Stop trying to impress everyone

Last week I came across this article in a print magazine at the hair salon and it really struck me. I cried. "My Boss Taught Me to Stop Trying to Impress Everyone" it said, and went on to tell the anecdote of a former outgoing, overachiever who'd always reach out to people. It reminded me of someone. "Why don’t you try sitting still and letting other people come to you? That way, they can discover the real, wonderful person you are for themselves," the boss tells her.

Now, I'm not an overachiever in the true NY/DC sense. I'm not a lawyer or lobbyist. I don't have an advanced degree. To many, I'm probably small potatoes. But, I am always on it. I'm the one who picks up the slack. I'm the one who never forgets something. I'm the one who never misses a deadline. I make mistakes now and then, so I'm not saying I am perfect, but I am dogged and always trying very hard to please. It's not just because I am self-employed and have clients. I was this way at work when I was an in-house employee, too.

So, I get an email from my big client/former boss that "I'm probably not going to get edits to you on the annual report til Tuesday, and am going to ask for it back by noon Wednesday, do you think that's doable?" She admits jokingly it may be hard to say given I don't know what the edits are, and I agree, also pointing out I don't know when on Tuesday she's getting back to me. "But, I usually have a way of getting you what you need when you need it!" I replied, cheerfully.

Well, it's 5:30 Tuesday and still nothing from her. I'm not going to work on it this evening, so whatever I can get done from 9:00 am til noon tomorrow is what she is getting. I actually think she'll be fine with that. She's never been unreasonable. It's me who has had a way of setting myself up as some kind of superwoman. I'm tired of it, though, and slowly, I am going to change.

I don't want to end up like this (overworked and underpaid in the "great speedup").

We have to strategically make our boundaries and protect them.

In a mood

Posted this on Facebook yesterday—made it myself : ) Yesterday I actually also made myself that kind of smoothie, departing from the usual, based on stuff I've been reading in the Conscious Cleanse book (I am taking the book with a grain of salt, as a whole, but there are some useful points). I felt amazing after drinking it, for real. I got a flash of sun and air when I took out the trash, too, and was immediately compelled to go for a run, when minutes before I'd been kind of lumbering around expecting to do yoga in the basement. It was powerful.

(Hold on, being interrupted by kid now who wants to show me a book she just made and feel like I do actually have to stop what I am doing and pay attention. This is my life...)

Anyway, the day yesterday had its ups and downs, but overall was OK. I did my run, I ate healthy the whole day. I took my kid to the library and the nature center (which included a mini-hike in the woods). I made a perfectly lovely and healthy meal for my family—ginger-garlic wild salmon and veggies with brown rice. Read lots of stories to my kid and fell right to sleep with her.

Then, I was supposed to wake up and go spend some time with my husband. But I just didn't want to get up. We were supposed to have sex. It's been a while—over a week. He's been sick. But last night I was just flooded with such exhaustion, I didn't really know why. I tried to figure out why, in addition to being so physically tired I felt awkward and weird about having sex (I sometimes feel this way other times) and gravitated toward the fact that so many women and raped, bullied, abused—in the U.S as well as all over the world. And that in television, movies, even music, sex is portrayed as something I can't really say I like. Lots of domination, violence, women made to look very typecast either as just pretty and empty or sexy and dangerous, I can't pinpoint it, but it goes on and on (my husband, I think, thinks I am crazy, as I tried to explain this to him yesterday and he thinks maybe I consume too much media—and he may be right, but his focus was on the serious rape media, not the cheesy mainstream media that might actually be the problem).

(Hold on—just ran outside twice. The first time to ask my husband why he was taking the crappy car on his outing today when he could be taking the nice car, with heat and a decent stereo—me and the kid weren't going anywhere this morning. Whatever. Then, after coming back inside and noticing he left his credit card on the table, I ran back outside AGAIN, I ran all the way down the block in the street screaming at him, hoping he would notice so he would have his card. If we were normal people who BOTH had cell phones, I could just call him up—I guess that's another story. But, yeah, this is my life...)

So I woke up this morning generally OK. I woke up in bed with my kid. I started in the bed I share with my husband, but I went to bed before him (remember, I was exhausted) but my kid woke up sometime around an hour after I'd drifted to sleep (and it was a really, nice relaxing sleep I'd been in) to pee and I don't know, when she wakes up to pee, I guess I am programmed from when she woke as a baby to go lay down in her room with her, so I did. So we woke up together and we cuddled and she took me through the multiple "I love you mommys" and "You're the best mom evers" and I returned her admiration, sincerely, looking at her beautiful, beautiful face with its big green yellow eyes (almost the same as mine, but darker), marred only by one slightly pink eye from a little cold. She tells me she "just wishes we could get a cat now" (we cannot, my husband is allergic, she will have to wait til she is on her own)..."I wish I could make a big dinosaur" and she means like a larger-than-human-size structure she can go in, replacing her previous desire for a large, walk-in, "hippo robot" she wanted to make before, this new idea prompted by one of the books we read last night.

(Hold on another interruption..."I wish I had glitter..." said in a long, wistful whine...to which I reply, "No. I am not getting you anything or doing anything for you now. I am writing and having my coffee, then doing my exercises and making my breakfast and then, only then, will I do things with you, get things for you or play with you. You have a house full of toys. Go play with your dollhouse, build with your legos, play with your tiles, your k'nex...anything. I am not getting you anything right now... She had now moved on to playing with some tangrams blocks repeating 'Theo, Theo, pumpkin Leo' again and again, then asks me if I like what she is building...)

As I was saying, I woke up generally OK. Most always happy cuddling with my child and seeing her beauty, being grateful for her health, my health, the warm house. But there is that pink eye of hers. I will have to put drops in it from the last time she had it back in November. It's always a struggle. Who likes having something put in their eye? I like doing it even less than she likes getting it, though. And the struggle marks the bad turn for the day.

As I get up to get the medicine and face the day, and the tasks ahead—make breakfast, hope she will eat it, continue to hear and try to follow a barrage of demands for play and supplies, maybe get some client work done, while my husband lumbers around, hopefully playing with her a little bit, as he often nicely does, but leaving messes and getting in the way, too...and I just become overwhelmed with the sense that I don't really get to have a lot of fun or freedom in my life. I bitch and moan. I slip into a really bad mood really quickly.

But now, of course, typing this, I feel like an ass. "I don't get to have a lot of fun or freedom...? Really?" Asshole! Seriously.

(Mommy! I thought we were going to play dress-up dolls!—I am not making this up...)

Seriously, though? This is what I tell myself: "Bitch, you have a motherfucking DAY OFF. And every day is kind of a day off for you right now since you work in yoga pants and each nachos at all hours of the day (that latter bit is changing) watching Girls (or Cosmos, as your intellectual level fluctuates). Anyway, you have a day off today because your big client is off and so they won't be emailing you with stuff. You basically can do what you want all day everyday and so if, intermittently, you have to answer your child's request or pick up after your husband and then suck his cock at night, you better just do it and like it. You know, some women have to walk five miles dodging militant rapists just to get murky water for their starving children to drink? So, STFU."

OK, going to play dress-up dolls now. Hopefully I will get that workout in shortly after. I will, too, be interested to see my husband's reaction when he comes home from his errand and I tell him (and child corroborates) how I ran down the street waving his credit card and screaming.

Sorting out conflict

All day long I have to look out the window at this car. The 17-year-old car that I consider "my husband's." The car with the ceiling cloth torn down with the foamy black bits of chemically-infested whatever crumbling. The car, that, though I consider my husband's, I am the only one who ever cleans and organizes. I have a certain admiration for this car. It's still running after all these years. He drove me places in it when we were dating. We drove to New Jersey together, to the beach. We drove to New York City together. It should mean something nice. It should be a happy thing to see. Right now, though, it's a sign of meanness, a trick, a hard lesson someone wants to teach someone they're mad at. It hurts to see the car.

I'm not a big airing-your-dirty-laundry kind of person, but I'm writing about  a recent conflict to try to make myself move on, feel better...somehow sort it out for myself. Laying out the details of the most recent incidents will create something that may sound petty and ridiculous, but I am going to do it anyway.

I think my husband is controlling, dominating and manipulative—though not a bad guy. I know that sounds very funny. There are all kinds of statistics showing overall what total dicks men are to women. I've been hit by my dad and hit by an ex-husband. So, that fact that my husband tends to get what he wants and does what he wants and I end up feeling like what I want is just really not that important, well, intellectually I understand it's just not something to end an marriage (with a child) over, or get too worked up about. Once in a while, though, I do get worked up. I act out. I can't take one more instance of feeling like I don't matter that much and I blow. Then I feel bad, I apologize, saying "Well, there was a lot of truth to what I said about you controlling everything and making me feel like I don't matter, but I shouldn't have called you those names and yelled at you like that..." and things just move on...and don't really change.

I had plans to go to a "girls night out" (GNO) on Saturday. Meanwhile, we also caught wind and got the idea of a beer I had liked being on tap at the local Whole Foods that has taps and a grill and I had the craving and idea that this beer would go really great with a sandwich they serve, and couldn't we go there for lunch? He agreed and acknowledged, well, we don't do what you want or your ideas that much, sure, let's go. But then he got wind of a beer he wanted that would be tapped later, once a certain other one (not the one I wanted) was kicked. So, he wanted to wait til the beer guy posted on Facebook that the other beer was tapped too. I was a little thrown because I didn't want to go too late and have the nice lunch be right on top of the GNO dinner (which was early).

Now, I'm not super big on the GNOs anyway. I like the people well enough, but we're not super close. Sometimes I even feel a little awkward, but I like to go out in this way now and then because I feel like it's a normal and healthy thing to do. Even if I'd rather just stay home with my family because it's easier and I like them, I push myself to do these GNOs. I have to say my husband doesn't really encourage me to do them, either, while he doesn't explicitly discourage them, he never says "Oh, yeah, go out and have a great time! You deserve some fun!" Never would say that. He'd rather I didn't do anything. He doesn't feel like he "needs" friends outside our relationship, but he goes out now and then, I think for the same reasons I try to. I don't think he really feels its as important to psychological health as I do, though. And I don't really feel like the dynamic of our relationship holds him back the way I feel held back.

Anyway, he just insisted we wait and wait and wait for his beer to come up. I decided to bail on the GNO. I really wanted my beer and sandwich combo and felt like just hanging out with my family would be fun, too. But we waited and waited and waited til finally we couldn't wait anymore and it became an early dinner instead of lunch—and the beer I wanted was no longer on tap. I got screwed. He was only sorry because I bitched and moaned and he made a bunch of excuses of how it wasn't his fault, blah blah blah. If we could have just gone at a normal time like we were supposed to and he didn't put his desires over mine, I would have gotten what I liked (which he had previously acknowledged would have been special and rare...) So I was miffed. But we carried on.

Another piece of the conflict was that had I gone on the GNO, he'd brought up wanted to go to this Whole Foods maybe just with our daughter. I didn't want him to do this. I didn't want him to take the crappier car on the highway with her not in her best carseat and I didn't want him to be minding her and driving even having had just one drink because the beer can be strong and I believe he is a less adept caregiver and driver than I am sober or slightly buzzed. I've always been "the primary" with our daughter. I haven't minded, really. I love her to the extreme. I loved breastfeeding her, sleeping with her (still do when I can). I loved being home with her. There is a whole now in my life I am trying to fill with her in school all day. Still, I think there are many ways he could have contribute that he chooses not to. I am 99 percent of the time the disciplinarian. I am the one who registered her for school. Who makes sure the homework gets done. Who makes her special meals when she won't eat what we're eating. I am the gift shopper. I am the doctor appointment maker. I am the one who knows where the lost toys are. These, of course, are natural things that might fall to the stay-at-home or work-at-home mother, but as the child gets older, someone who wanted to do more to help could take it upon themselves to do it. He's not all bad, just not as "on" as I am to the point where I'm not super comfortable with him going lots of places with her. (OK, as I type this, I am realizing I am sounding maybe like the controlling one, so that's maybe something I need to explore...)

I wanted to take the nice car to the GNO so I could feel more special. It's a newer car and it makes me feel nice to drive it. The nice car kind of has defaulted to "mine." I know it's both of our cars, but he usually takes the crappy one, since he only drives a couple miles to the train station each morning. Also, he chooses to take the crappy one when he goes out to rock shows in the city because he thinks it's so much smaller than the nice one and so much easier to park. He even insists on taking the smaller, crappy car when we go on dates to the city—again, so much easier to park, allegedly. So he never seems to mind driving this crappy car...until I express a strong desire to drive it, or he comes upon a way to make it some kid of bargaining chip.

We've argued about the car before. He knows that I love the car and feel special driving it. (By the way, it's not some super luxury car, it's a 2006 RAV-4, but compared to the other car, it's just lovely.)

So, I'd bailed on this week's GNO, I'd missed the beer and sandwich combo that I wanted, and I get an email about the next GNO so mention that to my husband. I tell him I'd really feel better if he just stayed home with our daughter or only went somewhere close by with her in the crappy car. I wouldn't be able to relax and have fun worrying about them. He'd previously said I was weird and had irrational fears about this and I told him that he is weird in his own way and I have to accept it, I do accept it and so he was to accept little ways I am weird too. But he pushed back and pushed back and pushed back.

He wanted to be able to do what he wanted to do. He doesn't see that he's not as good and on-the-ball taking care of her as I am. When I try to explain to him, he just thinks he's right. I tell him that it's part his way, part that I'm not comfortable with them driving the rickety, old car with the second-rate car seat that far. I'd be OK with it just going a couple miles. I know that scientifically those opinions may not be valid, but its how I feel and I feel like I ask for so little, he should accept and respect it. He was fairly obstinate, though. We dropped it. He took a shower. I thought about it. I'd swallow my pride and not be so materialistic and I'd just drive the crappy car to the next GNO—a dinner party at the million-dollar home of one of them. I'd previously thought I'd feel bad, showing up in the jalopy, but then thought, who would actually see me in the car? And, I care more about my kid's safety than my looking cool in a cool(er) car. So I told him, you know what, I'll just take the crappy car to the GNO. But he cut me off and said, no, no, you can take the nice car on your night out, but I'm going to take it every day to work.

What?!? He then reiterated to me all the concerns I'd laid out for him about the crappy car on the highway with my small child but he spoke of them with regard to his safety having to make a left turn coming out the train station in the dark. He claimed this new insistence on him taking the nice car to work every day was for his safety. He claimed he'd worried about it now and then before, but it was my concerns now that really hit him. I do not believe him. I think he is using the nice car, the fact that it is something that makes me feel special and "taking it away from me" as a punishment. He actually said, that he paid for most of it and it was his car and he'd take it if he wanted. I just saw it as a hugely un-gallant power play. A way to hurt me. He knows the car means a lot to me. But what means more, and hurts more, is him being mean and manipulative.

When I really think about it, I can let go of the car. When I really think about it, I understand that he might want to drive the "nice" car sometimes. In fact, I have actually felt sorry for him for having to drive the crappy car. But for him to use it this way just really hurt. If he would have asked, if he would have asked to take the nice car at another time—not immediately after I laid out issues about the car. I feel like he's using it to punish me. I feel like he's trying to teach me I better not bring up any concerns, I better just shut up and let him do what he wants or else he'll take away something I like.

Our fight escalated. I screamed so much my chest hurt. I still feel anxiety and stress the day later, even though on the surface we "made up." I screamed again and again that it wasn't about the car but about the manipulation and the domination. He complained that I didn't care about him and he was just a paycheck. Later, I explained to him that if he is just a paycheck it's because that's what he's set himself up to be. When asked to help around the house (I usually have to ask specifically, he won't just do) it's often with a mild gripiness or he does a poor job. I feel he is a bare minimum around the home kind of person. He answers always with a spotlight on the fact that I "only work part time from home"—something I chose to do that I thought was best for our kid.

One of the most hurtful things—or I should say hurtful themes—is the lack of valuing of my staying home. He brings it up whenever he can. He says he'll do more around the house when I go back to work full time. He makes me feel devalued. It's as simple as that. He says I make him feel devalued too because I complain he's not ambitious enough and doesn't do enough around the house.

I feel like my "attacks" on him are only ever in response to his either making me feel devalued or not doing enough—so really, they are counter-attacks. I am not dumb enough to miss the bad cycle here, though, and not see that is is me who has to change the dynamic. So I always do. I always apologize and try to be nice after. He accepts, probably just glad he's off the hook and can have the opportunity to try and place nice for a little while, but eventually slide back into his domineering ways, and we move on.

I guess the only progress is me becoming more mindful of the fact that I am the one who has to change. I let go of my attachment to that car. I walked the child to school, I walked to my store errands. We'll walk home from school and walk to and from tae kwon do, probably. I could drive the crappy car if I needed to, but that might make me feel worse, I don't know. At least all this walking could be a boon to my health. That's what I try to do, look on the bright side. He says that when spring comes and it's lighter out later, he'll take the crappy car again because he won't feel unsafe making those left turns in the light. I think, he's trying to lend some validity to his "safety" scheme. Or, maybe it's legit. I don't know. I do know I am left feeling uncared for and manipulated and bullied into not voicing concerns or grievances. But, that is fine. It's better that I deal with them internally anyway, because after all, I can only change myself.


We'd gone hiking earlier that day. I was happy about it. We had a nice, low key time as a family. I posted pretty photos of it on Facebook. My happy family. But by the time I posted, there was already the pain of our fight. I tried to choose a good quote to keep it just this side of being phony. Some indication that my life is not so picture-perfect, but with the hope that I will be OK, that we will be OK. So I chose this, from John Muir: Nature is always lovely, invincible, glad, whatever is done and suffered by her creatures. All scars she heals, whether in rocks or water or sky or hearts...

Unexpected wisdom

So I mentioned in last week's post that I was reading Bloom (finding beauty in the unexpected) by Kelle Hampton and that it was helping me fall asleep (perhaps implying it was boring). I never read her blog, but I'd heard about the book and thought it would be up my alley in the sense that I like to read about how people overcome hardships. It's inspirational for me and I like to be reminded that I should be grateful for my life. See, she had a baby who was born with Down syndrome, Nella, and she was totally not ready for this. I thought the book would detail the hardships, the sorrow, the awful feelings, the difficulties.

It wasn't like that at all, though, it was mostly about joy and how she had so many friends that helped her through it, and so, yeah, it was a little boring, til somewhere along the line, about halfway through, she seemed to dig deeper into the challenging feelings she was having and it started to hit me. And I saw, too, that including so much good stuff is really necessary in her telling her story.

Sure, in the beginning, she admitted some pretty heavy feelings of disappointment that Nella was not the "perfect" baby she'd imagined, even saying she wanted to take her older, "normal" child and run away. I totally got this and didn't judge at all. I am pretty sure I would have felt the same—and worse. But the sadness in the beginning was quickly (and I mean quickly) trumped by the fact that she had a really, really strong support system of friends and family. Hampton is one of those women who is really into ceremony, pretty things, celebrations, making big, crafty, coordinated deals out of stuff—which is soooo not me and was mildly grating at first. But, in a way, it made her memoir all the more intense because of the contrast that provided when she didn't have the "perfect" baby. In the end, though, her flair and attention to beauty, and her inclusion of her baby Nella in her cutesy ways, I think was part of what helped her overcome the emotional challenges of the situation (that and her network of friends). Hampton just tried to approach life one day at a time and keep things are "normal" as possible—and Nella is absolutely adorable in the many pictures included in the book.

It wasn't the friends and the keeping things normal and the one day at a time that hit me most, though, it was her observations toward the end, after she faced thoughts of the future, realizing having an older child, or grown child with Down Syndrome would be very different from having a baby with it. She says:

The thing is, we don't really know what the future looks like. And that thought takes my breath away just as much as it calms me into a place where I am forced to enjoy this very moment.

How true are those words for anybody and everybody?

And what really got to me, and what is really lacking for me personally, is her revelation about the interconnectedness of people. She says:

I realized that day, for the first time, that finally Down syndrome meant something to me beyond my own girl. It was a part of my life, but I recognized it was a part of a lot of other people's lives too. And if it wasn't Down syndrome, it was something. I felt connected to everyone there is a way I hadn't in a long time, but I also felt guilty—ashamed that it took my own pain, my own connection to this new world to bring me here, to the larger picture...

...Since Nella was born I have contemplated my own selfishness and the need to feel comfortable in life to the point that I could write a thesis on it...challenged myself...to...open my comfort receptors to the vast degree of misfortune that exists in the world but ultimately thrusts us toward growth and understanding.

Just when you think someone is all matching jumpers, hot pink flower headbands and fluff, they go and drop serious knowledge like that on you, and you, too are so humbled. (At least I was.)

In researching for this post, I Googled "Kelle Hampton" to try to find other reactions and material on the web, and was a little surprised to find Google self-populate with terms like "Kelle Hampton hate" and "Kelle Hamtpon annoying." How can you actually hate on someone with a disabled child who is earnest and sweet and open, no matter what little personality clashes you may have with them? It seems like other people with disabled children feel they have license to hate because they're living it, too, and they resent Hampton's alleged veneer of "perfection." That's their prerogative, I guess, but it rubs me the wrong way in much the same way the Scary Mommy book in that it seems like so much bitterness and sour grapes to hate on someone who is "doing it," who is happy and having success, and totally rocking it. And make no mistake, Kelle Hampton set out to "rock it" with mothering Nella (and her older child) and she is. She worked hard putting herself out there and with fundraising for others before that baby was even a year old! She glows, her children glow and she is inspiring!

Bloom reminded me of the importance of people coming together, the importance of being open. I have a tendency to close myself in. To think I am so different from most people. To be judgmental. Even when I try to work on my spirituality for a couple of weeks, I then backslide into my old self. I shudder to think of what awful lessons and pain I might have to suffer through to internalize the lesson I obviously need to learn. I stop myself and am so grateful I have not, so far, had to suffer, and think I better take the lesson from books as I can and get more serious about an attitude change.


POSTSCRIPT:
I think if I had a child with Down syndrome, I would end up approaching it just the same way Hampton did in terms of trying to live life and "normally" as possible. Dressing the kid up cute. Doing as much as you could do NOT differently. I, too, would have trouble with support groups and I wonder if I would "succumb" as she did. I remember when I was pregnant I had what I felt was a "scare" about Downs syndrome. That she didn't test is huge, to me. I would always test, which I know says something kind of awful about me that I just don't know what else to say about. At the same time, I think that if I birthed a baby with a disability such as this, I would, too, fiercely rise to the occasion. Following is an old blog entry from that time.

From February 2007

So I’m feeling a little wacked out with what I guess are typical pregnant mom worries and just need to get it all out.

My stats: I’m 34 years old, 21 weeks pregnant with my fist child right now, will just have turned 35 when the baby is born. In my first tri, I had the nuchal fold screen for Downs, etc. done and got back very encouraging results showing a very low risk (like 1 in 6,000).

Then at the appropriate time, I got the quad screen. When my midwife called to tell me the results, she told me I was negative for NTDs and Trisomy 18, and that we didn’t need to worry about the Downs results, since I had already had the nuchal fold and those were so good. I accepted this at the time, and we discussed how the nuchal fold tests were much more reliable than the AFP/quad screen tests for Downs. But, what she did NOT tell me was that the results from the AFP were actually in for the Downs risk and they showed an increased risk of about 1 in 135 or something. I just happened to find this out yesterday when I came in for a checkup and actually looked through my chart myself.

Now, I understand that the AFPs are notorious for “false positives” and that the nuchal fold is better for detecting Downs, so I shouldn’t worry. And I understand that this is perhaps why the midwife who reported the results of my second screen reported them in the way she did…perhaps to avoid alarming me. I spoke to another midwife at the practice yesterday, and she concurred that I should not worry about the AFP results because the nuchal fold results were so good. She even said that once patients get the nuchal fold, they don’t even usually get screened again with a quad that includes Downs, but only a screen for NTDs.

But, I still am feeling a little weird about all this…I really don’t think getting an amnio is a good idea at this point, since by the time I get the results, it would be too late to do anything about them. So, I’m just trying to have a positive attitude and trust that all will be well…

I decided to go for an ultrasound as soon as possible, just to sort of assuage my fears by looking at the little organs and stuff, and since I heard that the 20-week ultrasound is standard practice in the traditional medicine. We’ll see how that goes. For now, we’re off to New York for a weekend getaway.

My gift

I was supposed to get a massage today and have lunch with my husband in the city. It is his Christmas gift to me. I was so riled up this morning about how I was going to get down there (at least 30 minutes, but up to 45 or more depending on traffic and parking), get the massage, meet him for lunch, have lunch and get back in time for preschool pick up. It was really stressing me out. I rushed my daughter around to be sure we could drop off at school right when they opened. I felt bad about that. Then I knew I had to get gas. I was so nervous, I hit wrong keys on the pump and the thing froze so I had to go to a new pump. I only filled up halfway because I was in a such a hurry. I realized I forgot my gift certificate at home so I rushed back, got it, but left my sunglasses on my desk, and I am totally a sunglasses person! Then I took off—45 in a 25 through my neighborhood. I gunned the gas and passed some old man on the road. I was a little bit of a menace, actually. I was so nervous. So anxious. I knew I shouldn't be dashing around in a car like this. Something was sure to go wrong. I called the massage place and asked if I could cancel. Since it was a gift certificate they really couldn't impose their penalty on me, and I explained to them I just didn't think I could make it in time and I'd reschedule for a Saturday. They seemed cool with it. Then I called my husband and told him we were off for today. He protested mildly, but had no choice but to accept my decision.

I'd told him before thanks for the gift idea but it's really too much to pack in during preschool time with the driving and all. I'd be so freaked out and mortified if I was late for pickup. Plus, an hour massage doesn't just take an hour. You have to get there 10-15 minutes early. You have to ease out of it and not dash right off. And, you're really not supposed to down beer and pizza (as was his plan) right after a massage either. He just didn't get it and kept pushing.

He often pushes me into things that I'm not thrilled about. Too tight schedules. Too many errands. An outing I don't really want to do when I'd rather just spend time at home either relaxing to doing some much needed work that needs to be done (and there is always something.) I'm glad he's there to balance me, so that I do go out and do things and enjoy life, maybe stretch beyond my comfort zone sometimes...but I'm glad I put my foot down and said no this time. This massage, this lunch, these things are supposed to be my gifts. They are things I should be able to have on my terms, not rushed, not adding to my stress level.

So I turned around before I got on the highway and headed home. I got an iced Americano from Starbucks and set about getting my living room back in order after it had been torn apart for the last three days for painting (with items spilling over into our office). Things like this make me nuts, too. The disarray. Like an itch that needs scratching and won't be quelled. I put the furniture back. Hung pictures back up. Much better. Order. I listened to samba, sipped my drink. At times, I just sat on the sofa taking breaks and listening to the music, feeling the cool breezes from outside waft through the house. Now this was actually relaxing.

Now for something REALLY scary...

I think I am a damn good mom...until I'm not.

I breastfed for almost three years. I co-slept (and still sometimes do). I stay home, for heaven's sake! I am sweet, patient, attentive, long-suffering, strategic, oh so loving...until something tips me over the edge and I basically crack. Then, I am a really, really shitty mother.

Case in point: This past weekend we took a day trip to Philadelphia. It's about a 2.5 hour drive. With just one child, a nearly five-year-old girl who has a bladder of steel and a love of DVDs, the ride was totally no big deal. We arrive painlessly and set out about our plans to visit some playgrounds and pubs. We're prepared with layers of clothing to fine tune our comfort level for sun or shade, sitting or walking briskly, in the 65 degree but windy day. We're prepared with snacks and sandwiches in case the girl doesn't want to eat the restaurant food—we know she'll eat the Belgian fries but probably little else, and she'll be better for it anyway, with the healthy Tofurky and cheese for lunch and natural peanut butter and jelly for dinner. I even packed and chilled down some milk for the child, as well as raw carrots and strawberries, and some other things. Well prepared!

The first chunk of the day was great. Franklin Playground. She rode the carousel and my husband and I proudly watched as she tried the different things on the playground with just the right mix of caution and courage. Then, she wanted to be pushed on the swings. No problem. It was lovely. She didn't argue when it was time to go. In fact, she suggested we go have lunch. So we went.

The lunch spot was just under a mile from the playground. I did my best cheerleading on the walk, pointing out the pretty cherry blossom trees, cranes at work, doggies trotting down the street, to keep it exciting for the child. But, it was not long before the whining began. Children seem to have so much energy for play and whatever else they want to do, but often when it comes to just going for a walk in a city, they get "tired" quickly. But tired is often just another word for bored or somehow otherwise uncomfortable. My child this time apparently had some chapped lip problem. The space between her upper lip and nose was red. She hadn't mentioned it until now. She claimed the sun shining on her face was hurting her. I offered sunglasses. She said, no, it's lower! It's my lips! (So smart, so articulate, she is.) We walked on the shady side of the street to keep the sun off her face. The whining subsided a little, but not enough for me.

"Look you are not the only person here. I'm sorry your lip hurts, but that has nothing to do with your walking. You need to stop whining. You're just going to have to suck it up and move on. Daddy and I are people too and we just want to go for a nice walk and have a pleasant time, so you just can't carry on like this! We'll be at the restaurant soon!" I said to her. She got weepy, but did suck it up. Good for her!

Finally we got to the restaurant and she whined a little about random things but quickly got involved with me in a game of animal tic-tac-toe in her sketch book as Daddy studied the draft list and decided on his meal. I already knew I'd be getting moules-frites, and I'd leave the beer choice to him. The child was her typically well-behaved self during lunch, deconstructing her sandwich, but eating about half of it (maybe a little less), cutely stealing as many fries as she could and finagling some of my baguette, which I gladly shared. She groaned under her breath at the crying baby across the aisle, "I need some quiet time!" Her dad and I both explained to her that not so long ago she was a baby, too, and we brought her to places like this then and that she should be nice. Babies cry. It's what they do, we told her. We had a great time reminiscing about her babyhood and all the places we went together.

After lunch, we headed out to walk around the city a bit before going to the next playground, the big super-duper Smith playground. She was cute, noticing letters and signs asking what they spell, knowing some things they spelled. She walked up at our height level on some brick fences. She was cute, then she was whiny. The lip thing again. Didn't bother her at all during lunch, even while eating and drinking, but now, somehow it did. I got the idea of getting her a little hat to cast a shadow on her lips and keep the sun off, since that's what she claimed was bothering her. I had to pee already at this point (one and a half beers did it, I guess). And, another complaint, "Mommy, I'm hot!" So I removed a layer and stuffed it into my bag.

We saw an expensive looking sports boutique and a CVS. My husband talked me out of both, saying there would probably be some more middle ground place where we could get her a cute hat down on South Street. Navigating South Street would have been cool and fun in my twenties without a kid, but as it was, it was just crowded and annoying. We popped into a couple shops that looked like they might have hats. One had only grown up hats. Another shop for kids had only Polo Ralph Lauren hats for $21. Desperate as I was to shut the child up with a hat, I was not ready to pay that price for a hat and a label I didn't even like. So we pressed on.

"Mommy, I'm hungry!" She said. Now, we'd left the restaurant probably 20 minutes ago by now, so I was like, WTF?!?! For real?

"You should've eaten more at lunch," I told her. "The time to eat is when we're sitting down at the restaurant, not when we're walking through the city." But, I was not going to subject myself to more of her whining, so I dug through my bag, now overstuffed with our unneeded extra layers of clothing, emptying everything out and rearranging it all to find the banana I so smartly packed for her.

After a couple of ridiculously fruitless and annoying stops, the child still whining, me having to pee more and more, I came upon a Claire's boutique-type shop and found the child a hat. $12.95. Fine. I went to go buy it and told my husband to hang back with the child by the door or outside instead of by the crowded register area. I was waiting. Waiting. Needing to pee. Argh. Kid comes toward me with the banana, "Mommy! Mommy! There's something yucky in this banana!" Oh, seriously?!?! I tell her to go back to her father and have him take care of it. Jesus Christ! I mean, couldn't they just live without me for five minutes?

Finally, hat in hand, I go back to them, put it on her and we all say how cute she looks and how now she will be all set, shielded from the sun, ready for that cool other playground, just as soon as we walk a little more to see the city and stop at some bottle shops (we're beer geeks). We're OK for about a half a block til she starts whining that she's cold. "Oh so cold! So, so cold!" She keeps saying. It's not actually cold, but I offer a jacket. She declines the jacket but keeps moaning and groaning that she is cold. I have to pee so bad. This is where I break.

I stop on the sidewalk, pull her aside out of the crowded walkway, way too roughly. Gripping her arms I yell. "Enough!" Her face crumples into tears. "All you do is whine and demand things you little bitch! I can't take it anymore! Here! Here is your jacket!" I rummage wildly through the overstuffed bag, find her fleece and roughly yank it over her head. I don't know what my husband thinks or is doing. It's just me and her and anger and tears. I see him looming above us, though and shove her toward him. "I'm so done with you. You need anything, you ask him! You stick with him! I want noting to do with you!" And I walk in front of them a few paces til we approach our next stop, Whole Foods, where we were all going to pee.

My husband does a good job of comforting her, as he often does. He never loses his cool. Of course, he's never the one carrying the bag who gets demand after demand after demand. But, he never does lose his cool. I, by contrast always lose my cool. It happens fairly regularly. It's not always this intense, thank goodness. It's just the kind of person I am. I don't like it. I've gotten better. But there it is, the dirt on me.

I'm writing this post because of the whole scary mommy, mommy confessions and perceptions of people being perfect or having perfect lives thing. To me, calling your precious child who is more well-behaved than most a bitch *is* actually a little scary, and a lot wrong. I don't think people really want to talk about the truly scary things because maybe we're scared that it's a slippery slope to Andrea Yates-ville? Or at least Joan Crawford land? I don't know. Maybe, on a positive note, it's just because the good really does far outweigh the bad?

At the other playground later that day my daughter said, "I love Philadelphia! I will never forget this day!" And I felt like an asshole, but lucky. "What will you remember about the day?" I ask her. "The long, long slide and the restaurant," she said. "And the carousel!" I ask her if she can forgive me for yelling at her and she says yes. Thank goodness!

I did have a little sit-down with her earlier in the day, right after the big blowout. My husband was looking around a shop and I sat with her and apologized for yelling and being mean to her. I always apologize for losing my cool, and I think this is the only thing that redeems me. At the very least, it teaches my kid I am human, not a martyr and certainly not a saint. I also explained very directly that she can't make demand after demand on a person like that and constantly nag them for one thing after another. I think she got it at the time, but, she's little, and I'm sure she will do the same thing again.

I hope I can react better next time. I think part of it is packing my bag more strategically so it's not so hard to get things out (it always starts so neatly packed, but then the shuffling on-the-go to meet demands tends to destroy the order). But on a less physical, more abstract level, I might have to learn to tolerate the whining more instead of feeling compelled to do things to make it stop. When she was a baby it was easy to stop the crying. You just cuddle them and give them the breast. Magic. They're at peace. Now, it's not so easy. And sometimes they need things just to need things, I suspect, for attention, or because they're bored. Traipsing through a city on foot possibly does not have the charm to a little one as it does to a grown up. After the blow out, I carried her big, 40 pound body through the city. Partly because we had to go quickly to get back to the parking meter, and partly because I wanted to re-collect her, re-establish the closeness we normally have and make sure she knew she was loved. (Me handing her off to her father in rage lasted about five minutes!) Holding her, though physically draining, was so sweet. She loved being high up. She joked about being as tall as me. We all joked about her being big enough to go out and get a job, and what job would she want to get.

It's scary how quickly we reconnect and make up. I worry, am I setting her up to be comfortable in an "abusive" relationship where all her partner has to do afterwards is hold her in his (or her) arms and say sorry? I remember when I was in an abusive relationship, even after the guy hit me, I so craved the resolution of him coming and holding me and saying sorry. The parallel with my kid makes me sick. I actually tell her very explicitly not to let anyone hit her. If someone hits her she needs to tell them, loudly and firmly, "No! you can't hit me!" I tell her over and over that nobody should hit her. I haven't spanked in a long time, now that she's bigger, but I have to admit I have spanked in her lifetime. It makes me sick.

And there's really no good way to end this post except to say that, yeah, nobody is perfect, parenting can be messy and not easy, but, not in the ways popular culture tends to be so glib about, I suppose.

We are all a work in progress

I've said and done some awful things in life. Nothing criminal, really, but, I've said mean things to people I love. I've acted selfishly. I've acted violently. Some of these recently. There have been periods of better behavior. Periods of calm. I have not really given adequate focus to my spirit, though. I have not put effort or intention into cultivating lovingkindness and compassion—at all. Even with my blip last spring, it quickly fell flat.

I feel like I have come to a place, though, now, where I can take the leap. That phrase comes naturally to describe what I mean to say, and is coincidentally the title of a book I'm reading (slowly) right now. Taking the Leap: Freeing Ourselves from Old Habits and Fears is Pema Chodron's latest. It focuses on shenpa or "attachment" and helping the reader see how certain habits of mind tend to “hook” us and get us stuck in states of anger, blame, self-hatred, and addiction. The idea is that if we can recognize these patterns, they instantly begin to lose their hold on us and we can begin to change our lives for the better. She talks about how this path entails uncovering three basic human qualities—natural intelligence, natural warmth, and natural openness. "Everyone, everywhere, all over the globe, has these qualities and can call on them to help themselves and others," Pema says.

I am only at the beginning of the book (I am reading at least 3 others concurrently, but do need to focus a bit, don't I?) but boy do I need it! I have been having a lot of difficulty in my relationship with my husband lately. I have been feeling like he is very selfish and uninterested in my happiness, to summarize a whole host of painful details. I am trying to muster the spiritual and emotional strength to not be so self-centered myself, either (ironic that I am accusing him of this, while I am saying "I am not getting enough"). It is difficult because I feel wanting for nurturing myself.

I also have issues of shenpa with judging and always trying to find fault. Even in abstract things or things that don't directly affect me. Parenting, politics, whatever. Pema, in an interview with Bill Moyers, notes that there is "something delicious about finding fault, even in ourselves," and we do have to let it go to find peace. Not surprisingly, this comes from insecurity.

Pema says, "Alot of us are just running around in circles pretending that there's ground when there isn't any ground...somehow, if we could learn to not be afraid of groundlessness, not be afraid of insecurity and uncertainty, it would be calling on an inner strength that would allow us to be open and free and loving and compassionate in any situation. But as long as we keep trying to scramble to get ground under our feet and avoid this uneasy feeling of groundlessness and insecurity and uncertainty and ambiguity or paradox or any of that, then the wars will continue, the racial prejudice will continue, the hatred of [people with a different sexual preference, skin color, politics] it will always continue because you can't avoid being triggered..." The trigger she means is the shenpa.

So, I was all wrong in my recent post (and so many other things) about "avoiding situations that oblige you to be inauthentic." No, you have to embrace the discomfort. Perhaps not be inauthentic, but understand that there is no separate self and be mindful of why it is you are uncomfortable.

I think that sometimes, to some people, I come off as confident, but in reality I am actually quite insecure. I have made a life project of scrambling for ground and as I am aging, it is beginning to become quite clear that ground is shifting and that my best investment, per se, is in my spiritual wellbeing.

This may sound selfish, but my spiritual seeking has been spawned partially from a sense of wanting to be protected. I have come to a point in my life that the only way I can be content and assure my sanity is through spirituality. People will always do annoying things. Why are they annoying? It must be me. Why am I threatened? (I am finally admitting that what I feel is threatened!) I know that I will never achieve great wealth, no matter how hard I work—there have been missed opportunities, and we could save, save, save and work very hard and then suffer an economic meltdown beyond our control. My interest is, at least partially, in developing the spiritual strength to weather that, should it happen. I am an aging woman and my beauty will fade, no matter how healthy I keep myself. I need to be comfortable in who I am beyond how I look. My child may not do everything I want. She may disappoint. My husband may be cruel. My friends may abandon me. A whole host of awful things may befall me. I simply can't pin my wellbeing on things that are inherently fleeting. What's more, all this lifelong grasping for ground has left me feeling not at peace and even when I let go, just a little, and think on things in the direction of mindfulness, I begin to feel more peace. So, I think, it works!

I have to be honest with myself without being too hard on myself, though, and this will enhance my compassion toward others. And compassion toward others is certainly a much more worthy goal than protecting myself, isn't it? One may want to say "we are all works in progress," but the first thing that came when I captioned my image and got the idea for this post was "we are all a work in progress"—the singular—which is a little magic in its observance of something universal and whole, and that there is no separate self. So hard to remember, but so important.

Interesting or good? Interesting or happy?

Mies van der Rohe, a design hero of mine, once said “I don’t want to be interesting. I want to be good.” He meant his architectural designs, of course, but what are we doing other than designing our own lives? The comparison can be pondered generally about life, as well. Interesting or good? By “good” Mies likely meant serving a purpose, in the form follows function vein. And without superfluous decoration. As explained in the Wikipedia entry, he strove for a minimal framework of structural order balanced against the implied freedom of free-flowing open space. I could go on and on relating minimalism to contentment, but then I wouldn’t be being minimalist, so I hope, dear reader, that you “get it,” at least a little.

Interesting or happy?

Recently, I stumbled upon Penelope Trunk, a former startup exec, now homeschooler, conflicted work-at-home mom, blogger and generally supersmart and interesting ultra drama queen, who is going to say in her forthcoming book (I think) that it’s better to have an interesting life.

She has many posts on her blog about a happy life vs an interesting life, including a quiz she says helps determine whether your life is happy or interesting. My result was -1, which means: You are suspiciously well balanced. Or lacking a self-identity. I’m not sure which. I am going to go with well balanced. I don’t seek happiness, I seek contentment, which is even better, but maybe even more boring.

For me, it is more important to live a happy/content life. I think it is important to be able to find it without relying on material things or even other people. As I type this, I don’t know that valuing this is, necessarily, that much different from having an interesting life, it must depend on who’s assessing it, and I can only assume that each person must be responsible for assessing whether their own life is interesting or not. I mean one person’s interesting, is another person’s harried. I hate harried.

Trunk says in another post, “I think I want an interesting life. Not that I want to be interesting, but I want to be interested. I’m talking about what I think is interesting to me. I want to choose things that are interesting to me over things that would make me happy.” I do, too, but I don’t believe that I have to live in New York, change jobs alot (or even have a job), or insist on alot of choices to be interested. In fact, I am overwhelmed by being interested.

Part of my “problem” is that I am interested in too many things. I wake up, thinking I’m going to check e-mail, see what’s up on Facebook since I last checked before going to bed (and sometimes if I wake up in the middle of the night) and then move on to my day. But, I often stumble upon a link someone posted, or remember something I wanted to find out, then one thing leads to another, and another and I am dreaming up some new side project or buying a book I must read, or finding out about something I must try. This happens too much. This (and having to actually work to come up with money for living and tuition) is why it took me 10 years to complete an undergrad degree. To some extent, this keeps me from achieving the Miesian goal of being “good” (jack of all trades, master of nothing). To get good, you need some focus, right? I’m good at focusing on specific projects, like in a work environment. I am good at meeting deadlines for others, but when it comes to the openness of my own mind, my own life, it’s another story.

One such recent Facebook post (thanks again, LotusBluMama) lead me to this idea of keeping a logbook (instead of a full-on journal, where, you know, you have to write longhand sentences and full thoughts). The logbook is brilliant. Quick bites of things that hit you that may be useful or interesting to remember. I started one for the new year and already what stands out to me is how I want to be more present with my child. So, I have to find more interest in things I can do with her than in my internet explorations, or at least strive for more balance than I have now. This is likely to be my last winter at home with her and then, last spring, and maybe even last summer, before school and bigger-kid life sets in. I need to be more focused on savoring this time. I need to be present.

A Mayo Clinic article talks about cultivating contentment and lists among its tips devoting time to family and friends, and living in the moment. I know I have heard in yoga practice that being present is key to contentment. I would like to find more scholarly articles, maybe studies on this to link to, but I think in my heart I know it (INFJ, here). And as I try to complete my thoughts and wrap this post in a good way, my girl is literally clamoring for my attention and so I must go.

This post is shared, but by no means complete. But if I don’t come back to it for a while, it’s a good thing, because it will mean I have found the strength to focus on things to make me more good. And, in one is good the way Mies meant it, they are bound to also be interesting.

The Mommy Myth

I read speed read The Mommy Myth by Susan J. Douglas and Meredith W. Michaels over the weekend. I have to say, it really gave me a better understanding of where I think many posters online are coming from when they get so defensive about daycare, their wanting to work, their feeling pressured and guilted and generally disgruntled about life for moms in America. Reading the book certainly underscores my own sense of not being like other people, though, because I don't really feel the way they do. I wonder, too, how many real-life women actually living in the world feel this way because I haven't met any in person. Maybe these are just not things that the people I know talk about? Maybe they're afraid to talk daycare and social change with me because they see that I stay at home right now and think I think a certain way and I'd judge them? I mean, a good number of women must feel this way, based on comments I read online. It's really hard to know, but, let's give it to the authors and assume they do.

Douglas and Michaels in the introduction say their main point is: "Media imagery that seems to natural, that seems to embody some common sense, while some blaming mothers, or all mothers, for children and a nation gone wrong needs to have its veneer of supposed truth ripped away." I can see this, I myself have applied the "so many kids have been sent to day care since the 80s, that's why X is like X..." and I know, of course, there's more to it. I certainly don't want to align myself with those figures that The Mommy Myth authors are up against, either—the Pat Buchanan, Pat Robertson, Nixon, Schlafly, moral majority tribe (now would be expanding to Palin, et al, and wait, they even complain about Bill Clinton not doing anything about their child care, Dukakis, neither!) At the same time, I don't buy what the authors are ultimately selling—which appears to be big government funded daycare for everyone.

They say about how lots of mothers aren't buying into the retro momism (as they call it) although "it works to make them feel very guilty and stressed." The authors go on to say "they want and need their own paychecks, they want and need adult interaction during the day, they want and need their own independence, and they believe—and rightly so—that women who work outside the home can be and are very good mothers to their kids. Other mothers don't want or need these things for the time being, or ever, and really would rather stay home. The question is why one reactionary, normative ideology, so out of sync with millions of women's lives seems to be getting the upper hand."

And I ask, what upper hand? Over 50% of children under 5 are now in day care, so, where's the upper hand of the other side? Women are doing it. They're doing what they want (or, those who may not want to are forced to do what they don't want because of the unbalanced economy). The thing is, they want someone else to pay for it. They sort of seem like they want to help poor, working women get quality care, but to me, they come of more sounding like they want their own daycare to be cheaper and better (really? any grown up knows the vast majority of the time you can't have both) and they think it's the government's job to make it so. They write "...the problem with the new momism is that is insists that there is one and only one way the children of America will get what they need: if mom provides it. If dad 'pitches in,' well, that's just an extra bonus. The government? Forget it." It is on this matter that I am so torn. (And since when is financially supporting one's family, as many dads do, considered merely "pitching in"?)

I want to be a good progressive, I want to help people who need help and I am not one of those greedy "don't raise my taxes for social programs" kind of people. But, I really, really don't think that little babies should be cared for in large, institutional settings and by people other than their mamas (or, a distant but acceptable second, a dad or grandma or truly loving relative). I know some circumstances make it necessary for this to happen, but ideally, that baby needs to be cradled and near that mama's breast for the vast majority of its day and night when it is under a year old—less and less as it grows, naturally. (But, I have to observe, here we are looking at women who actually gave page space, and credence—if not complete buy in —to the concept of artificial wombs.) I just don't think setting up some kind of government care that makes it normal for babies to be warehoused like this is in the best interest of humanity. Just so women can work and feel independent? There are others ways. Fix the economy. Educate women about the reality of life with a baby, birth control and the work-life balance they are going to need to make sure they can create for themselves. Don't just throw money at setting up day care centers. Pay for a year of maternity leave. Subsidize another 6 months (for the first two children only, please!). Make it the cultural norm that women workers take time off and don't give them shit for it.

I guess this would necessarily create the situation commonly now referred to as "mommy tracking." The authors, and many women, are critical of what I think is a decent idea, and what businesswoman Felice Schwartz proposed in the late 80s. "Companies should allow 'career-and-family' women to drop out of the fast track while their children are young so they could spend more time with their children. they could return to the fast track later." What, I ask, is wrong with that? Seems like a perfect solution? (Schwartz got skewered and changed her position.)

I know the "cities on the hill," those places known as Sweden, Norway, Denmark, and other European countries in varying flavors, have childcare programs that are government funded, but, they also have generally different cultures there than here. It's unfortunate because I appreciate and align more with these aspects European cultures, described in a Salon interview with Douglas, where she observes, "They have made a choice as a culture that's very different than the choices we've made as a society. Their choice has been work is work and family is family—and family matters. So everybody leaves work between 4 and 5 o'clock. Everybody. Dads, moms. They go home and spend time with their families." That said, what's wrong with "mommy tracking" everybody, then—men and women—at different points in their lives? Part of my problem with the hard driving feminists (and others) who would have children in daycare from six weeks on is that they raise the bar and crack the whip and drive the rat race to an even more unsustainable pace. How about everybody (men and women) just take it down a notch and be human? I think it's a good idea. But, apparently it is not enough for the women who "want it all."

So, what is "it all"? The authors repeatedly go back to the call for government funded (but locally ran, that part is certainly more palatable) day care centers. Repeatedly. All the content about media messaging, pressure on moms to be perfect, parenting styles, psychological and medical advice messing with people, I can agree with most of what they say, other than that I have not felt affected by it because I guess I am a bit of a social outlier (?) I even like alot of the early feminist lore and the action behind the lore about women fighting for equal pay, women progressing beyond days where they couldn't hold their own credit cards, have their names on a mortgage deed, things like that that we take for granted today. Those are all very important and reading the book renewed my respect for alot of what feminists did back then. But, what of all the weirdness? Again, the artificial womb comes to mind. The underlying current of wanting and desperately needing to escape from one's own children because they're so vexing and tyrannical. (OK, we all need a break from kid stuff sometimes, but not enough to take it into social institution territory—have a cup of tea or a glass of wine and throw them outside for an hour or put them in front of a DVD if you have to. There, you're renewed!)

So, with the repeated call for large-scale, institutional day care, they reference World War II era day care centers created by the government in cooperation with the defense industry to encourage women to go to work as they were much needed during war time. This bit of history is fascinating to me and I definitely want to know more. There are several, kind of random, patchwork links to be found in a cursory web search that shed a little light on the centers: a site that is critical in general of daycare, a personal history-buff/scholar site, the Kaiser Permanente site, the Oregon Historical Society site. The Mommy Myth authors talk about how great the centers were, how they were high quality, not bad for the children, but good (?). Apparently these, still, only took children who were at least 18 months old. The authors wrote of how there were laundries, infirmaries if the children were sick, staffed with skilled nurses, oh, and there were hot ready-made dinners to take home at the end of the day. All this while mom spent the day working in a factory (to support a war). Yay! Where do I sign up?

Seriously, though, it's a boon, perhaps, for people who really need the money, for those whose husbands were at war, and I don't mean to slam honest factory work. But, the authors are proclaiming these shipyard centers to be the cat's meow and it just doesn't resonate with me. If a kid is sick, other than the care of a doctor if it's serious, what they need is some down time, in the comfort of their own home, with the person who cares more about them than anyone else in the world. The workplace needs to understand this, understand the hands on value of mom to her children, not say, hey, we've got you covered, you come on to work the line, nurse Jones over here will take great care of your sick child. I mean, I appreciate the gesture, but...And the idea of an institutionally-prepared dinner at the end of the day. Again, thanks, but no thanks. I'd rather make my own homecooked meal. We all know what kind of meals governments and institutions pull together. They're just not very good.

What's more, what makes them think that people want to have their lives reduced to dropping their kids off in the morning, working all day, picking up a box of dinner, going home, sleeping and doing it all over again. It all seems to be to be very much in service of work and treating humans as cogs in the wheels of production. It's OK if a company wants to do that for employees because maybe it's good for their business and any thinking person should have the expectation that businesses view their employees somewhat as human capital. For the government to view their people as human capital, though, is something else. I'm not comfortable with the whole worker-commerce model being the be all and end all of everything. That women in their capacity as mothers (and of course their children) create a chink in this worker-commerce model is cool, for one thing, and important to society, lest we all just become worker drones at various rungs on the ladder to nowhere.

Another example of daycare provided to women workers is that of the WearGuard company. Their daycare sounds all well and good and fine, but, that's a private company providing a benefit to its employees. That doesn't really bolster the case for government-funded daycare. (I would add that the shipyard daycares, too, were funded largely by the companies and only subsidized by the government, and the whole war connection as impetus there is obvious.)

My final analysis of The Mommy Myth is that while it was, in many ways, a thought-provoking and enjoyable read (I like the authors' wry, sort of sarcastic humor, even when I don't agree with how they're using it), the dogged focus on government-funded daycare and general lack of respect (and refusal to face what is just the plain reality of the biology) of motherhood is not something I'm on board with.

Letting go of the ego (slowly)

So in my last post, I mentioned a pedicure and that I was reading Twelve Steps to a Compassionate Life. I have always wanted to be a loving, peaceful hippie yoga girl, but now that I don't smoke weed daily (at all) anymore and am living in the real world (as much as spending most of one's time with a preschooler constitutes living in the real world) it's not so easy. Hell. It's never been easy. But, I've been feeling so down and poisoned by my own negativity that I've decided I need to take action. Now. I've been reading Riane Eisler lately, learning about how the only way we're going to grow a better world and survive is to work toward a culture of partnership instead of domination. Then, a friend posted on Facebook about the Charter for Compassion, which brought that to the top of my mind and introduced me to Karen Armstrong and her book. Twelve steps, I thought...it would be broken down and I could follow the steps and do it!

And Armstrong right in the introduction recognized what would probably be the biggest challenge for me. She wrote:

The demands of compassion seem so daunting that it is difficult to know where to begin—hence the twelve-step program. It will immediately bring to mind the twelve steps of Alcoholics Anonymous. We are addicted to our egotism. We cannot think how we would manage without our pet hatreds and prejudices that give us such a buzz of righteousness; like addicts, we have come to depend on the instant rush of energy and delight we feel when we display our cleverness by making an unkind remark and the spurt of triumph when we vanquish an annoying colleague. Thus do we assert ourselves and tell the world who we are. It is difficult to break a habit upon which we depend for our sense of self.

Exactly. My middle name is Snark, my surname is Cooler than Thou (no, not YOU...you, over there, probably...) By acknowledging this part of me that I had not really had anyone acknowledge (diagnose?) before, and understanding that others have this addiction, this affliction, too, that alone was a big step.

So when I was getting my awkward but nice pedicure yesterday and the nail lady asked me no less than three times if I was sure I wanted the green color I'd chosen, I had a thought. I guess not that many people choose this shade of green? Or maybe just not that many women my age? Or maybe just not that many women my age in this suburb? In any case, it made me feel unique.

I know it's egotistical to want to feel unique, but I still like to feel unique. Don't most people? You know, just a little bit special and different. Maybe, I thought, as she stroked on that great green polish, this is why women do things like express themselves with clothes, jewelry, hairstyles and such? A harmless, non-ugly expression of one's uniqueness? And by non-ugly, I don't mean as in being pretty, I mean not mean, snarky or mean spritied. I have tended in the past to express my uniqueness in more, uhm, substantive ways. I am more of a hard-ass on this subject or that (breastfeed til at least 2! don't let that baby cry it out! you put a 3-month old in daycare?!?!?!). I am tougher on this matter or that matter. I know the real facet of issue A and you people have it just a bit wrong.

This describes different discussions, mostly online, in which I can tell the whole truth about how I feel at that moment, but that I don't necessarily say in my real life because, I guess, I am nicer than that, or, I know I can't be a bitch in real life and still interact, you know, with people...but, how unsatisfying, and yet I keep going back for more. BUT, it doesn't make me feel smart and unique, though, after a while and just makes me feel kind of tired. Only once in a while did I get agreement or a "recommend" or a "thumbs up." OK, sometimes I got quite a few. But, something in me knows this isn't right, or good. If the opinions I'm expressing weren't things I'd express to actual real people, to their face, and the majority of thoughts that crossed my mind are critical and mean, then, I have to find something else to do with my views...a more productive outlet. Such divisiveness and nastiness is not going to save the world, or even win anyone over to my view. Something has to change. So I'm changing.

But again: It is difficult to break a habit upon which we depend for our sense of self.

So, I have to create a new sense of self.

Armstrong explains:

As in AA, the disciplines learned at each step in the program have to become a part of your life. There is no hurry. We are not going to develop an impartial, universal love overnight. These days we often expect things to happen immediately. We want instant transformation...But it takes longer to reorient our minds and hearts; this type of transformation is slow, undramatic, and incremental...If you follow the program step by step, you will find that you are beginning to see the world, yourself and other people in a different light.

For now, I have my green toes and my book. And I will try to be nice. I will try to find ways I can be unique in ways that aren't obnoxious until I master this to the point that the egotistical desire to be unique, too, fades away.

No regrets: Why I won’t hedge my child’s psyche to safeguard my future comfort

The latest buzz on the interwebs ingniting the fizzling “Mommy Wars” with a new spark comes from journalist Katy Read who regrets “opting out” of her career years ago to raise her sons, now that she’s divorced and can’t find much good work. In her Salon piece, not only does she tell her woeful tale, she warns new mothers against making the same mistake she did. “So if some young woman with a new baby were to ask me about opting out…I would warn her not to do it,” she concludes. She’s honest, she does mention the mixed feelings, the good times with her young boys, but in the end, it’s not worth it.

Many voices analyzed the piece, most echoing its sentiments. Two Babble bloggers discussed the piece, one a SAHM, the other a former SAHM, both clearly in the cautious camp. Some rightly hone in more on the divorce angle. And a dad blogger gives what I think is a smarter perspective. Right now, we’re in a recession. It’s just as easy to stay at work after having a baby, so better safe than sorry, right? I guess hindsight is 20/20 and one “never knows.” Feminists generally emphasize women’s need to be financially independent in case their husbands divorce them and act like its a fool’s game to stay home with small children for a few years because of the hit a career could take.

I say, one should live their ideal life, prudently, of course, if they are able and should not settle for less in order to hedge their bets against an unforeseeable future—certainly not when it comes to the well being of one’s children. Sure, there is no argument against the reality of the numbers that if you’re at home with kids and not working for money, or if you are working part time for less money, that you are going to take a financial hit. I am contributing less to my retirement fund, yes. Do I care? No. Am I unique in my confidence that my husband won’t leave me? I don’t know. I just know that’s not how I life my life. I believe in prudence, of course, which perhaps has given me the luxury of having the choice to stay home and run a low-key business for a few years while my child is young. We saved, we don’t spend wildly now, we have simple tastes, and of course we are blessed that my husband has a stable, well-paying job. I understand that other people have different circumstances and I’ve learned (mostly) not to judge. I do have a problem with the advice to young mothers from this person who has experienced the bad-end failure to do something different based on her individual circumstances.

I tend to believe that if you hedge against staying with your husband forever, that very act of hedging alone chips away at the commitment and bond. If you have the “just in case” idea poison the purity of your vow, then, there’s a crack in the foundation. This is why its so important to choose your partner well. If you work because you want to work, you’re embracing life and living it. If you work because you’re thinking maybe your husband will leave you, that’s not feminist. That’s presupposing the standard is that you’re supposed to be “taken care of” and you don’t trust that you’ll get that. If you approach marriage as a partnership between equals, the choice to stay home and raise your children (who are your husband’s children, too) is you doing that part of the partnership that you and your partner together decided was a good way to run your family. The bond has to be there and I don’t think it’s healthy for the bond to make contingency plans. (This is very different from life or disability insurance, to me.) Its recognizing that raising your children is as important as paying the bills (at least!).

The real problem here is divorce, I think. I strongly believe that if a couple has children they should really, really make the most valiant of efforts not to divorce. I don’t believe that a full half of people in marriages commit such heinous crimes that divorce is warranted. People. Work it out. You’re not that hot on the market. You need to find your happiness in your own soul, not chasing the next great thing you hope will come along, not cutting the dead weight you think is your spouse. Get it together for your kids, seriously! Men who leave women with kids in bad situations are reprehensible. Women that leave men over small things and then moan that it’s such a struggle to raise kids on their own, I don’t wanna hear it!

I believe it is best for infants and small children (preschoolers) to be cared for at home by their own mother. Yes, I know about tribal cultures and villages where many cared for the babies and youth of the tribe. The children were passed around, everybody had a hand in it and played their role very fluidly. I respect and admire those cultures, and such an arrangement may well be good for children, but that’s not the reality of the culture we live in today in the West and using daycare is in no way even a close approximation of that way of life. (It’s a common line quoted to defend daycare…”it takes a village!”) You can believe what you want about early childhood. But, given what I believe, and given that I have the means to do it, I feel absolutely compelled to stay home til my child is in school (we’ll see what the next transition will bring in a couple of years) and no fear of my future earning potential could waiver my resolve or make me regret my choice.

I scrabbled a life together for myself for many years when I was young, before getting a degree, before getting married, and I have confidence in myself that I could do it again. I hold raising my daughter as the most important job I can do. These two sentences, to me, encapsulate more of what feminism should be than the weakness and fear the one won’t be good enough later and that one doesn’t matter in their child’s early years.

Dreamy dreams

Last night I had a dream that there was a movie out starring Sinead O'Connor as a lady who was turning into a robot because she was so negative. It had the Nick Lowe song, "What's so funny about peace, love and understanding" in it and that was the song that played on this movie's trailer. The movie poster looked something like the image I mocked up in about 10 minutes, above. I feel like this dream is a sign and a lesson. (Another good song to check related to this is "I do not want what I haven't got.")

Clearing out the clutter: UPDATE

Well, here is a picture of my work over the last couple of hours (and some more yesterday putting together the crazy box and arranging the stuff...and moving the baby car seat and bench seat in our car to make sure the damn thing will fit).


I have to say I am a little bit proud and feel kind of tender toward it. Maybe some people like stuff like this and will enjoy it. OK. I am not really a crafty person. I like to work on computers, not with poster board and glue and all that it took to make this look like it does. And, it's not that great...it's a little amateurish. But, I think it will go over well. So, maybe I should just have a nicer attitude about it all. I even had some chances to engage my kid while I worked on it, thank goodness.

Some things never change, but maybe they should

It's been a while since I've blogged here. I have been working hard on work-work and weight loss and other things. Even though I previously said here I was no longer trying to lose weight (of course, at that time, I was about 15 lbs less than when I reached my most dreadful weight, just shy of my full-term pregnancy poundage, in November 2009) I came into it again with new fervor and have actually lost almost 20 lbs. since the end of 2009. I want to lose about 10-12 more and am on track to do so. It just took some brain-changing, mathematics and work. More on that later.

Now, back to why I want to blog again about mom stuff: I think I'm good at it.

I went back to read some of my posts after being reminded of the harder days of child raising—the period between 1 and 2 years old—by some other posts on Babble.com, mostly about Attachment Parenting (AP) and co-sleeping vs. sleep training. The poster was questioning her adherence to AP because she was having trouble with her 1 year old, and I knew what she meant, although I never really set out to criticize AP in my posts. Maybe because I was never a strict believer or adherent to "the faith." I've always been a mish-masher, take what you like from things, discard the rest kind of person, and its no different with my parenting style. I've made some mistakes, sure, but overall, I'm happy with the outcome so far. My daughter is pretty damn delightful, and a healthy mix of bright and exploratory with obedient when it really comes down to it.

But, that's another digression. Gotta get back in the practice of a focus, see. Anyway, this post is really just to say that I think I may start posting again. The reason I quit was because I was getting too worked up and embroiled in online discussions of stuff and then wanting to formulate essays springboarding from that and it was taking alot of energy and making me feel weird. Well, since quitting, I've still been getting embroiled in the discussions, but just have not taken the time to develop my own well-thought-out pieces on them. So it's been alot of unsatisfying wheel-spinning. I also thought I'd be spending more time blogging about the arts or design, but, there's not that much to say that interests me. I guess a thinking mom is what I've really become.

I do wonder why I am so opinionated about things. Why am I compelled to post on discussions about things. I mean, do I really care what someone else does? Maybe it's just a competition thing. I think my way is best, so you're gonna hear about it! Maybe it's trying to be evangelical about my way? But, really, part of me likes the fact that not everyone is going to be doing things the same way, so that we can have different outcomes and different people at the end of the day. And, so much of what I write I would never say to people. I guess that's pretty weak. What does it all mean?

As part of my changing, I've taken up yoga pretty earnestly. I do about a half hour 5-6 days a week. It has totally helped me be calmer, more thoughtful, more mindful of what's going on with me, so I can make better decisions about health issues (not shoveling food in my face) and how I treat my family. The family part has come more slowly, but I think I have improved. Now, I need to take it to the next level and be compassionate toward the strangers on the web, even as I still express my opinion.