tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-25889828498597995192024-03-21T09:53:14.558-07:00It's Not About the BabyPennyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11631516095847621486noreply@blogger.comBlogger12125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2588982849859799519.post-67231184610177705072011-10-26T20:44:00.000-07:002011-10-26T21:10:26.291-07:00This Really Chaps My Ass<div style="text-align: center;">
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So I’ve been pretty absent here for a while, but I had an experience recently that seemed worth waxing poetic about. Plus it provided an once-in-a-lifetime opportunity to use one of my favorite phrases as an apropos title. </div>
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Last week I caught wind of a new Chapstick advertisement that predominately features a woman’s butt in the air in what is supposed to represent a frantic search in the couch for her lip balm. My hackles went up immediately, and as their advertisement encouraged me to do, I visited their Facebook page to “be heard.” I expressed my displeasure with what I found to be an insulting, sexualized representation of a woman in what could have otherwise been a clever ad campaign.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhBGbzrTknN91YDhQbpENQgdQD5qZg7BjPTPzGx4-csFHt8Zv8dMN_JUdwE3oDOkXjIcmadbK77dWDROSx-nimeHUuV-6cdQylOkPS2Yvv6daJfk1N6kOsIBwH-1U1TPcg8nDt1cc2ApgIp/s1600/ChapStick.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhBGbzrTknN91YDhQbpENQgdQD5qZg7BjPTPzGx4-csFHt8Zv8dMN_JUdwE3oDOkXjIcmadbK77dWDROSx-nimeHUuV-6cdQylOkPS2Yvv6daJfk1N6kOsIBwH-1U1TPcg8nDt1cc2ApgIp/s400/ChapStick.png" width="341" /></a></div>
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<i>"Drat. If only I had room in these jeans for my Chapstick."</i></div>
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You can imagine how happy I was when I realized two minutes later that not only was my comment removed by Chapstick, but suggestive and offensive comments towards the model made by other visitors were left up. As often happens with me, I got pissed and this became my afternoon activity de jour. I sent an email to Chapstick and posted a few other comments on Facebook. In what was surely a loving tone, my husband commented, “Wow, you’re really outting yourself on Facebook over this Chapstick thing.” (It’s true – I’m coming out as a crazed feminist. Look out.) Later, at dinner, I got into a friendly debate over the issue with some girlfriends who didn’t seem to share my irritation. Shoot. I started to wonder. Am I over-reacting? Answer: Hell no.<br />
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I am frustrated to see how many women are buying into the social roles and stereotypes that have been prescribed for us. I am not a pervert, I am not preoccupied with sex, I am not a 'feminazi,' and I am not bored. When I look at this ad by Chapstick, I see a faceless (headless, even) woman with her ass front and center, pushed into the air, knees spread. Her hair is blowing in the who-knows-what, as I presume there is no wind in the house. A hand that must be hers is reaching up from behind the couch in a position that is not physically possible, assuring me that the person creating this image could care less if unimportant appendages such as arms are attached (also a subtle nod to dismemberment). And in case there’s any question of what the focus of this ad is, if you download the image from Chapstick’s site you will find the file name is ‘ass.’<br />
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For those that think this ad is no big deal and this outrage is nonsensical, I am just as perplexed by you as you are by me. Maybe if I step away from this ad in particular I can make sense to you. This type of portrayal of women is a death by a thousand cuts. Our young girls – and we as grown women – are exposed to THOUSANDS of messages a day that help shape our perception of ourselves and our place in the world (see here for a <a href="http://notaboutbaby.blogspot.com/2011/04/not-so-funny-old-mama-sexy-babies.html">refresher</a>). Perhaps this ad or that commercial isn’t so bad; harmless, really…and you talk that way until you’ve been exposed to 10,000 headless, sexualized, super thin, silenced, submissive, stereotyped images of women.<br />
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What’s normal and acceptable in our minds is based on what we have been shown. I choose to show my daughter something different. In an attempt to let her develop her own sense of self, without being told what that looks like, I limit her exposure to commercials, media, advertising, violence, and other images I feel would sway her developing psyche. As has been mentioned before, if not-so-subtle racism was being used (which it often is, by the way), we wouldn’t be having this argument. Just as white folks (myself included) are able to enjoy the privilege of seeing our race represented daily in positions of power and influence, in history books, in popular culture and in toys, etc; men enjoy the daily privilege of seeing themselves in these roles. Women have to look harder. The spell checker on my smart phone wants me to correct “Congresswoman” to “Congressman”. Death by a thousand cuts.<br />
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After throwing out all the Chapstick I could find in the house over the weekend and buying some Carmex, I got distracted and moved on to other things. So imagine my pleasant surprise to find the following email in my inbox this evening:<br />
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<i>Thank you for your email. Our new Chaptsick (sic) ad was not intended to offend anyone. We are dedicated to listening to the views of our customers. To that end, we are removing the image from all of our properties.<br /><br />Thank you again for your feedback.<br /><br />Sincerely, <br />Raymond Kerins</i><br />
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Raymond is the VP of Corporate Communications at Pfizer, and I’m sure he is unlikely to misspell “Chaptsick” in an email after today. Typos aside, the ad got pulled. No, it’s not well written. But I don’t care. What I care about is that I had the courage to speak up about something that bothered me and I was part of affecting change. What I care about is that I am setting an example for my daughter: have ideals, stick to them, and don’t apologize for it. What I care about is that the company got the message, and it’s one less degrading image that young girls will see.<br />
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What does a 13 year-old girl think who saw this ad by Chapstick? I bet you could show it to 100 of them, and 90 would tell you they wish they were thin, or had a butt like that. Because it’s in their face. All. The. Time. I choose something else for my daughter, and myself. And it’s not this.<br />
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<i>You may have already seen a shorter version of this rant (full of horrible misspellings) in a discussion on Melissa Wardy’s Pigtail Pal’s blog. Her site educates and promotes discussion on body image, gender stereotypes, marketing, and media literacy. Check her out at </i><a href="http://blog.pigtailpals.com/"><i>http://blog.pigtailpals.com/</i></a><i>.</i>Pennyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11631516095847621486noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2588982849859799519.post-43162726578416236652011-08-20T17:04:00.000-07:002011-08-20T17:04:07.722-07:00Only’s Not So Lonely<!--StartFragment-->
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Sooo...it's been a busy summer. Which means that my 10 dedicated readers <i>may </i>have noticed that I've not posted a blog in three months. To kinda-sorta end the streak, I'm posting a piece, but it was written by my girlfriend and mommy blogger at large, Katie. She was kind enough to invite me to take up space on her <a href="http://bebediaries.com/2011/05/22/guest-post-judge-not-lest-aww-go-ahead-ye-be-judged-either-way/">blog</a> recently, and I'm happy to return the favor. Especially since it gives me yet another pass on writing something new... Enjoy!</div>
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<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Penny and I have known
each other for years.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>You’ll find
my blog: </i><a href="http://www.bebediaries.com/"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">www.bebediaries.com</i></a><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"> to be
“all about the baby,” whereas Penny’s claim to fame is a blog NOT being about
the baby.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>(Even though, let’s give
her credit, even when she’s on a feminist rant we know it’s because she wants
her daughter to grow up in a better world). When it comes to families I’ve
found that Penny’s appreciated her </i><i><a href="http://notaboutbaby.blogspot.com/2010/08/my-one-and-only.html">small clan</a></i><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"> for everything they’re
worth.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I, on the other hand, keep
finding myself talking about “the next baby.” Here’s where the guilt of
over-sighting my one and only joy catches up to me.</i></div>
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Whenever I’ve thought about what I want my future family to
look like I conjure up a diluted, nostalgic version of my own childhood.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Six people, siblings and their friends tearing
through the house with little distinction between outdoor and indoor voices,
always someone to explore with, and having younger siblings to force into
ridiculous games created from my imagination.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>As adults we have nieces and nephews to roll into an even
larger collage.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>You can always
invite yourself along with whatever a sibling’s family has planned; it’s not
considered imposing, it’s an unspoken open invitation.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>There are more holiday traditions to
create and always someone to give advice whether you want to hear it or
not.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Yeah, yeah.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">know</i>
there is arguing, maybe a few violent attacks, competition, and that someone
would have had to trade college for the whole family to afford a trip to Disney
World; but I just remember a whirlwind (okay, Category 5 hurricane) of people
and noise that weave together into this nest of love that I flew from.</div>
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Needless to say, I always imagined my own family would be
much of the same.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>One day, I
didn’t understand why at the time, but my mother convinced me that having four
kids would be insane.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">(“Whhaaattt?? You want FOUR children?? Are
you INSANE??<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>You grew up in a
house with four children!!”—as if that were explanation enough.)</i><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>So, in the way that every young girl has
a carefully drawn out schedule and plan for her future, I made the fateful
scratching of 4 into a 3.</div>
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I’ve been a mother in the making since creation.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I was a babysitter, nanny, became an
elementary school teacher, and married a man that revers family as much as I
do.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>All plans continued onward and
upward.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Precisely one year after
we got married I became pregnant with our now 15 month old boy.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Yes, that was in the timeline.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And now, the checklist says it’s time
for Number Two.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But here’s the
question that renders this post a coveted place on Penny’s blog, where
originally it was the antithesis of <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">It’s
Not About the Baby:</i><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Could my
son be enough?</div>
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What if he was able to get snuggles from Mama anytime he
wanted?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>What if we were able to
give him the world because we wouldn’t have to pay for <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">three</i> kids to have tennis lessons/guitar lessons/summer
camp/airfare for travel/college?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>What if I didn’t have to buy a minivan to fit all of those little
rascals in?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And, what if while I’m
pregnant I can’t run and play with him (I was gigantic while carrying him), or hold
him because my belly is in the way.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>What if I’m nauseous and tired and lose my patience with him?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>What if Daddy has to take over all of
those nurturing responsibilities and he resents me and only wants his Daddy for
the rest of his life??<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>(Yes,
welcome to the demented way my brain functions.)<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
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Society and historical psychology have left their
identifying mark on “The Only Child.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>We’re told that Only Children don’t know how to socialize with others
their age, that they don’t know how to entertain themselves, and that they’re
spoiled.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>If I think about personal
memories of any classmates who were only children I remember that they had a
lot of toys I wanted, and their bedrooms were spotless. I may have even
identified them with the word <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">spoiled</i>.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
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<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"></span>Now, it doesn’t take a proverbial brain
surgeon to deduct that their parents could probably afford more toys having fewer
groceries to buy.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I’m not entirely
sure if the neatness is a fair correlation but I’m guessing it’s easier to keep
on top of one child’s destruction than the mess of more.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>When I was growing up our Rec Room
(that would be the pseudonym for a carpeted basement) looked like a Misfit Toys
Island Massacre. Somehow my mother did perform a daily miracle of keeping the
house <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">clean</i>, we just covered all of
the sparkling laminate and carpet with our junk.</div>
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Of course these Only Child stereotypes are unfair.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>For me, it’s no longer a case of “I
can’t have an only child because I will disservice him by his instinctive
unwillingness to share, inability to entertain himself, or inevitably become
socially inept,” it has become, “Will I have everything I’ve ever dreamed in
this one child?”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I mean, in prior
Only Child judgment I hadn’t taken into consideration the parents who were
actually unable to conceive more than one child.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>For all I knew when I was younger kids were to be had and
the amount was a choice.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
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<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"></span>Now I
know families that have one child because that may be all that’s biologically
possible.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>They don’t wring their
hands wondering if they should have just stayed childless as opposed to
bringing an Only Child into the world.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>They scoop that child into their arms and marvel at how amazing it is to
love a creature with a strength that has an unknown beginning and infinite end.</div>
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So, will I have more children? Probably.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>If I couldn’t have any more children
would I be devastated?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Not at
all.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I’ve learned that I can undoubtedly
find everything I need in the family I have.</div>
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Do you feel the pressure of The Only Child syndrome? Has
your viewpoint changed over time?<a href="" name="_GoBack"></a><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><o:p></o:p></i></div>
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Pennyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11631516095847621486noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2588982849859799519.post-7325856194275086282011-05-24T09:56:00.000-07:002011-05-24T10:51:20.281-07:00Cover Girl Culture: Who Wants to Be a Supermodel?<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-size: 10pt;">“I didn't eat yesterday</span></i></div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-size: 10pt;">And I'm not going to eat today<o:p></o:p></span></i></div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-size: 10pt;">And I'm not going to eat tomorrow<o:p></o:p></span></i></div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-size: 10pt;">'Cuz I'm going to be a supermodel!”<o:p></o:p></span></i></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 10pt;">Think back. Chances are pretty good that if you are a woman you desperately wanted to be a model or an actress at one point in your life, be it fifteen years ago or fifteen minutes ago. If you’re a man, there’s certainly an excellent chance that you aspired to date a supermodel at some juncture. Though I wince while doing it, I can remember high school pretty well. My self-esteem was somewhere in the subterranean level and it raised or lowered based on my perceived social status, looks, and current boyfriend. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 10pt;">Unfortunately, things aren’t getting much better for today’s girls. The issues I struggled with in college are popping up in high schools and the problems of my high school days are now considered middle school shenanigans. Back in April I wrote about the sexualization of girls, a disturbing situation I call ‘</span><a href="http://notaboutbaby.blogspot.com/2011/04/not-so-funny-old-mama-sexy-babies.html"><span style="font-size: 10pt;">sexy babies</span></a><span style="font-size: 10pt;">.’ This issue must be on a lot of mom’s minds, because it was the most traffic I’ve ever had on my site. As a result of the piece, I was sent a copy of </span><a href="http://www.covergirlculture.com/"><span style="font-size: 10pt;">Cover Girl Culture</span></a><span style="font-size: 10pt;">, a documentary addressing the world of fashion, modeling, advertising, and their impact on tween and teen girls. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 10pt;">I have watched this film twice and taken four furiously typed pages of notes. They are barely legible, even typed, and contain dozens of punctuations such as, “HA!” and “WTF?” I consider myself media literate, but this documentary still made my jaw drop. The director, Nicole Clark, wove together interviews with young girls, fashion magazine execs, psychologists, motivational speakers, models, and teachers, which she then layered with images from Teen Vogue and ELLE magazines in an incredibly powerful way. I promise you, if you have a daughter, you will begin seriously considering home schooling within the first fifteen minutes of this film. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 10pt;"><br />
</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhHvYkFBdWZnsRWNNUw8dy4-J5Rwwj57XgxLslW5HdRsdN2hxWiCQMWOxaMdN2fGXQbBipTT4n4LaC0CG-9QfDNjO9uMH8pZkHXmilHADWZB8abf7YozcxBwEk4scNl0BXDOkzRIHCfE1r6/s1600/03-blake-lively-best-dressed-11-05-08.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhHvYkFBdWZnsRWNNUw8dy4-J5Rwwj57XgxLslW5HdRsdN2hxWiCQMWOxaMdN2fGXQbBipTT4n4LaC0CG-9QfDNjO9uMH8pZkHXmilHADWZB8abf7YozcxBwEk4scNl0BXDOkzRIHCfE1r6/s320/03-blake-lively-best-dressed-11-05-08.jpg" width="221" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;">A Teen Vogue featured celebrity fashionista.</span></i></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 10pt;">The most difficult part of this review is deciding which fashion editor’s quotes to use, as they were all so horrifying. The Teen Vogue and ELLE editors interviewed maintain earnest faces while insisting their magazines feature healthy body images, relevant lifestyle articles, and a needed escape into fashion fantasy. They help girls “reinvent themselves and decide who they are going to be.” How generous. Anne Slowey, a Feature Editor at ELLE and currently my new imagined face of Satan, referred to the fashion layouts as <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">personally rewarding</i> for readers. “We are realistic that this [fashion spread] is a dream. The ‘dream pages.’ Women project themselves into the fantasy of what they want to see for themselves. The magic of that exercise is joyful, it’s really rewarding.” Oh, definitely. <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Clearly </i>drugs are still a huge problem in the fashion world. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 10pt;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 10pt;">The notes I scribbled to myself while watching all these images were less than joyful: “More fashion pages that make me want to gag. And starve. And weep … Ugh. Too skinny. …That’s just gross … Why are we selling this shit to our kids?” The sad news is that our kids are buying it in spades. The film is filled with interviews with girls from ages 6 to 18. It's the hardest part to watch, as the girls all want to change their faces, bodies, and looks. They want to be supermodels, because they think it's the most effective way to be respected and admired. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 10pt;">One particular comment by an interviewee struck a nerve with me. In reference to some advertising, she said, “I resent that you are showing these things to my young child.” Correction: <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">You </i>are showing these things to your young child. I control my child’s media consumption closely, particularly advertising. I have made a commitment to my daughter, and that is to be aware of what is happening in her world, educate her on what is happening in her world, and protect her from what is happening until she can handle it for herself. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 10pt;"><br />
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</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh9URm_UfmzU8dNbsC8OJ5Us7khbkbLVaf2fzNTAZpjJ-ZisryEen8JVkFrpeLzU4uLjTFKTvsqm8PKqQRwGQoIL-xdAPBOPktMPJ2F19x5Noo6LWz61d029N_CGJsjtEsEcC1qgZdOHdnR/s1600/Behind-the-Cover-Rachel-McAdams_articleimage.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh9URm_UfmzU8dNbsC8OJ5Us7khbkbLVaf2fzNTAZpjJ-ZisryEen8JVkFrpeLzU4uLjTFKTvsqm8PKqQRwGQoIL-xdAPBOPktMPJ2F19x5Noo6LWz61d029N_CGJsjtEsEcC1qgZdOHdnR/s320/Behind-the-Cover-Rachel-McAdams_articleimage.jpg" style="cursor: move;" width="219" /></a> <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhY7hk3dDPYLM1rZQ9iiXLwKkU_IZH4k1GSy1Yjf7CAP2jAyQFlvvYCRmE4Bslx1wHpiUW7SwEMUc0gwyHsfBhJ8BWwJfvX7GqugHRHeJQALJjqa3_nA34PqWjBl0_aKxSovdsn5BqnBJZp/s1600/Knitted-jet-stone-beaded-top.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhY7hk3dDPYLM1rZQ9iiXLwKkU_IZH4k1GSy1Yjf7CAP2jAyQFlvvYCRmE4Bslx1wHpiUW7SwEMUc0gwyHsfBhJ8BWwJfvX7GqugHRHeJQALJjqa3_nA34PqWjBl0_aKxSovdsn5BqnBJZp/s320/Knitted-jet-stone-beaded-top.jpg" style="cursor: move;" width="213" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; text-align: center;"><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;">From recent ELLE cover shoots. Et Tu, Gwen Stefani? </span></i></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 10pt;">Marketers and advertisers are smarter than you. (If not smarter, definitely wilier. Don’t take offense – it’s their job.) If you let them, they will find your fears, and they will play to them. They will figure out who you are, and how to get in, and will then tell you who you should strive to be. The best way to win against these attacks? Don’t read/watch/listen. Once you’ve thrown out your juicy celebrity gossip rags and glossy fashion mags and canceled your cable, stay vigilant. Become media literate, assess and treat your own self-image issues, and make sure you and your partner share the same values in raising your children. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 10pt;">Cover Girl Culture features a startling statistic about a year’s subscription to Teen Vogue: It contains 1,730 pages of advertisements and 590 pages of articles. That means the few articles featuring real girls and covering real issues are sandwiched between hundreds of images of skinny, sexualized advertising. I spent some time online at both ELLE and Teen Vogue. The sites were hard to navigate, featuring hundreds of pages and tons of advertising. To get through the ELLE content, I had to click out of a full page Stoli Vodka ad no less than 12 times – with every link the ad reappeared. Teen Vogue was dense with celebrity pictures, fashion tips, and beauty advice. The message was clear – this is how you need to look; this is who you should be. The ELLE homepage is financed by Macy’s and their “Impulse” campaign. A link to Macy’s and the tagline “Love it; Want it; Get it <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">now</i>” is plastered all over the website.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 10pt;"><br />
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</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 10pt;"></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; font-size: medium; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgp_V-00CGA4KJoAyhx2il5dLtUf-42Vx3UXd8PWvUz1tucmvKQYipsB_rU6Fp3J2uDWYd-1MflDQjyJOhiuz4DtkPjKw01dRuHeISdyXpDVTxChtZX6VlqiDZOfpMYdnHrupkK6UGyJsit/s1600/best-street-style-06.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="290" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgp_V-00CGA4KJoAyhx2il5dLtUf-42Vx3UXd8PWvUz1tucmvKQYipsB_rU6Fp3J2uDWYd-1MflDQjyJOhiuz4DtkPjKw01dRuHeISdyXpDVTxChtZX6VlqiDZOfpMYdnHrupkK6UGyJsit/s320/best-street-style-06.jpg" style="cursor: move;" width="320" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; text-align: center;"><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;">One of Teen Vogue's featured 'real girls' fashion inspiration.</span></i></div><div style="font-size: medium; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; font-size: medium; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgLhMR4E_cW7Qj7Qe7yVSXa1cnzBqWNKXZ2VUy0okHAV3ahQHd-qDxijQirG_JJLa7NHlJREQcFDKh70-h5zNA9s9oJe4QD67Cp5tDnt700crdID-Vf8Cn8hTmHnvgg7yo7Q548yM3Uh4P9/s1600/celebrity-metallic-trend-01.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgLhMR4E_cW7Qj7Qe7yVSXa1cnzBqWNKXZ2VUy0okHAV3ahQHd-qDxijQirG_JJLa7NHlJREQcFDKh70-h5zNA9s9oJe4QD67Cp5tDnt700crdID-Vf8Cn8hTmHnvgg7yo7Q548yM3Uh4P9/s320/celebrity-metallic-trend-01.jpg" style="cursor: move;" width="212" /></a> <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEidCxnmCoWMj_Zypjp-SBpHkOM8nDbH9ruW4O5Xb-fXDyYOxIEZHnWCF8LUmoBjk32QjqRCLscSymx2lU-N1nVlkAMl4rVNW-SKCIxsmsmfyvCq396-pAaqimjb9W6UTfwIL-88MjTwaAUS/s1600/prom-style-guide-index_th.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEidCxnmCoWMj_Zypjp-SBpHkOM8nDbH9ruW4O5Xb-fXDyYOxIEZHnWCF8LUmoBjk32QjqRCLscSymx2lU-N1nVlkAMl4rVNW-SKCIxsmsmfyvCq396-pAaqimjb9W6UTfwIL-88MjTwaAUS/s320/prom-style-guide-index_th.jpg" style="cursor: move;" width="213" /></a></div><div style="font-size: medium; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; text-align: center;"> <span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 13px;"><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;">Images from Teen Vogue's current Prom inspiration webpages. </span></i></span></div><div style="font-size: medium; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 13px;"><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;">I don't know many high schoolers who look this stylized. </span></i></span></div><br />
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</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 10pt;">If you have a child, watching Cover Girl Culture is a great way to up your own media literacy. It is powerful, educational, and happily, accessible. While I love </span><a href="http://jeankilbourne.com/"><span style="font-size: 10pt;">Jean Kilbourne</span></a><span style="font-size: 10pt;"> and everything she does, her films are difficult to find for personal use. You can’t take her films out of the reference section of our library, they are not on Netflix, and at roughly $250 a pop, they’re not in my budget. For $29, you can get a copy of Cover Girl Culture for </span><a href="http://www.covergirlculture.com/?page_id=799"><span style="font-size: 10pt;">personal use</span></a><span style="font-size: 10pt;">, which I really appreciate as an individual consumer. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 10pt;">I was able to convince my husband to watch the film with me, and his response was just as interesting as the documentary itself. When I wasn’t swearing at the screen or keeping up a running side commentary, I was watching him sideways to see how he was reacting. When it was over, he said, “<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">You </i>are L’s best role model. I can be a role model, but only to a point. <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">You </i>are it.” The film must have left a lasting mark on him, as he randomly shouted out over the next few days, “YOU ARE HER ROLE MODEL!” <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 10pt;">In the end, this is the real message. Children are incredibly impressionable and are mimicking what they see before they can even talk. A psychologist featured in the film names a positive maternal self-image as the first line of defense against the media attack on our children. My heart broke when I first saw my daughter checking out her own butt in the mirror – a behavior I have not been able to break her of, and one she learned from me. Recently I realized the danger in letting her sit on the sink with me while I do my makeup. Running out of the house last week she yelled, “Wait! I have to put my pretty face on!” Ouch. A tender mother-daughter morning ritual is put aside and I now sneak my makeup on while she’s doing something else. On a good day, I skip the make up altogether and show her that our faces are ‘pretty faces’ all on their own. It looks like we’re both growing. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 13px;"><i>You can see more of Nicole Clark's work at <a href="http://www.covergirlculture.com/">www.covergirlculture.com</a>. </i></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div>Pennyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11631516095847621486noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2588982849859799519.post-38416773336599889392011-05-23T13:25:00.000-07:002011-05-23T13:28:55.907-07:00Judge Not Lest... Aww, Go Ahead. Ye Be Judged Either WayAfter a recent mouthy comment on a friend's website, she graciously offered to have me write a guest post for her blog. How fabulous! How bloggy! Check it out...<br />
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<a href="http://bebediaries.com/2011/05/22/guest-post-judge-not-lest-aww-go-ahead-ye-be-judged-either-way/">The Bebe Diaries</a><br />
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If you are a follower of Bebe Diaries (and who isn't?), you might have seen the sassy-pants comment I made following Katie's latest blog about a teen parent she made friends with at a local playground. Having a little piece of web heaven myself, I would have responded to this type of feedback on my blog by unfriending you on Facebook. Katie, being the even-tempered angle that she is, called me and asked me to write a guest blog. So I can talk <i>even more trash. </i>I know, right? I so lucked out by being friends with her. Anyway, enough sucking up. Here's my <a href="http://bebediaries.com/2011/05/22/guest-post-judge-not-lest-aww-go-ahead-ye-be-judged-either-way/">guest blog...</a><br />
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</span></span></span></span>Pennyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11631516095847621486noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2588982849859799519.post-43063777343127661142011-05-08T15:49:00.000-07:002011-05-08T16:26:07.552-07:00A Postpartum Mother's Day: Ah, the Memories<div class="MsoNormal">On this, my fourth Mother’s Day, I can’t help but reflect back on my first Mother’s Day with a snort. To be fair, I was a mere seven weeks postpartum and still dealing with a raging case of postpartum crazies, so there was no way it was going to end well. (Remind me to tell you about the postpartum crazies some other time.)</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">I was adamant. This was my first major holiday with baby, and it was Mother’s Day, damnit. We were going to have a big formal gathering and go out to dinner as a family to celebrate all the women in the family (and by all the women, I meant <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">me</i>)<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">. </i>Technically speaking, the baby had been with us for Easter, but it was the day after her birth, we were in the hospital in a state of abject terror, and we’re not even quasi-religious. <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"> <o:p></o:p></i></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">For the blessed event, my mother’s parents came up from Florida to see their first great-grandchild. While I love my mom and I love my Granny, it is not unfair to suggest that the two of them together can be a tense combination. With the women inside and two older generations of men outside giving my husband pointers on staining the deck, the house was vibrating with anxiety. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">At the appointed time, we all got dolled up and headed to my parents house for a photo shoot. I had a sweet little dress and sweater for the baby, and imagined a beautiful and touching series of photos showcasing three generations of women tenderly gazing on their newest female member. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">I just found the resulting photo and was planning on posting along with this piece, but I’m pretty sure my mom reads my blog, and if she sees it on the web, she’ll stop babysitting for me. It’s worse than I remembered. I’m in my stretchy dress with the forgiving stomach area, boobs straining the lycra to the max. I appear to be wearing nylon stockings, probably the only time in the past five or ten years I’ve done so. I imagine this was in an effort to contain my gelatinous gut. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">My mother is wearing her black ‘slacks’ and white button down, her go-to ‘dressy’ outfit at the time. I remember her being only slightly irritated with me that I requested we dress for dinner. We are standing behind an old-fashioned wing back chair in which my grandmother sits, holding the baby. You cannot see the baby’s face. We are not touching. Our smiles are strained, eyes glazed. I was probably crying or yelling at someone minutes before. Or both. There is one really sweet photo of my parents with the baby, caught in a candid moment when I was probably safely out of the room. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEihRh3aUvHGWEsfRk9QiNkkSmzJbG6X1vV7MAIcyjw7wgL7JPdcv-qdk7kv1QOsfocIt4_sJYdIXBHfgSxJjOk8RFt_X_hYQuTZDylQwtkvcwjUaKDID6SIVH8FL3mrUOz7BFsxRoPPNR_t/s1600/first_MD.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEihRh3aUvHGWEsfRk9QiNkkSmzJbG6X1vV7MAIcyjw7wgL7JPdcv-qdk7kv1QOsfocIt4_sJYdIXBHfgSxJjOk8RFt_X_hYQuTZDylQwtkvcwjUaKDID6SIVH8FL3mrUOz7BFsxRoPPNR_t/s320/first_MD.jpeg" width="242" /></a></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"><i>How I chose to dress the poor babe on that holiest of days.</i></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Onward to dinner. The whole motley crew meets my brother and his wacked out girlfriend at the restaurant. The relationship was short lived, and to say she was uncomfortable at this particular gathering is an understatement. I was proud as can be, taking in all the cooing from passing customers and staff. We fretted over the placement of her car seat – was it safe on this upside down highchair? Will someone knock it over? Should I put it on the floor? Will someone step on her? Can we effing order already order before she wakes up and starts crying and I panic because I don’t know what to do when she wakes up in public??</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Once we’ve ordered and are settled in, the Mother's Day cards come out. I’ve got one for my grandmother and my mother, my dad has one for my mom, etc. And of course, everyone has one for me. Everyone that is, except my husband. His response? A very honest, “I didn’t know. You’re not <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">my </i>mother.” Yeah, well I know your mother, buddy, and she would <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">not approve. </i>I think I cried at the table over it, and then bitched about it to him for days. Or I’m sure what felt like days to him. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">To write this piece, I got up and dug through my card box. I had a total of nine cards from that first Mother’s Day. Including ones from my husband’s sister, brother, and parents. So someone got the memo. Anyway, I digress. As we’re opening cards at the restaurant, I start getting a little emotional. Sweep away a few tears here and there. I’m doing okay until I open a card that has a picture of the baby and I glued on the front. It says, “Daughter, you’re a mother now, and you know what it’s like to hold a little someone in your arms and realize you would give up your own life to protect this precious being.” </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">I start with a fresh round of tears, and say “Oh, Mom.” My mother says, “It’s not from me, it’s from your father.” SOB. I. Lose. My. Shit. I actually have to put the card away and come back to it later. The whole time my brother’s girlfriend is looking at me as though to say, “I will never, ever get old and fat and married and conduct myself in this totally disgusting manner.” </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Later, I finally open the card and read the rest of the sappy Hallmark prose, along with another picture of baby and a note from my dad: “Twice blessed. A perfect daughter and a perfect granddaughter. Love, Pops.” I may have been on the floor at this point, I don’t recall. I do remember that we took dessert to go because I was at Def Con 1 due to baby’s pending consciousness. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Of course, I now know that a sleeping newborn is manna from the gods. This Mother’s Day, like most days, I awoke to the sound of thumping feet on the hardwood floor and the scrambling of a tiny person climbing up our bed. She allows a few minutes of laziness before demanding we go downstairs, and the day is full tilt from there. It’s all on the table: eating dog food, playing in the toilet, writing on the walls, screaming in the grocery store, pushing and biting other kids. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">This Mother’s Day we continued a tradition of sorts. Yard work, playing outside, homemade presents and a clean house and dinner courtesy of the best daddy around. (He learned pretty quickly after I went all Carrie on him that first year. And in his defense, we regularly both forget our own wedding anniversary and other such events.) I don’t need a fancy dinner, or a carnation at the local pancake house for being a mom, or a big parade. The way I choose to spend Mother’s Day is pretty much how we spend most summer days. So that either means I have really low expectations, or my family treats me like Mother’s Day is every day. I’m sure you know which one of these I choose to believe.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div>Pennyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11631516095847621486noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2588982849859799519.post-45229174764234834912011-04-17T18:55:00.000-07:002011-04-18T10:10:39.471-07:00Look Out Sprout, Time to Begin<div class="MsoNormal"></div><div class="MsoNormal">Spring. March, being my least favorite month of the year, brings with it one bright spot. While the northeast snowstorms and first rays of late sunshine battle it out, I am scouring my favorite seed catalog. I’m pulling out last year’s seeds, counting the folded and battered envelopes containing any overflow from the previous season. What do I need? What do I want? What new things can I try?<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjLzDbWu-zvq5ueBBmUtKIhUh2xgFp8ZlHeIKSowfjLVc3gPFwmoRZrFg27UCAXYcyrhcxmumsPrAoSFhbyQstO-ZP8im6r7n-XDK4JuHQOdSaBJgP-Bi5hRXmlEdPH7Scdil_oHUteVZ8k/s1600/IMAG0208.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjLzDbWu-zvq5ueBBmUtKIhUh2xgFp8ZlHeIKSowfjLVc3gPFwmoRZrFg27UCAXYcyrhcxmumsPrAoSFhbyQstO-ZP8im6r7n-XDK4JuHQOdSaBJgP-Bi5hRXmlEdPH7Scdil_oHUteVZ8k/s320/IMAG0208.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;"><i>This year's new undertaking: Pac Choi.</i></span></div><br />
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</div><div class="MsoNormal">I’m not a particularly sharp housekeeper. Houseplants weep when they pass over the threshold of my door. I’ll let quite a few dog poop piles accumulate before I head out with a shovel (you don’t even want to know what I mean when I say “quite a few”). So why the motivation for a vegetable garden? It takes a lot of work, and a lot of money. I figure my homegrown organic veggies are running me roughly, say, $20 a pound? Several reasons:</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">Tradition. </b>The desire for a little plot of vegetables runs in my blood, like my rage, appetite for ice cream, and oversized feet. In my earliest memories, spring is synonymous with the sound of the rototiller firing up. My parents kept a garden the size of an Olympic swimming pool in our backyard. I can still see my dad working the rows, wearing tall sweat socks, scant 70s era shorts, and a savage tan instead of a shirt. My grandmother still keeps her garden today; and a Christmas cactus that descended from one of my great-grandfather’s fabled plants sits in my kitchen. Last summer I came full circle, scolding L. for picking things that weren’t yet ripe; a lecture I’ve heard many times myself.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh5FZTD5KBNp6eHs2M6dMgwcelQtCup6C2tKVlYkQM3X0Wb1SS_Tt-2WH7G9R5ugFvfFPMj_6pBuVa-48nDIKcAOL8a-pLvhh4G2tInt-DuW8gNJBWbN8jfC8uf9QIFt1f4cO2vhj68iSiN/s1600/garden.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh5FZTD5KBNp6eHs2M6dMgwcelQtCup6C2tKVlYkQM3X0Wb1SS_Tt-2WH7G9R5ugFvfFPMj_6pBuVa-48nDIKcAOL8a-pLvhh4G2tInt-DuW8gNJBWbN8jfC8uf9QIFt1f4cO2vhj68iSiN/s320/garden.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh6YVDLHTQC6Zh0-KUPY7A3DIGvrP2TDJ86x6YipU1OmMCKfvnqO4_H5YrLydgSzA_kG-cVevZOIhWnidUlftg1ibVs9yswfkxnOs3jlnk4fx7gPxKL4upJyQnA0qjSrL_nRjd5wlyUsk8v/s1600/tomato.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh6YVDLHTQC6Zh0-KUPY7A3DIGvrP2TDJ86x6YipU1OmMCKfvnqO4_H5YrLydgSzA_kG-cVevZOIhWnidUlftg1ibVs9yswfkxnOs3jlnk4fx7gPxKL4upJyQnA0qjSrL_nRjd5wlyUsk8v/s320/tomato.jpg" width="240" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;">L. 'helping' in last year's garden.</span></i></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">The magic. </b>The first green sprouts of a new plant never fail to impress. I set up my little plastic trays in the kitchen, filling them with soil and pressing tiny, dry, hard seeds into them. Some will sprout in what feels like minutes (broccoli) and others will take weeks before giving you any satisfaction (parsley). As soon as their little heads curl out of the dirt, they race up and out, reaching for the sun. It makes me smile to hear L. yell, “I’m going to check and see if my plants are growing!” The joke is on me however, when I stroll by 30 minutes later and realize, wow; I think they have grown while I was out of the room. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
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</div><div class="MsoNormal"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">The lessons. </b>The garden has a lot to teach you. There’s nothing scary about a garter snake. You can’t just put everything in the ground on the same day and expect it to grow. Weeds are a bitch. You don’t really need 25 snap pea plants (unless you want somewhere in the neighborhood of 10,000 snap peas). You’re better at growing zucchini than red peppers, but then again, everyone is. If you leave the garden to rot over the winter, it will still be there in the spring, but grosser. To be fair, that was the summer I discovered I was pregnant and became oddly repelled by fresh food. The little I could bear to pick without vomiting went to neighbors and I turned my back on the rest in favor of plain cake doughnuts and McDonald’s fries.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">The satisfaction. </b>Successfully coaxing vegetables out of the ground brings one a certain smug air. Grilling tonight? No problem, let me just grab some fresh summer squash out of the garden to throw on. That tomato sauce? Oh, thanks, it’s just a little something I whipped up with my own tomatoes, onions, peppers, basil, and oregano. No biggie. Aside from the self-righteousness, it’s also satisfying in that it is hard work. I’m not exactly a paragon of physical fitness. But in my garden I’m strong enough to move landscaping timbers and push a wheelbarrow full of loam. I’m strong enough to shovel two yards (a lot) of wood chips around the raised beds my husband made me. I can squat a million times to plant seeds, pull weeds, and bait those retched effing slugs. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjD-wQtEbw5sxAoTsmCkeBZwiugF82x0YAsAbtkVh3bYwJtmFJQ4u3gS60Mi4Ety_iex2-9UD6NzKIBYiEAP4E15LfK3iGNlxqrmAWr-pFgJh52d2ZKFnvASrleGrySVthd68F9Wpf-dGfV/s1600/IMAG0198.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjD-wQtEbw5sxAoTsmCkeBZwiugF82x0YAsAbtkVh3bYwJtmFJQ4u3gS60Mi4Ety_iex2-9UD6NzKIBYiEAP4E15LfK3iGNlxqrmAWr-pFgJh52d2ZKFnvASrleGrySVthd68F9Wpf-dGfV/s320/IMAG0198.jpg" width="240" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;">Impatiently digging snow out of the raised beds.</span></i></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">The acceptance. </b>In a culture that values image, money, and looks over pretty much all else, my garden values only my time. It doesn’t care that I’m wearing homemade jean shorts and rain boots. I don’t have to suck it in, or comb my hair, or even wear clean clothes to work in the garden. It’s quiet, it’s mine, and it’s available any time of day. A well-tended garden will benefit from hours of work nearly every day. Happily, if it’s raining and shining with some regularity, the same garden is just fine if I disappear for a week at a stretch. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">A time-keeper. </b>Summer slips by quickly in a region that can really only count about 10 weeks of real heat in a year. The garden makes me get outside and give thanks for the summer days; it makes me pay attention. It makes me grateful to hear rain on the roof at night. It stretches the season, bringing me out to prepare the ground in the spring and keeping me there through the first frost. After Christmas, when the winter really begins, I have a short time to wait for the new <a href="http://www.johnnyseeds.com/">Johnny’s Select Seeds</a> catalog to arrive. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEge73NQ4OSUqgaWTBThZGk7lF8jRs_qVh_2tUHLm5bbtiU0r6xe3Ldol5V4fkLStPinGtRt49ozSphN1vYX0umb00JH0tDcT6f6rPMNRZn0lDHuCHzBcZN-6zGO-0n_F3vBO6gsSICBPZ3v/s1600/IMAG0167.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEge73NQ4OSUqgaWTBThZGk7lF8jRs_qVh_2tUHLm5bbtiU0r6xe3Ldol5V4fkLStPinGtRt49ozSphN1vYX0umb00JH0tDcT6f6rPMNRZn0lDHuCHzBcZN-6zGO-0n_F3vBO6gsSICBPZ3v/s320/IMAG0167.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;"><i>Last year's garden planning, saved so I can remember what's what.</i></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Pictures of our house mark the years we’ve been here. The front garden as it was the first year, with some remaining perennials and a shockingly ugly assortment of annuals I got at Home Depot. The year we built the first vegetable bed. The year we put a fence around the flower garden. My favorite picture is the one we recently found on Google Earth that shows our new, big vegetable garden. I like this, because I can brag that you can see my garden from <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">space. </i> </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">In Maine, the spring comes slowly. Our yard is a particularly cold spot in the New England circle of hell, and my front flower garden remains heaped with snow long after the rest of the town has been uncovered. Like most people here, the first warm weekend days chase us out into the yard, and we start picking away at a winter’s worth of debris. Bit by bit, experimentally. Sure, I’ll rake around the swing set while L. swings. Pick a handful of leaves out of a flowerbed. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgSPgtPsBtEEN4qiRh1oc23C9iCuS1xXmcsIHBtZhsjUrI4jZHUzy8r33NIsVJ5ZlJEgJF8z0GwmApU7Z1yGGwcSaHaDmIyxF9R2harjhXy72RyLasalgApeAoPLD5uc_126izOpJePmU1_/s1600/P1050882.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgSPgtPsBtEEN4qiRh1oc23C9iCuS1xXmcsIHBtZhsjUrI4jZHUzy8r33NIsVJ5ZlJEgJF8z0GwmApU7Z1yGGwcSaHaDmIyxF9R2harjhXy72RyLasalgApeAoPLD5uc_126izOpJePmU1_/s320/P1050882.jpg" width="240" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;"><i>Recreation break.</i></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Before I know it, I’m frantically tending to dozens of seedlings, moving them from plastic tray to bigger plastic tray. Get them under the lights! Water them! Argh! Seedlings are not nearly so laid back as the planted garden, it turns out. The first crocus blooms, our signal to really dig in and uncover the flower garden. The crocuses may come into the garden when it’s still a brown mess, but no other plant is greeted with such fanfare by the house. And here we are, greeting another summer. <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Let it begin! </i></div><div class="MsoNormal"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><br />
</i></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhQFmMZg6dDUxNvMUUuZcq1Zv_3VdmJlBjwP8hMgLgvWN0QvI80yWHuvQmYWAM9PAue30RpbXrI9rurrSvb6b4amijl_rJy3mwSMmhMky7LJE1XKAgOn5WTB5s5zl6mwaddZAWUM72hcl-h/s1600/P1050872.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhQFmMZg6dDUxNvMUUuZcq1Zv_3VdmJlBjwP8hMgLgvWN0QvI80yWHuvQmYWAM9PAue30RpbXrI9rurrSvb6b4amijl_rJy3mwSMmhMky7LJE1XKAgOn5WTB5s5zl6mwaddZAWUM72hcl-h/s320/P1050872.jpg" width="240" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;"><i>Our first crocus flowers, from bulbs we planted right after L.'s birth.</i></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><br />
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</div>Pennyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11631516095847621486noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2588982849859799519.post-34418305885410878592011-04-03T20:10:00.000-07:002011-04-04T15:16:27.296-07:00Not so Funny: Old Mama, Sexy Babies<div class="MsoNormal"><span style="color: #262626; font-family: Arial;">Lately I’ve really been struggling with a nagging idea that I might be getting … old. I’m not suggesting that I’m elderly or that it’s all over or anything silly like that. But evidence suggests that I may at least be approaching old-ish. Mom old.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="color: #262626; font-family: Arial;"> <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="color: #262626; font-family: Arial;">Recently, I was carded while buying wine at Hannaford, which gave me some relief from the idea that I might be visibly aging. This was no ordinary carding. The clerk asked for my ID, studied it, and <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">quizzed me </i>on my personal information. Feeling pretty chuffed, I repeated this story to some girlfriends, only to have one of them say, “Ha! She probably just finished a training or something this afternoon.” Bitch.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="color: #262626; font-family: Arial;"> <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="color: #262626; font-family: Arial;">As that was my only real evidence that I wasn’t aging, I was forced to reexamine the opposing evidence. Lately I’ve found myself thinking, “these kids today!” a lot. I’ve even gone so far as to say this out loud to some women at a scrapbooking event. (I realize <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">scrapbooking</i> is another point in the old column, so let’s not mention it.)<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="color: #262626; font-family: Arial;"> <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="color: #262626; font-family: Arial;">What prompted me to happily engage in one of these ‘kids today’ discussions? The latest pop hit from that little cutie pie Rihanna. I heard the following lyrics in my car a few weeks back and nearly drove off the road:<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="color: #262626; font-family: Arial;">Cause I may be bad <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="color: #262626; font-family: Arial;">But I’m perfectly good at it <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="color: #262626; font-family: Arial;">Sex in the air <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="color: #262626; font-family: Arial;">I don’t care; I love the smell of it <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="color: #262626; font-family: Arial;">Sticks and stones <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="color: #262626; font-family: Arial;">May break my bones <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="color: #262626; font-family: Arial;">But chains and whips <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="color: #262626; font-family: Arial;">Excite me<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="color: #262626; font-family: Arial;"> <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="color: #262626; font-family: Arial;">WHAT? Seriously, people. This is a radio station that children listen to. Tween girls are calling in and flirting with the veejays all day long. I was tempted to put the dial right back on NPR where it belonged, but my curiosity was piqued. Next up? A sweet track from Usher:<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="color: #262626; font-family: Arial;">Honey got a booty like pow, pow, pow <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="color: #262626; font-family: Arial;">Honey got some boobies like wow, oh wow <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="color: #262626; font-family: Arial;">Girl you know I’m loving your, loving your style<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="color: #262626; font-family: Arial;"> <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="color: #262626; font-family: Arial;">To add insult to injury, the name of the song is “OMG.” Inspired. He’s practically my generation’s answer to Shakespeare. I mull this all over while gazing at myself in the bathroom mirror during L’s bath that night. Wait a minute, is that me or my mom? I’m drinking coffee! Since when do I even drink coffee? Christ. I’m old. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="color: #262626; font-family: Arial;"> <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="color: #262626; font-family: Arial;">I actually began taking a few notes on this ongoing old/not old debate. I won’t detail all of them here, because this is already getting long and I haven’t even made my point yet. But what I realize is that I’m not getting old – I’m just having a new reaction to an old problem. When I see the list on paper, there’s a common denominator in the things that are bothering me.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="color: #262626; font-family: Arial;">Bratz dolls. Toddlers in Tiaras. High heeled shoes in children’s sizes. Disgusting lyrics in pop songs. Middle school girls giving blow jobs at school. Sexting. My own 3 year-old checking out her butt in the mirror (learned behavior from mom). Real makeup lines designed for 8 year-olds. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="color: #262626; font-family: Arial;">The sexualization of our girls, our children, is real. And that has nothing to do with feeling ‘old.’ And there sure as hell isn’t anything funny about it. So I’ll have to depart from my self-absorbed musings to make space for something that’s actually important. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="color: #262626; font-family: Arial;"> <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="color: #262626; font-family: Arial;">Our culture puts a premium on sex. We put a premium on youth and on beauty. At home we may tell our girls that their brains and personality are most important, but everything else they see tells them otherwise. Merchandise, songs, clothes, advertising, and movies say something else altogether. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="color: #262626; font-family: Arial;"> <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="color: #262626; font-family: Arial;">The messages out there assure our girls that their bodies are to be exploited and their mouths aren’t for talking. Their brains don’t even factor into the equation. At the end of the day, these messages add up to some sobering <a href="http://www.doh.wa.gov/hsqa/emstrauma/vaw/data_stats.htm">statistics</a>. One out of every three women has been physically or sexually abused in her lifetime. Chances are good if a woman was abused, it began at a young age – over half of rapes are committed against women younger than 18, and over 20% of those are on children younger than 12. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="color: #262626; font-family: Arial;">You may think I’m making a pretty big leap from sexy toddler clothes to rape. “Advertising isn’t that bad! These songs are a joke – no one takes it seriously!” Really? Take a look at the following words and images and get back to me. If you make it to the end, there are some links you might find interesting. If you do anything at all, take a half hour this week to watch <a href="http://video.google.com/videoplay?docid=-1993368502337678412#">Killing Us Softly</a> on You Tube. It will leave you speechless, which, if you're a woman, is exactly where they want you...<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="color: #262626; font-family: Arial;">If she ever tries to fucking leave again <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="color: #262626; font-family: Arial;">I'mma tie her to the bed <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="color: #262626; font-family: Arial;">And set the house on fire<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="color: #262626; font-family: Arial;">Eminem, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Love The Way You Lie</i><o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="color: #262626; font-family: Arial;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><br />
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</i></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #262626; font-family: Arial;">I've only recently heard that a popular retort given to adolescent girls by adolescent boys is "Go make me a sandwich." I'm not sure what I'll have to do to keep my own daughter protected in this crazy world we're living in, but I can promise her one thing: I'll be raising her to respond to that kind of remark with a sandwich involving four of her knuckles. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #262626; font-family: Arial;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #262626; font-family: Arial;">Some reading on the sexualization of our children and what you can do about it: </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #262626; font-family: Arial;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #262626; font-family: Arial;">The American Psychological Association's <a href="http://www.apa.org/pi/women/programs/girls/report.aspx">report on the sexualization of girls</a></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #262626; font-family: Arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #222222; font-family: Arial, Verdana; line-height: 20px;"><br />
</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #262626; font-family: Arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #222222; font-family: Arial, Verdana; line-height: 20px;"><strong style="font-weight: bold;"><a href="http://www.sparksummit.com/">Sexualization Protest: Action, Resistance, Knowledge</a></strong> (SPARK), a movement for girls’ rights to healthy sexuality. </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #262626; font-family: Arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #222222; font-family: Arial, Verdana; line-height: 20px;"><br />
</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #222222; font-family: Arial, Verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 20px;"><a href="http://www.facebook.com/poweredbygirl">PBG</a>: Powered By Girl on Facebook and <a href="http://PoweredByGirl.org/">PoweredByGirl.org</a>. (Also, thank you to PBG - I found several of these ad images on their Facebook page. Like them!)</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #262626; font-family: Arial;"> </span></div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #262626; font-family: Arial;"></span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #262626; font-family: Arial;"><div class="MsoNormal"></div></span>Pennyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11631516095847621486noreply@blogger.com20tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2588982849859799519.post-22876436072458327852011-03-15T18:28:00.000-07:002011-03-15T18:28:40.507-07:00Dropping the Bomb, aka “What the Fu*ck is Wrong with You?”<!--StartFragment--> <br />
<div class="MsoNormal">I know a lot of moms. Some of them are friends from my hometown, others are coworkers, some are classmates, and still others are clients. Lately, I’ve been observing a certain common mom denominator that seems to reach easily across all socioeconomic, racial, religious, and geographic boundaries.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">This unifying trait is the uncontrollable urge to trash talk our children. Kind of like road rage, but directed at really small, non-driving persons. It’s mom rage.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Sometimes it comes out when you’re not even mad at them. Or when they’re not even around. I overheard this conversation in class on Thursday:</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">“S., your boys are <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">so cute!”<o:p></o:p></i></div><div class="MsoNormal">“Little fuckers.” </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">It just comes out. It’s like Mommy tourettes.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It makes sense if you think about it – you can’t be just one thing all the time. For every action there is an equal and opposite reaction. Children require a lot of love, gentleness, and understanding. If I’m operating at this supreme level of mom-ness 95% of the time, what do you think is going to come out the other 5%? Nothing good, I promise you. And I’m not even at the 95% goodness level. I’m more like 82%. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Another issue is the threats. A <a href="http://bebediaries.com/2011/03/13/checking-his-list/">friend of mine</a>, who coincidentally is operating in the 98% goodness range, admitted yesterday that she told her 10-month-old son that “Santa was watching” during a particularly irritating clothing change.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>You may argue that this isn’t particularly harmful, but I counter that it’s pretty early to be instilling a fear of big brother. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Besides, it’s a slippery slope from “Santa’s watching” to “I’ll feed you to the pigs!” Which is something I said to my own little angel during a playful tickle fight this week. Ha ha! She didn’t think it was so funny. Her big eyes filled with tears and she said, “You’ll miss me when I’m gone!” Oops. I had to do some hugging and backtracking there. (I’ll admit, I felt really bad about that one.)</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Next comes name-calling. In my internship I work at a family counseling center. On Tuesday I met with one of my favorite clients, a 9 year-old we’ll call T. Prior to the appointment, I spoke on the phone with Mom, who just <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">knew </i>something was bothering T. Mom told me that T. had been difficult, mouthy, emotional. At one point T. regressed and called Mom a “poopy face.” (A slur that is generally the preferred fare of the kindergarten set.) Mom just couldn’t figure out why – could I? Halfway through our session I get the giddy news that Mom called T. a “shit head” this week. Hmm.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Shit head translates pretty easily to poopy face, wouldn’t you agree? Oh, what ecstasy it was to play the part of the professional and hand out ‘homework’ on name-calling. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">It just wasn’t appropriate at the time, but I’ve got to call Mom and tell her about the time I asked my own 2 year-old, “What the <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">fuck</i> is wrong with you?!” It’s quite possibly my most shinning moment as a mother. L. had developed a fun little trick that involved running top speed down our very steep dirt driveway. One day she pulled this little trick with a lollipop in her mouth (danger!) while I was busy loading the car. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Of course I yelled, threatened, and all that good stuff from the top of the driveway. And of course she ignored me. I snapped. I jumped in the car and started driving towards her. She screamed with glee and ran all the faster. Throwing the car in park, I lunged out, snatched her by the arm, swatted her butt, and made the aforementioned query. Not getting a satisfactory answer, I grabbed the lollipop out of her mouth and threw it in the woods. “Naughty girls don’t get lollipops!!” Yeow.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Once our happy group was safely buckled in the car, I apologized profusely and tried to explain why Mommy got so dang fired up. The little heathen looked at me with wide eyes and said, “I’m telling Grammie what you did.” The animal gives as good as she gets, I’ll give her that. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Kids will do this to you. It’s impossible to avoid, I don’t care who you are. It’s no coincidence that Mother Teresa didn’t have any children. If she did, I promise you sainthood would have been out of the picture. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Fortunately, there’s some good news. If you’re a good enough mom most of the time, your children will forgive and forget. In researching for this piece, I interviewed L. about the things I say to her. This is how the conversation went:</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">“L., what does Mommy say that makes you happy?”</div><div class="MsoNormal">“I’m two! But at my birthday soon I’ll be three!”</div><div class="MsoNormal">“Great, but that’s not the question. What does Mommy say that makes you happy?”</div><div class="MsoNormal">“Mommy! Guess what?”</div><div class="MsoNormal">“What?”</div><div class="MsoNormal">“You’re stuck with it! Ha ha. Sick burn.”</div><div class="MsoNormal">“Argh! Okay. What does Mommy say that makes you sad?”</div><div class="MsoNormal">“Nothing! Mommy only says nice things to L.” </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">In the end, it’s a game of sincerity and mathematics. Parents who rag on their children day in and day out are telling their children they are failures. Parents who ignore their children day in and day out are telling their children they are unimportant. But parents who say, “I love you” every day; “Yes” most days; and occasionally ask “What the <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">fuck </i>is wrong with you?” are sending a different message. The message is simple – “I love you. But I’ve got limits, man.” And haven’t you heard? Kids need limits. </div><!--EndFragment-->Pennyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11631516095847621486noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2588982849859799519.post-21296014204134636942011-03-13T18:34:00.000-07:002011-03-13T18:37:01.804-07:00Grad School For Dummies<div class="MsoNormal">Yoo-hoo! Anyone still there? If memory serves, I last updated this blog about six months ago with an emotionally charged rant written from an airplane. Lest we get all bogged down in the details, I’ll keep the update brief. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Despite my frantic last minute misgivings about heading back to grad school and formally giving up my unemployed supermom position, I went through with it. Which is why you haven’t heard so much as a squeak from me since. Turns out getting a master’s degree wasn’t the vacation I was hoping it would be. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">After one semester of a full course load and a clinical internship my worst fears were confirmed. I was going to have to, like, hustle. If you recall my very busy summer <a href="http://notaboutbaby.blogspot.com/2010/08/time-management.html">schedule</a>, I try to keep mental and manual labor to less than fifteen minutes a day. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Thankfully, my superhero powers of speed-reading and rapid-fire bullshit production held for one semester. I limped into December with a slight reliance on booze and medication and hefting an extra five (okay, fifteen) pounds. My husband was really shining as a homemaker and breadwinner, but he wasn’t exactly having a great time. Especially when I came home after 50 hours out of the house and acted like a crazy bitch. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">I know, you think I’m setting you up so you’ll feel bad when I tell you I failed and dropped out. As if. I got all As, thank you very much. Well, one was an A-, which a friend told me is not really an A. Really? Then why’s it got an A in it? In the interest of full disclosure, in case you’re uptight, too, I got one A-. (And not so much as a certificate in the mail from the dean, I might add. Rip off.) Despite all this wild success, I was sick of hearing myself complain to everyone who would listen, so I begged the department chair to let me drop down to part time going forward. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">I felt bad about this little change in plan, as it added a full year to my graduation date. “So what?” pointed out my husband. “It’s not like this degree in Social Work is a money making venture.” Point well taken, sir. I made a lot of noise about wanting to be there for child, hearth, and home, but it really hadn’t taken me long to figure out that this new plan bought me another summer of unemployment. I felt that looked pretty good on me last year, so I’m looking forward to adding more data points to that line of research. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Right now I’m two months into this latest semester, and two classes lighter. Next year is even lighter with a break from the clinical internship hours. Time, precious time! Today I put 9 hours into homemade chicken stock, Thai lemongrass soup, and chicken curry. I took a small time out for an online test. We started mixing cocktails at 5:00 pm. I took a bath with my little monster child. And now I’m talking to myself in this blog and listening to Shakira (on Pandora, for chrissakes, it’s not like I paid for it).</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Balance! Love it. It’s one of the many privileges of the yuppie, middle-class, educated, socioeconomic bracket I enjoy membership in. That’s something I’m learning about at social worker school. But I digress. I’ll get into the liberal politics my newfound career demands in a later blog. Something for you to look forward to… </div>Pennyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11631516095847621486noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2588982849859799519.post-79371255345786258572010-08-30T11:55:00.000-07:002010-08-30T11:55:14.659-07:00A Little Early for Soul Searching<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Helvetica;">It's now a mere three entries into this over-sharing of my life that was supposed to be a fun, snarky, rant-fest in which I get to rag on people who aren't like me. So it's a little early, nay, way early, to insert a 'what does it all mean?' piece. But I'm on my way home from a week away, jammed in a plane with 150 other weary travelers, and I am sitting here thinking, "Shit. What am I doing?"</span><br />
<div><br />
</div><div>To be more specific, I am questioning my whole plan for the future, at least the most immediate part of it. I just came from several days with a friend who gives me a tiny glimpse into what having a sister might be. I then spent several more days at an extravagant event with my mom that existed specifically to cater to my artsy hobby. During this time, of course, I've been separated from my family. So all these things conspire against me, in their own way, to make me question a few things that I've previously spouted off about in a loud, obnoxious manner. </div><div><br />
</div><div>If I'm being honest, I will tell you that this event was a scrapbooking weekend. Okay, so that's done. I will briefly defend the whole scrapbooking issue by saying that this weekend included classes about photography and editing software; an address by an award-winning journalist with a story that will haunt my heart for a long time; and opportunities to use paper and fabric and ribbon and paint and glue and my hands. This is no joke, this brand of scrapbooking. These people are very, very talented mixed media artists, so back off me. </div><div><br />
</div><div>The relevant deal with these particular scrapbooking chicks is that their leaders are largely blonde, gorgeous, successful women who appear to be about 32 years old. However, they all have somewhere between 4 and 9 kids, and one or two grandchildren. One of them joked that they get married at 12 - it's part of the religion. Based on the condition of their skin, I'm tempted to believe them, because it's the only math that allows me to believe they are mothers of mothers. All weekend long I'm looking at pictures of these large families and rows of beautiful children, born to women who also manage to have their own seriously successful companies, product lines, design houses, and teaching careers. </div><div><br />
</div><div>While at the event, I overhear one of my friends say, "I believe it's important to have lineage that is both horizontal <i>and</i> vertical." She was explaining why she needed to have more than one child. She has two boys - grown now - who love each other and will be there for each other as the family ages. During the passing of the years, these young men may reinvent themselves to the world, but not to one another. Your siblings remember who you were before you were smart enough to try to be someone else. </div><div><br />
</div><div>But this concern, this idea, isn't new to me. I've been here, examined it, and put it aside many times. This time, the crack in my one-child policy comes during a week away from that only child, our longest separation since her birth. I am weakened by her absence; missing the feel of her skin and the sound of her tiny voice, the things that normally keep me grounded in the present. Someday she will be gone from my side, and in fact, she is already beginning this process at age two. It's lonely, it's scary, the idea of it. An easy fix is to have another baby. </div><div><br />
</div><div>I follow this train of thought, flying down the track at break neck speed, causing a series of inevitable ideas that if pursued would change my whole life. No sense in starting graduate school this week! Why take on the loans, the expense? No, I'll just stay home and have these imaginary babies and make tons of nifty craft projects to sell on Etsy. Yes, that's what I'll do! I just spent a weekend getting so charged with inspiration that the very idea of doing anything other than opening my own studio seems like a complete waste of my incredible and obvious talent. </div><div><br />
</div><div>I actually get excited for a minute. How am I going to tell my husband about this change of plan? Sure, he'll be pissed. But seriously, he should be so grateful that I figured this out two days before grad school starts. We can probably get most of our money back! During this little epiphany, which actually started a day earlier and was now way out of control, I was interrupted by a row of three little girls, sisters, seated behind me on the plane. The smallest spent the bulk of the three hour flight kicking the hell out of my seat. She broke up the routine at the end to loudly fight with her sisters. And so the spell was broken. </div><div><br />
</div><div>I remembered where I was - hurtling towards home. Closer every minute to my own reality, and further from the alternate one presented so attractively in Arizona. My husband, a saint who had taken over for an entire week so I could take a break and prepare for this next adventure, was waiting for me. My daughter, the real one, the one that is here <i>now</i>, is sleeping in her little bed and I will walk in and wake her up and snuggle her. Our life is good; no, great; and it's the one we chose. I can't live someone else's life, even if it looks really cool, especially when you add a glittery scrapbook border to the family portrait. </div><div><br />
</div><div>I decided, just now, to stop obsessing about the composition of our family. I think about my friend, Nicole, with whom I spent three too-short days this week. She is my sister. She saw me reinvent myself once, and she remembers who I was, and will certainly remind me of it, should I need reminding. Together again, we fell into an old, easy rhythm. No amount of time passes that is too much for us to overcome in about three minutes. </div><div><br />
</div><div>I think about my brother's girlfriend. She has a little boy - a two year old boy that has captured our hearts with so much force that it actually brings tears to my eyes to think of them ever leaving us. Slowly, and also somehow suddenly, I have come to think of him as my nephew. I think about my husband's family, his wonderful, wonderful family that I am incredibly blessed to have added to my own.</div><div><br />
</div><div>I realize what this whole freak out is about. It's about me being scared of the future, of this big commitment we've made. Two years in a rigorous graduate program will mean a rigid schedule, a tight budget, and sacrifices on the part of my family. It means choosing one path over another, taking a leap, gambling. And I'm going to have a hard time appreciating the sights on this road if I'm wasting time worrying about the view I might have from somewhere else. So maybe I didn't figure out the meaning of life on this plane trip, and maybe I wrote a really long and embarrassingly emotional blog while I was at it. But I do know that I can't wait to get home to my perfect life, and leave everyone else behind to worry about their own.</div><div><br />
</div><div><i>editor's note: Snarky, bitchy commentary to return next week. Several days back at school should likely give Penny something to complain about. </i></div><div><br />
</div>Pennyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11631516095847621486noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2588982849859799519.post-69450997818809492682010-08-26T00:05:00.000-07:002010-08-26T00:05:39.094-07:00Time Management<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Helvetica;"></span><br />
<div>I've always had a nagging feeling that I'm not particularly good at managing my time. Procrastination has long been an issue of mine, and my secret superhero ability to both read and produce written work at an accelerated rate is the only reason I've been able to graduate college and maintain a job. At the last, most desperate hour, I am able to quickly pull together a reasonable facsimile of a finished product. </div><div><br />
</div><div>Now that I've been navigating the waters of stay-at-home-mom-ness, I'm finding my quick read skills aren't particularly handy. Aside from the occasional label reading, there's not much time to be saved in my current daily tasks of grocery shopping and laundry. God knows the little beast won't allow me to speed read through bedtime stories. </div><div><br />
</div><div>On a good day, I manage to get myself and my toddler dressed and fed. If I'm feeling motivated, I'll throw in a field trip or a craft project. (Bear in mind that I consider eating doughnuts at Hannaford a field trip and coloring on junk mail with broken crayons a pretty good art project.)</div><div><br />
</div><div>I would bob merrily along in the waters of ignorance, feeling rather satisfied with my work, if it weren't for Facebook. God damn Facebook. Not just for the hours wasted each week online, but for the cheerful status updates I am constantly bombarded with. Allegedly, there are women out there who are not only getting dressed, but completing home improvement updates, performing minor surgery, and whipping up gourmet meals. If the following posts look familiar to you, you know what I'm talking about:</div><div><br />
</div><div>"So far this morning have gone to swim lessons with Peyton, baked three loaves of bread, repainted the garage, and waxed my own bikini. Later we're off for school shopping and then back home to host a block party for the neighborhood. Fun day!!"</div><div><br />
</div><div>"Just sealed the driveway! Back inside to finish a gluten-free, organic five course meal for tonight's 17 guests! After everyone goes home I'll wax the floor and shampoo the rugs!!"</div><div><br />
</div><div>"Up at 4:30 a.m. to run five miles to the gym and catch a Zumba class, then back home to clean the house for my combination Scentsy/Pampered Chef/Fake Handbag party. Hoping I have time to finish tailoring the triplets' Halloween costumes!"</div><div><br />
</div><div>I suspected that my days were just not adding up. As an experiment, I recently started tracking my time. Here's how I spent a typical August day:</div><div><br />
</div><div><b>4:00 am - </b>Awakened by small creature climbing in my bed and stealing my pillow. Go back to sleep.</div><div><b>7:15 am - </b>Reawakened by aforementioned creature patting my face and yelling, "Wake up - It's sunny out!"</div><div><b>8:00 am - </b>Roll out of bed after sufficient time lolling around like the two adorable, lazy pigs we are.</div><div><b>8:15 am - </b>Put up brief and rather uninspired fight about toddler eating breakfast in front of TV; turn on PBS Kids; toss her a carnation instant breakfast and some grapes.</div><div><b>8:30 am - </b>Pick up my shorts off floor from previous day, put on; find clean outfit to replace toddler's current princess costume. </div><div><b>8:31 am - </b>Buckle princess in car for preschool drop off.</div><div><b>8:32 am - </b>Run back inside for sippy cup... <b>8:33 am - </b>Run back inside for sunglasses... <b>8:34 am - </b>Run back inside for phone.</div><div><b>8:45 am - </b>Enjoy a child drop off so fraught with separation anxiety that child throws up three times. Proceed to parking lot and throw up a few times myself.</div><div><b>9:15 am - </b>Accidentally arrive at mall full 45 minutes before Apple store opens, so park it on a mall couch and use Apple's wireless signal to spend 2 hours online while simultaneously gossiping on my cell phone.</div><div><b>12:00 pm - </b>Pick up a grateful, sobbing toddler and head home to finish the lunch she refused to eat during her hunger strike; tuck her in for nap.</div><div><b>1:15 pm - </b>Skim debris from kiddie pool, whip out pool float, and provide welcome distraction to work-from-home-husband by floating topless in said pool for remainder of nap time. Send several important and pressing text messages.</div><div><b>3:30 pm - </b>Get small creature up from nap; realize day is nearly over and desperately pull frozen rock of meat out of freezer for dinner, speed clean kitchen, and poor day's first glass of wine.</div><div><b>4:00 pm - </b>Sitting in swingset 'tree fort', kicking it with toddler and hollering for daddy to quit working already.</div><div><br />
</div><div>Upon review of my time diary, it's rather clear that I'm not living up to my full potential. I could have easily fit in a nap myself if I had skipped the errand and moved pool time up. Either way, this schedule is hardly Facebook-worthy. Mulling over my day's accomplishments, I start to wonder if I just need to begin speaking a different language. Perhaps all those super moms out there are taking some liberties? </div><div><br />
</div><div>Applying my secret decoder ring, I have developed the following, social media-ready update: </div><div><br />
</div><div>"Today I worked on L's transition to fall preschool, built a new computer with some spare parts, and did some modeling! Just cleaned kitchen top to bottom and am headed outside for some exercise with the family before home-cooked meal! Whew, full day!!" </div><div><br />
</div><div>Now that I can compete, I better go log in. Well, as soon as I finish photoshopping my new profile picture... </div><div><br />
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</div></div>Pennyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11631516095847621486noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2588982849859799519.post-67925669138738710752010-08-20T06:55:00.000-07:002010-08-20T07:04:25.879-07:00My One and Only<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Helvetica;"></span><br />
<div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial;">There is a pressing issue I'd like to discuss with the legions of baby pushers out there, and it is this: only children. Since when is it appropriate to approach a complete stranger on the street, paw at their adorable two year old, and demand to know when more offspring are forthcoming? This happens to me on a regular basis, not to mention the assault by well-meaning coworkers, family members, and friends. </span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial;"><br />
</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial;">Let's be perfectly honest here - I'm not that great of a parent. I don't need to add another child to the mix to have the horrifying realization that we'd all be better off if I only had one. I can see it with my mind's eye quite clearly, and it's not a pretty picture. Right now I have all I can manage to keep my marriage, child, and personal agendas afloat. I'm happy with my small family, as is my husband. So why does this make me feel so guilty? </span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial;"><br />
</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial;">In a <a href="http://www.wired.com/science/discoveries/commentary/dissection/2008/02/dissection_0208#ixzz0wu5Sdt0">2008 commentary</a>, Carl Zimmerman examines the growing trend of only children. He points out that natural selection isn't just about having a lot of offspring. "The more offspring an animal has, the less energy it can give each one. If a hawk can't supply its chicks with enough food, they may not live long enough to have chicks of their own." Obviously, having another child isn't going to kill my first daughter. But what toll might it have on me? </span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial;"><br />
</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial;">I enjoy having time for things outside of childrearing. I've noticed that women seem to be defensive about their mothering - we want to make sure everyone knows we love being mothers and that our kids come first. News flash: this isn't anything to brag about. Of course my daughter comes first - she's two years old. She would die if I didn't put her first. That doesn't mean I don't want to be a close second. </span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial;"><br />
</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial;">In our constant need to validate ourselves, we attack the choices of other parents. I myself have been guilty of ragging on women who I think leave their kids too long at daycare, and alternately, those that spend too much time mothering. In the world of bitchy-ass women, you can never win. </span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial;"><br />
</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial;">One of the most irritating things about admitting to having an 'only' is the fear that people think I don't like being a parent. I find myself giving people this little speech about how I love being a mom and I want to focus on our one daughter. As if people assume I'm not happy with my baby because I don't want any more. And that's my own baggage. </span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial;"><br />
</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial;">I admire women who deftly manage three kids, a career, and a vivacious sex life with their admiring spouses. I'm just not that much of a go-getter. This isn't an attack on your choice, just a request to respect mine. So the next time you see someone with a gorgeous toddler, don't bug them. It might be me, and I'm too busy to talk to you - I'm with my daughter. I may not pass this way again, and I don't want to miss a thing.</span></div>Pennyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11631516095847621486noreply@blogger.com2