Real O'Clock: The Feminine Mystique

Every now and then here at the Grey Skies World Headquarters, we like to take it down a notch, from our usual wine-guzzling, Walking Dead-watching, geek con-going ways and get Real. If this were a rock concert, now would be the part where I sit atop a stool, mic in hand, spotlight on, and croon "Every Rose Has A Thorn" while swaying gently, like my depth and emotion are far too sincere to be contained by sitting still.

Get out your lighters (or cell phone screens), because it's about to get Real O'Clock all up in here.

Thanks to the magic of technology, I've actually spent the last three months reading books in addition to parenting two kids, one of whom requires my help for even the simplest of things like eating, moving from place to place, falling asleep, and holding his head up. We're working on all of that. I'm all about teaching my kids independence. For example, this year we let our 3 1/2-year old, the Juban Princeling, do his own taxes.


I read Tina Fey's hilarious and thoughtful autobiography, Bossy Pants, as well as a surprisingly excellent but completely depressing book called Soft Apocalypse by William McIntosh. (Don't read it if you have a weak stomach or are prone to nightmares or worry about the end of the world.)

My husband read The Feminine Mystique a few years ago because he's awesome, and thought that as a stay at home mom I would enjoy reading it myself. Because somehow in my 36-year old feminist life I haven't read it yet. I didn't take that many women's studies classes in college - maybe two. But I've never read that most famous of Second Wave manifestos, The Feminine Mystique.


And I don't think I will.


I started reading it a few weeks ago, but could not make it through chapter 2.


Here's why.


1. It's too relevant to my life.
Reading about mothers who share peanut butter sandwiches with their kids, or feel like they are on their feet running around all day yet accomplish very little, hit home for me in a hard way. On days that I don't write, or meet up with friends, or have a date night with my husband, it's easy to feel like I'm spinning my wheels, like my days are a carousel of dishes, bottles, diapers, dropping off, picking up, calming, soothing, and bathing. Thanks to our society's perpetual finger-wagging at mothers no matter what we do, I have days when I never stop beating myself up: if my kids are asleep, or away, I feel like I should be taking full advantage of that time to clean, or write, or run errands. When they are awake and home I feel like I should devote 100% of my attention to them. I want them to be independent, but I worry they get bored. I want them to be entertained and educated, but I worry they get overstimulated. I want to spend time playing with them, but I want them to learn how to keep themselves entertained. 


In other words, sometimes "mom" isn't enough for me. Clearly our Second Wave Feminist foremothers knew that.


2. It's too irrelevant to my life.
All that said, I do write, and I do have friends, and I do have date nights with my husband. I have a rich, full life outside my children. I am lucky enough to live in a privileged position where the choice to stay home is exactly that - my choice. Far too many mothers I know of either have to work to make ends meet, or have to stay home because of the high cost of child care - not all of us live near parents or siblings or friends who are able to watch our kids all day.


Unlike the women in The Feminine Mystique, I never felt forced to marry and have children. I never felt the strain of having to choose between having a career versus having a family. I went into stay at home motherhood with my eyes wide open, knowing exactly what I walked into, and knowing that it was 100% my choice. For every moment that I feel like I'm spinning my wheels, there are ten more where I cannot imagine life without my children and experience a depth of joy I didn't know was possible.


And had my husband been the type of man who clings to traditional gender roles and expected me to stay home to raise our children, or forced me to go back to work for the money, or did not do his share of the chores and child care when he's home, or did not respect my opinions and value conversations with me on issues both large and small, this would not be possible. 

The husband - then still just my boyfriend - and I,
Washington, DC, April 2004

3. I can appreciate the book and its impact without reading it.
I'm a writer and a reader, but I've never read Moby Dick and I probably never will. I've also never read many other books considered classics. I do not think this makes me either a bad reader or a bad writer. 


I'm a geek who doesn't play video games or read comic books.


I'm a Yankees fan who does not watch every single game. (Anymore.)


My husband is a good father without ever having babysat.


And I'm a feminist who never read The Feminine Mystique. I just don't think the reading of it, or not, should define my commitment to the cause of women's rights. 


I am not an unthinking woman who feels some nebulous oppression in her life but can't articulate why. My eyes are open. My mind is curious. My life is my own, made up of careful choices and a lot of luck, and I would not have things any other way.


Every day, whether consciously or like chatter in the background of my mind, I know I owe my plethora of choices to the fearless pioneers that came before me and dared to stand up and speak up for women's equality. I'm never not aware of this. And I'm never not grateful.


4. It feels too much like work, and I have other things to read.
I've never been much into non-fiction anyway. The little bit I read has to be entertaining and has to make me nod vigorously in agreement while I read it. Does This Pregnancy Make Me Look Fat? by my friend Claire Mysko was one of those books; so was Pema Chodron's The Wisdom of No Escape, and Reading Women by Stephanie Staal. When I tried to read The Feminine Mystique, I just couldn't relate enough, even trying to read it in the context of the middle class housewives of the 1950s and 1960s. 

Feminist from birth. (That's not my mom holding me.)

My self-esteem is healthy enough that I refuse to allow myself to be pigeon-holed, either as a mother or as a wife or as any of my other many identities. 


I'm glad my husband read the book, because I think it helped him understand how stay at home motherhood by itself would never be fulfilling for me. But he already knew that. He's always encouraged me to go back to work, or not, or go back to school, or not, or write, or not, as I wish. Before our children were even conceived he told me, "Your happiness is not a luxury." He's never taken me - or my happiness, or quest for fulfillment - for granted, or diminished or disrespected my desire for something more from life. 


He's kind of really wonderful that way.


I love being a mother. I love my children. I also love many other things that make me happy. And the fact that I acknowledge these things, actively pursue non-motherly forms of happiness, and my children see it? That's pretty damn feminist right there.


What books do you know you should read, but probably never will?

...don't say anything at all

This being my second go-round on the Pregnancy Carousel of Suck, I am well aware of the fact that my baby bump tends to make other people stupid. 

Oh, it makes me forgetful. Lately I've taken to a sort of Tara Gregson approach to what is commonly called "Pregnancy Brain." Like this:

Husband: "What's that actor's name?"
Me: "Oh, man. Non-Pregnant Meredith knows this off the top of her head. I'm going to have to look it up."

or

Form at the doctor's office: "Name:"
Me: *pulling out my driver's license*

The other day at the supermarket I meant to grab two containers of orange juice, and the next thing I knew I was standing by our shopping cart, checking to see if I had put one of them in there yet. Turns out I had only grabbed one, but the point is half a second after I would have put an oj into my cart I forgot whether or not I had done so.

While that's not nearly as bad as "How I Met Your Mother" would have us believe when earlier this season Lily gave a stapler and a bottle of wine to some trick-or-treaters, it's still not fun, especially when you usually have a mind like a steel trap. Steel! Trap! WHAT???

But, you know, at least I have the excuse of being pregnant to explain away my forgetfulness. Hormones, building a person from scratch, not being able to get comfortable when I sleep, waking several times a night to pee - none of that is good for the ol' noggin. 

Know who does not have an excuse for being stupid? Other people. Especially other (non-adoptive) mothers. You'd think that, of anyone on the entire planet, other women who have gone through the whole pregnancy rigormorale would be a little more careful about what comes out of their mouths, but they aren't. They're pretty dumb.

First, there were the several women who told me how much better sons are than daughters during my first pregnancy. Around that same time I wore a pink t-shirt one day to work and a cashier at the drugstore commented, "Oh, are you having a girl?" Because I guess failure to create another uterus inside your own bans you from the color pink forever.


Then there was my former building super, who told me over and over how his wife walked for miles every day during her pregnancies and both her labors were, like, minutes long, because as we all know, walking is the one and only key to a quick and painless labor.

A pregnant friend of mine today informed me that she told a co-worker how she now goes to bed at 9pm, to which the co-worker responded with, "You need to get a hobby!" Because if there's one thing pregnant women are, it's bored, especially when you work and already have a 2 1/2-year old.

Today I treated myself to a pre-Holiday haircut and eyebrow shaping because even feminists sometimes like to look like pretty ladies, and the woman waxing my brows - who has four grown sons of her own - said to me, "Wow, you're only about a month away, aren't you?" 

Now, my reply: "Actually, I have another four months to go," would normally embarrass and silence most people. Most people would blush and apologize, but not my brow waxer! She continued, "Wow, you're really big!"

I had no witty retort to that, so I just sort of shrugged and said, "Yeah, I'm carrying really high."

Which I am. I'm carrying so high that the baby may well come out of my rib cage ala John Hurt in "Alien," unlike my last son, whom I carried so low that by the end I had to hold him in with my knees locked together, afraid that a hard sneeze or laugh would send him shooting across the room.

So, I'm carrying high this time, but I still don't think I'm carrying particularly BIG, you know? And it certainly isn't the job of anyone else to comment on my size.


Which...bothered me, at first. As a feminist, I make a conscious effort not to fat-shame myself, which is why I can happily report that I am writing this while eating an entire pack of Twizzlers. But if I'm not feeling fat-shamed for that woman's comment, then why did it bother me so? And the answer came to me a while later: because pregnancy, like so much else concerning women's bodies, is considered public domain. Total strangers feel the need to comment upon mine, like the bartender at the Japanese restaurant my husband and I went to (DON'T WORRY, PREGNANCY POLICE, I DID NOT EAT SUSHI!), who asked me, "You're going to breastfeed, right?" while going through the motions of honking his non-existent breast. 


Because ultimately, strangers commenting on whether I look big or small is really their way of commenting on whether they think my unborn child is healthy or not, on whether I'm taking care of myself - and, more importantly, my fetus - or not. I would like to think that it's heartwarming to see such an outpouring of community concern for the well-being of the unborn next generation, but I doubt these strangers are coming from an "It Takes a Village" place. More likely they are coming from a place of judgment, something almost every mother is familiar with. Mothers are a favorite whipping-girl of our society, starting with the nanosecond our baby bumps become obvious.


For those of you who need a take-away from all of this, here is a list of perfectly nice, acceptable, non-judgey things you can say to a pregnant woman:

"You look beautiful!"


"Here's a bottle of Macallan 18-year old Scotch* for when you pop that kid out!"


"Would you like a free foot massage at the expensive day spa nearby?"


"I hope labor and delivery go according to your birth plan!"


"That child is already so lucky to have you as a mother!"


"May your baby never get colic!"


"You're already doing an awesome job!"

"I've heard that chocolate in the womb helps babies develop higher IQs and love their mothers more!"

"May your child be the first gay Jewish-Cuban President of the United States!"

And, of course, there is what my husband tells me on a nearly daily basis: "You are one sexy pregger pants." He's a smart one, is that guy.






*I did not receive any compensation or requests to endorse Macallan Scotch Whisky for this statement, but if they read this and want to send me a free bottle anyway, for when I pop this kid out, I will not protest.

Real O'Clock: Blog-In for Democracy

It's a Very Special Real O'Clock here at Grey Skies, as I lift my news blackout for just a mo' in order to participate in this Blog-In for the 2012 elections. 

For more information about Blog-In 2011, please click here.

Dear 2012 Presidential Candidates, 

We are your future constituents and we are parents. We are American mothers and fathers and grandparents and guardians. Our families might be the most diverse in the world. Blended and combined in endless permutations, we represent every major religion, political ideology and ethnic culture that exists. We are made from equal parts biology and choice. Our children come to us in every way possible—including fertility miracles, adoption, and remarriage. 

Our very modern families embody the freedom that defines America. We embody America. We are rich in diversity, but we are united in our family values. We come together today, with one voice, to express our grave disappointment in the national political discourse. 

The 2012 countdown has barely begun and we are already being bombarded with the warmed-over, hypocritical rhetoric of 2008. We are living in a time where 25% of Americans now live in poverty, the unemployment rate stands at 16%, and we are spending close to $170 billion annually between the wars in Iraq and Afghanistan. 

Given the current state of affairs we would expect every candidate to focus on the issues that truly matter: job creation, debt-relief, taxes, education, poverty, and ending the war(s). Instead, it is already clear to us that the conversation has been hijacked, with the goal of further polarizing our nation into a politically motivated and falsely created class-war. 

We will not stand for another campaign year in which politicians presume to know what our family values are as they relate to the nation. 

To be clear, here are our family values: 

Affordable health care, including family planning, for all Americans. We will not tolerate any candidate using the shield of “Choice” to blind us from the issues that really matter. When funding is stripped from organizations like Planned Parenthood, access to sliding-scale health care (including yearly pap smears & mammograms), comprehensive sex education, and family planning is blocked from the poorest of the population.

Access to education, and the ability to actually use it. We want quality, affordable, federally-funded pre-K programs made available in every State, in order to provide an even starting point for all children enrolled in public schools— regardless of the wealth of the district or town they live in.

A reinstatement of regulations for banks issuing mortgages and full prosecution for those who engaged in fraudulent lending practices. We want full accountability —investigation, indictment and prosecution— of those individuals and institutions who engaged in fraudulent lending practices and who helped create the massive foreclosures that left many families homeless or struggling to keep their homes.

A return of strict environmental regulations protecting water, air, food, and land that were removed in the last two decades. We want our children to grow up in a world not weighed down by the strains of pollution and global warming. Between BPA in our products, sky-rocketing rates of asthma in kids, questionable hormones in our over-processed food, and more, we need leaders who will put our needs and safety over the desires and profits of large corporations. 

Family planning, healthcare, education, economic solvency and environmental safety: these are our national family values. 

Candidates who demonstrate the ability to understand the gravity of these issues, and their impact on our families, and who can provide actual, viable solutions to these problems will garner our support and our votes. 

We believe in this democratic system of ours, and we will continue to use our voices and our votes to see that it reaches its fullest potential. 

Sincerely, 

Your future constituents, The mothers & fathers of America 

If you would like to forward this letter to your elected officials, you can find their contact info at the following links: http://www.senate.gov/general/contact_information/senators_cfm.cfm https://writerep.house.gov/writerep/welcome.shtml




* Sources for stats: http://money.cnn.com/2011/09/13/news/economy/poverty_rate_income/index.htm http://www.breitbart.com/article.php?id=CNG.4452bed82adf3124e5884678e236d7fb.361 http://costofwar.com/en/ 

There's a Book For That

I have absolutely no idea how to raise my child.

It's not like they give you classes or make you pass an exam in order to have a child. One day I went to the hospital to have this 7-lb, 11-oz mass removed from my abdomen, and they handed me a baby, a total stranger, and said I had to take care of him for the next 18 or so years. WTF? How is that fair to either of us? What, I'm supposed to automatically know what to do with a PERSON I've never met before just because he came out of my body? Who designed this shenanigan?

And so, like any good clueless, but well-intentioned, mammal, every time some sort of crisis or mini-crisis or whatever has come up, I've thrown a book at the problem. Not an actual parenting book; those are for sissies, and besides, I've yet to hear of one that isn't 100% full of crap ideas that never work in real life, where they insist you try to reason with your child in some way that does not involve lollipops and/or massive time-outs. One night, when our son was having a particularly bad night terror (he gets those), I found my well-meaning LAWYER husband in our son's room trying to reason with him. With a two year old. At 2:30 in the morning. During a night terror.

Juban Princeling: "I AM SCREAMING BLOODY MURDER FOR NO REAL REASON EXCEPT THAT I HAVE NIGHT TERRORS!"

Husband: "Son, calm down. You are acting like a wild person. Try to use your words and tell me what the matter is so we can talk about it."

Me: *shoving a sippy cup full of milk into my son's wide-open mouth and walking away*

Lesson: You can't lawyer away a toddler's night terror.



No, I don't believe in parenting books.

But I do believe in letting adorable cartoon animals do the heavy-lifting parenting for me. Why should I do all the work, when writers who clearly are better at imparting sage life lessons can do it for me? I don't call it lazy parenting, I call it smart parenting.


When my son started hitting, we read this.

When it was time to give up the bottle, we read this.

For potty training we read him this, this, and this.

He learned his colors by reading this.

To encourage him to give up his paci (YES I KNOW, SHUT UP), we're reading him this.

And to prepare him for his younger sibling we have this.


And today, after his nap, we're off to the big B&N to buy "Everybody Poops." Because bribes with candy and his own messes in his undies aren't working to get him to do #2 in the potty, and I'm plum out of ideas. What, like I've ever had to potty train anyone before? There are experts for that. And if the book doesn't work, maybe my husband can draw up a contract for him or something.

Love Hurts

Yesterday morning I took my son, the Juban Princeling, to a nearby playground. I was actually quite looking forward to our day together, as it would be the last day of just us two for a while: today he has daycare, and tomorrow my parents fly into town for a week.

The Princeling was engaging in his favorite activity, swinging a gate back and forth. I bent down to pull up his pants, which were falling down, and he swung the gate, hard, into my head. Stunned for a second, I reached up to touch the tender spot where the gate had made contact, and my fingers came away covered in blood. I stuffed the Princeling into his stroller, called his daycare babysitter, and ran him to her. He was happy enough to be there. I then walked myself to the nearby emergency room, where, 2 1/2 hour later, I walked out with a tetnus shot in my left arm and two staples in my scalp:

It's exactly as painful as it looks.

I picked up the Princeling on my way home. Despite what my father said on the phone about my son being wholly unaware of what he had done to me, I considered pressing assault charges.

My mom: "For what, elder abuse?"

Hardee har har.

When we got home I cut off my hospital wrist band and taped it to the Princeling's baby book with a little description of what happened. This way I can use this as guilt-trip fodder for the rest of his natural life.

Happy 21-Months, Juban Princeling!

I can't believe this happened 21 months ago - and that in just three more short months I'm going to have a 2-year old on my hands!

I love you, little boy, so very much. You are the best son a mother could ever ask for.