My Valentine To All The Parents Out There

        Valentine’s Day is almost upon us. For many American parents, that means that we now need to think about what to do for the parties at our children’s schools, daycares, etc. It also means that we are about to enter a snark-filled parenting, but mostly mommy, skirmish. On the one side, you’ll see the people who create cute, lovely, homemade valentines, some with the help of their children, others without. Many come with small gifts or treats attached. They are pretty awesome. At the other end of the spectrum, you will find the parent who grabs a pack of cards at the store while buying groceries or shampoo. I have been both of those parents for different Valentine’s Day parties. Let me let you in a little secret: Neither one is superior to the other.

          We worry so much about whether we are doing the right things, or even if we’re on the right track, are we doing enough? It is easy to let insecurity take hold, and I see it in copious amounts this time of the year. The crafty parents make or assist with fabulously adorable creations for their children to give to their classmates. They probably even made something extra-special for the teacher, classroom assistant and maybe even other staff members. They post their creations on social media and receive kudos in various forms. Then, there is the inevitable backlash.

          The parents who do not enjoy that sort of thing become defensive. Must be nice to have that sort of time they grumble (because prioritizing time differently is a sin worthy of Dante’s Hell in this world). They then start talking about how their kids will NEVER have something like cutesy, homemade valentines because they love their kids too much to waste time on something so frivolous that nobody, besides the other parents, even notices.  They often make their point while pretending to be self-deprecating and humorous. It’s okay to be rude if you’re funny, dammit!

          The crafters become defensive in return and volley snark about how it isn’t that hard to take the time to make something, including and especially, memories w/ your children, but the boxed-card buyers are too busy to make that special time for their children. Isn’t it worth a slightly, or very, late bedtime to do something for the children? While some of them do this in a similar self-deprecating manner to the non-crafter, many are dripping so heavily with sincerity that they could bottle it and sell it as the newest fragrance.

          Here’s the thing: We all have our strengths and weaknesses as parents. I made cute, crafty valentines, complete w/ treats with my oldest. Then, my middle son started school, and I also had an infant. That Valentine’s Day, as I wrangled dutiful craftiness, a cluster-feeding three-month-old, a nearly five-year-old, and a two-and-a-half-year-old, I realized that this had stopped being a positive and fun experience for me and my children. Why? It was because it now felt like something I had to do, and the boys really didn’t care as long as they had something to take to school.

This year, with all three children in school, we will have to provide nearly ninety valentines. I picked some up yesterday at Aldi while I was grocery shopping for the week. Last year, the boys wanted to cut out construction paper hearts, use doilies, stamps, stickers, etc. so we did, and it was fun. This year, they are super-excited about their boxed cards. The only thing that matters is that they are happy with what they are taking to school. If one or all of them had requested a craft, and they sometimes do, we would have made time for that. Since none of them did, this week is insane so if crafting were going to happen it needed to start a while ago, and, oh yeah, that number ninety keeps popping up, we skipped lovely and hand-made, and went for convenient and cheap.

          I was not a better mother for creating super-cute valentines with dried fruit, crackers, or popcorn. I am not somehow ironically superior for grabbing cheap cards at Aldi this year. I don’t have more or less time now than I did then. I am just their mom doing what needs to be done in the manner that works best for my family at that point in time, and you know what? They love me for it. They love me because I do my best for that day for them every day. Some days that means crafts, other days it may mean a fabulous meal, sometimes we have baking days, others we dance or run or go to the park, sometimes I throw chicken nuggets and French fries in the oven while letting them watch an extra program, and most days are a combination of things. Regardless, every night they tell me they love me and want hugs and kisses. Every day they pay me lovely compliments because they know that no matter what we are doing, it is being done with love. Things aren’t ever perfect, but we always have love.

          My valentine to all the other parents out there is this: You are awesome no matter what your kids are taking to school on Friday because you are providing what works for your family, and they love you for it. I promise. Happy Valentine’s Day.

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.  

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? 

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.