, and it won’t all be serious. I may post some recipes, although they are likely to be of the “a pinch of this and a dash of that” variety as I don’t really measure things in my daily cooking. I may post the occasional crafty thing. I will definitely post about politics. I am a very liberal Catholic who leads a pretty conservative life. While I am always interested in new/different viewpoints, I am also only interested in respectful discourse.  It will sometimes be about culture- pop, high, and everything in between. It will occasionally be about parenting because that consumes a lot of my life right now. What I really hope it’s about is life and perspective. I work every day to lead a good life, and to try to keep things in perspective, especially when my life is going very well or not so well.

As to the, “why now?” I have been toying with the idea for years, but I could never decide why I should write, and if I did write, what I should say. When I realized that I should just write because I miss it, and then came up with an idea that made me laugh for a first post, I decided now was as good a time as any, and it still took me nearly two months to finally post something. There are a lot of other personal reasons, but this is the succinct, less self-indulgent version.

If you’ve made your way to my little corner of the blogosphere, I hope you enjoy it.  

Just for fun, I made this meme over at quickmeme yesterday.  A couple of weeks ago I went into Target and stuck to my list for literally (yes, I am using the word’s true meaning) the first time ever. No joke. I thought it deserved a small celebration.  http://www.quickmeme.com/meme/36diw6/

How to Choose Your NPR Correspondent Name

One night while chatting w/ my friend Sara, who has a lovely blog about her Fulbright year in Mexico City at http://gringaescandalosa.blogspot.com/, she and I decided, for various and sundry reasons, that we should be NPR correspondents/hosts/commentators, but that our names were not up to the task. It suddenly occurred to me that we should create a way to come up w/ our own NPR correspondent names, and here we are. If you too have always wanted to be on-air at NPR, please read on, and feel free to share your new name in the comments.

1.      Is your name alliterative? If so, you’re done. Apply for the next opening you see at http://www.npr.org/about/careers/, and take your place next to the likes of Scott Simon, Louisa Lim, Korva Coleman, and Carl Kasell, amongst others.

1a. If you used a family name, would you have an alliterative name? I am in with Heather Hansen.  Say it out loud. You can absolutely hear how right, “I’m Heather Hansen for NPR,” sounds. It is much better than either my maiden or married names.

1b. Would changing the first letter of your last name work? Gary Wright becoming Gary Gright is a bit of a stretch. You should probably move on to the next rule if switching out letters would cause your name to be unpronounceable or awkward.

2.       Is your name spelled a little unusually or do you have a slightly different pronunciation of your name than others w/ the same spelling of your name? This rule is tricky because this has to be true, without being obnoxious. The spelling and pronunciation have to make sense, but just be a little uncommon. Liane Hansen, who is now retired, and Michele Norris are both good examples of this rule. If your name is pronounced Amy, but spelled Eighmiegh, you’ve gone a little (okay, a lot) too far.

2a. Can you create an alternate spelling or pronunciation of your name that fits the Liane/Michele guidelines?

3.       Can you turn your name into a punny product that could be sold in the NPR Shop? If you need examples, think the Susan Stam-Bag http://shop.npr.org/npr-gear/susan-stam-bag/or the Nina Totin-Bag http://shop.npr.org/bags-totes/the-nina-totin-bag/. Also, Sara and I think NPR is totally missing the boat on some products they could sell. How about a Lakshmi Singh-ing Bowl? A Scott Simon Says game? A Korva Coleman grill? A Neal Conan the Barbarian figure? The Marco Worm-farm (which would, of course, double as a “green gift” and as an addition to the “gifts for gardeners”)? The Ira Glass Cleaner (this should probably be a “green gift” as well)?

4.       Is your name Ira? If not, and nothing else listed works, you must change your name to Ira to give yourself that competitive edge when applying for a position with America’s finest news organization.