Fear not, dear readers, we have not forgotten you.  Read on, please.

An anonymous Mom recently posted the following bit on one of our local Mom’s list-servs.  I really feel for this woman, and I totally understand where she is coming from.  What do you think?  What advice do you have for her?

How to balance worry against real life constraints?

this is anonymous because I’m starting to think my anxiety is turning into a real mental health issue.

I have been a member of this list-serv for about a year and in that time have discovered so many things to worry about that I’ve lost track. Specifically about chemicals/toxins/things that I didn’t even know existed. I see posts all the time about how there are “guaranteed neurotoxins” in my son’s clothes and mattress, or hormones in the water, or see posts about people replacing ice cube trays and eliminating plastic from their houses and it’s gotten to the point where I’m actually developing insomnia because my anxiety around this stuff is getting out of hand. I don’t have the ability to replace things or buy more expensive versions of things, or replace things that are not worn out with safer versions. My husband and I both have fairly low paying state jobs, and we can’t buy a new mattress and we can’t start shopping at harvest or whole foods and we can’t throw out all our gladware and buy glass containers, and my son eats processed costco chicken nuggets at daycare 2 days a week because that’s what she serves. And even writing this is starting to give me a panick attack.

I couldn’t sleep for a couple hours last night because I kept thinking that my son is going to grow up poisoned and mentally delayed because we have been letting him sleep on a (brand new) crib mattress that my parents bought us when he was born for three years, and that his hormones are disrupted because I use the same gladware I’ve been using for 2 years to store dinner leftovers. I’m starting to feel crazy.

I can’t be the only one that has to make do with the less-than-best choices for financial or other reasons. How do you stop the worry from making you nuts?

I’m not going to point out all the reasons why feminism is still relevant and necessary, why women have yet to achieve full equality in politics, business, commerce, religion, and a variety of other important realms of American society.  Joslyne did a great job at that, and the statistics are disturbingly easy to find, if you’re interested.

My concerns with the piece are a bit broader, and while they could apply to any number of modern controversies, I’ll stick to the topic at hand.

Several years ago, Josh and I were driving across the country.  Somewhere in the middle, we drove past a large billboard which read, “Without absolutes there is chaos”.  The words on that sign, as well as the thinking behind them, have remained in the back of my thoughts over the years as I have watched our country engage in two wars and struggle with a number of other foreign and domestic policy issues.  And they immediately came to mind when I thought about what I would write today.

Yes, muddling in the middle, acknowledging the shades of grey, the diversity of reality, is messy.  Even chaotic at times.  I certainly understand the desire to pack it all up in neat little boxes, this one black, this one white, and call it a day.  Life is much easier that way.  But, as better mothers than me have said, Life Isn’t Easy.

When I read statements such as ”feminism has developed a mean streak” and “ these women,” I have to wonder.  Has the author interviewed every feminist on the planet?  How is she defining feminism?  Does one have to be an angry, militant man-hater in order to be a true feminist?

What about those of us in the middle?  My daughter has my last name.  (There are many reasons for this, but feminism played no small part in the choice.)  We are Reconstructionist Jews, and the movement’s focus on egalitarianism is important to us.  Josh and I hope to send our children to a Jewish day school at some point, but only one that will afford our daughter all the same rights, privileges, and opportunities as the male students.

Every day I try to instill in my daughter the strength and individualism that my family taught me, but I also know that I am not raising her in a vacuum.  Josh and I have a responsibility to raise our daughter in communities that value girls as much as boys, but we also have to educate her about the reality of the world, the reality that many, many women still don’t have full rights or access – to education, employment, and health care, among other things.

So, yes, I agree that “We [women] are… capable of anything we set our minds to,” but that doesn’t mean the rest of society will always agree, or offer us (as women) an easy path to success.  We can’t be complacent about it, as there is still a long way to go, especially when one looks beyond American borders.  (You don’t need to search very far for examples – just this afternoon I heard a piece on NPR’s Here and Now about an organization that helps American women who have moved overseas with their husbands and end up trapped in abusive relationships.  And those are American women – there are countless stories of women in other countries who are forced into marriages or face mercy killings, for example.  The examples are numerous, and painful to consider.)

The point is, the work of feminism isn’t done.  And every time someone lumps all feminists together under one flaming camouflaged banner, the choices that many of us make on a daily basis are discounted.  The grey area becomes smaller and smaller, and we are left to believe that our only choices are angry fighter or oblivious Pollyanna.  The good news is that there are many, many options in between, but they must be acknowledged.

We mothers and fathers have a responsibility to raise our sons and daughters to be feminists.  We have a responsibility to make decisions based on our values, and to teach them that are many ways to live out those values.  Finally, if we don’t teach our children to look for the grey, the nuance, the variety and diversity of life, well, they’ll be stuck seeing the world in black and white.

The Feminist Train

So, it’s still March.  Which means it’s still Women’s History Month.  Now, I know a lot of people get all excited about Women’s History Month.  The library features books by women. Schools make kids do reports on women. Etc. etc.  My response is, “Ooh. We get a whole month.” Note the sarcasm. So in honor of women, not just the month we’re “celebrated,” I am writing about why I am a feminist.  And why you should be too.

With apologies to no one, I am a feminist. I believe women should have the same opportunities as men and be equal in all aspects. Some people seem to think women have achieved equal rights in this country.  These people are often white.  They are often middle-class or upper-middle class.  And they are often not women.  Well, I definitely didn’t get the memo about women being equal.  And I think women of color were completely left off the distribution list. Some people incorrectly believe women getting the vote was all it took for women to be “equal.”  But let’s ask a simple question: Do women earn the same wages as men? Um . . . no, we still do not earn the same pay as men for the same job.  White women earn .77 cents for every man-dollar.  Women of color earn from .58 cents to .68 cents.  The U.S. Constitution still doesn’t say that women are equal under the law.  The Equal Rights Amendment, which has been introduced in every single session of congress since 1923, has yet to be passed and ratified.  And while we’re talking about government, the United States Congress has 535 members, and only 96 are women.  So for those that think feminism is outdated, get on board!  We’ve got plenty of room on the Feminist Train! Toot! Toot!

There’s a vicious rumor out there that the Feminist Train is only fueled by anger. To point fingers and claim that all feminists are angry or that the movement itself has a mean streak is to set a trap.  Let’s be honest, it’s easy to claim that all feminists are angry.  It’s the punch line to a joke.  It’s an easy out. The whole “angry feminist” idea allows one to dismiss any feminist response as angry and therefore invalid. And yes, there are angry women, angry feminists. Anger is a legitimate response to disrespect, marginalization, and prejudice.  We, as women, have plenty to be angry about.  It’s what we do with the anger that matters.  For me, the Feminist Train is also fueled by pride.  And hope.  And creativity.  And spirituality. I am proud to be a woman. Proud of my talents and capabilities.  I love the women in my life.  I respect my sisters, my mothers, my daughters, my friends. We are whole.  We are equal.  We deserve to be recognized as such.

Some people think that the early feminists were more respectable than the feminists today.  They have the mistaken idea that the early feminists, like Elizabeth Cady Stanton, Abigail Adams, and Susan B. Anthony, were well behaved. Uh . . . not so much.  In 1836 Susan B. Anthony first published The Revolution, a journal that advocated for African American and women’s rights (a shocking notion at the time).  In 1872 Anthony was arrested for voting illegally.  Abigail Adams believed in women’s rights and education.  She had the audacity to write a letter to her husband threatening to “foment a Rebellion (in which women) will not hold ourselves bound by any Laws in which we have no voice or Representation.”[1] Ballsy, no?.  Elizabeth Cady Stanton revised the Bible to be inclusive of women.  The BIBLE, people (how awesome is that?).  It seems to be true that “well behaved women seldom make history.”[2] These women did not make changes by speaking softly, keeping their ankles crossed, and following rules.  So if you want to get a little raucous, come on down!  And if you don’t want to be a rule breaker, or even raise your voice, that’s fine.  Really it is.  But don’t tear down the blue-haired, bra-less woman or the mom in jeans and a spit-up stained t-shirt who are taking to the streets to fight for your rights.  The least we can do is have their back.

So, love yourself.  Love your daughter.  Love your mom, your wife, your neighbor.  Grab your bag and get on board.  I’ve saved a seat for you, right here, next to me.  You can have the window.  I brought snacks for us to share.  I’ll let you sleep on my shoulder when the journey wears you down.  I’ll hold your hand if you get scared in the dark.  Come on.  Let’s go together.  We’ll get each other through. Because, really, that’s what the Feminist Train is all about. (Toot! Toot!)

[2] http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Laurel_Thatcher_Ulrich

When I was a little girl, I wanted to be in the ice capades.  Not because I wanted to ice skate with Big Bird and Elmo and Cinderella, but because I really wanted to wear the fancy headdresses.

Every once in awhile I would try to dress up.  By dress up I mean dress like a girl.  A girly girl.  You know, “skirts” and “tops” and “shoes that match purses” and “makeup”.  Sadly, I think the pinnacle of my fashion career was in 3rd grade when I insisted on wearing the same red and purple striped dress every day.  (I only got to wear it every other day, because Mom wanted to wash it in between wearings.  Hmph.)  By high school I had resigned myself to pink umbros, t-shirts from my best friend’s father’s construction company, and Birkenstocks.

It was not a good look, and definitely not girly.  Or princessy.

Things didn’t get much better through high school and college, but over time I got more comfortable in my own skin.  I came to realize, and mostly accept, that I will never ever be able to get my hair to look like it does when I leave the salon.  (Which is ok, really, because I only get my hair cut every 6 months or so.)  I still can’t figure out how to wear a blazer (or if blazers are even in style any more).  I don’t know how to shop for clothes, and I’m not very good at wearing them.  I wore clogs to work.  Every day.  And peaking of work – one of the best parts about having left my full time job is getting to wear yoga pants and jeans every day.

And now I have a daughter.  A stunningly beautiful daughter who is becoming increasingly girly.  We buy her trucks, she wants to feed baby.  I try to build towers with her, she wants to push her dolls around in the stroller.  She spent a couple of weeks obsessed with wearing bows in her hair, and she loves wearing dresses.

Here’s the thing.  I don’t have a problem with my daughter becoming a girly-girl.  I don’t even mind if she gets into Princesses and Fairies (because at least that would mean she was watching TV, right, and that would be, well, great).

I know, I shouldn’t say this.  I shouldn’t write this.  I shouldn’t think this.  I shouldn’t be encouraging my daughter to get sucked into a culture in which women are expected to “perform” their gender in certain ways, ways that objectify them, that focus on appearance, that crush their individuality, that pander to others’ expectations.  And just to be clear, I won’t encourage it, mostly because I don’t know how.  But if it’s what she wants, well, I’m not going to fight it.

My husband is a great dresser.  He’s fashionable, he knows how to shop, and he knows how to put together “outfits”.  So, the Chooch may have the genetic material and parental guidance necessary to pull off the girly girl.

That doesn’t worry me.

What worries me is that she may lose the rest of herself in the process.

She’s always had a strong personality – a powerful, energetic, expressive personality.  Like me, she wears her heart on her sleeve.  She’s not quiet.  She’s not reserved.  She has strong opinions and she’s not afraid to tell everyone all about them.

I love all of that about her, and I don’t want her to ever feel like she has to hide some side of herself, or conceal her feelings, or change herself in order to fit into someone else’s expectations.  She’s so real right now, and I hope she always will be.

I don’t mind if she wants to wear glittery shoes and skirts and tiaras, as long as she doesn’t let them slow her down or trip her up  as she’s chattering away and singing and spinning and running across the playground and stealing toys.

That’s what I worry about.

Having a daughter obsessed with princesses is one of my biggest fears. And yes, I realize if that’s one of my biggest fears then my life is pretty darn good.  But here’s the thing:  self-esteem, especially for girls is, well, kind of important.  In fact, one might even use the word “critical”.    For Zoey to be obsessed with, and compare herself to, Princesses that have little in common with her (different hair, different skin tone, unattainable body, etc) is scary for me.  I don’t want her to want to be something she can’t be.  And, more importantly, I don’t want her to want to be a vapid princess obsessed with men and love, all at the expensive of herself, her freedom, her body.

But here’s the thing.  I’m afraid that if I lash out too strongly against princesses and all things princess-y, Zoey will have no choice but to become a princess-loving nightmare.  So, next March, for my daughter, I am going to run the Disney Princess Half Marathon.  I will be running with my BFF from college.  She also has a daughter and, really, I can’t think of anything better for our daughters to see than their moms running a race that celebrates women, strength, and courage.

This princess half marathon thing was posted in my Facebook feed today and provoked some, uh, strong responses.  Most of which were disbelief that I would be involved in such an event.  Especially considering my previously declared “dislike” of princesses. Now, if the event was, say, a pageant, or a display of ball gowns, you bet your bootay I would so not be there.  But it’s a road race.  A long, sweaty, endurance race.  At least it is for me, someone who has no intention of ever running an ultra.  So while a lot of the comments of my face book page were, “You’re kidding?” or “You’re crazy”, there was one comment that prefectly shows why I’m doing it.  The beautiful AL wrote, “I REALLY want video of Cinderella yelling ‘Get up that hill! You can do this! 20 more steps!’”  That is my version of a princess, baby!  Cinderella training Snow White to kick some ass on the pavement.  Princesses running their race, flushed with confidence, full of strength.  Princesses running because it feels good to run and because they can.

No?

Yeah, well, ahem.  Me neither.

Back to what I wasn’t saying.  I read Siri Hustvedt’s opinion piece in the New York Times with great interest, mostly because I’ve decided that Pickle (#2, due in June) is going to be a colicky non-sleeper, and I’m terrified.  I’m terrified because even though I have a 16 month old daughter, I don’t have the vaguest idea what to do with a baby who doesn’t sleep.  I’m not going to go into the details of my daughter’s sleeping habits, as doing so would undoubtedly incite more than one of our mother-readers (assuming we have more than one) to reach through the twisted tubes of the interwebs and strangle me.

Despite the fact that I don’t yet have much experience with sleep training, I still have opinions about this article.  Many of them.  Some of them are quite similar to what my dear Joslyne recently wrote, so I will spare you the duplicate responses.

However, this is one sentence that really twisted my knickers, and I feel compelled to comment on it:

“But sleep training is counterintuitive.”

That’s just a fancy way of saying that sleep training is hard.  Well, I may not know much about getting a kid to sleep, but I know as much as any mother of a 16 month old, and we all know that there is an awful lot about raising a baby that is hard, and we do it anyway.

It would be much easier to let the kid watch tv all day (for those of you who are blessed with a kid who will actually watch tv) and eat mac n cheese for every meal and push other kids and wander around in poopy diapers and play with knives and do all the things they want to do but we don’t let them.  We set boundaries and limits and if that means they cry and feel terrible and mad and frustrated, well, we deal with it.

No mother likes to see her child in pain, but sometimes we suck it up because there is a bigger point, a greater purpose, or nothing else we can do.

I do not sleep as well as my daughter.  Especially when I’m pregnant.  There are many, many mornings when I wake up feeling almost as tired as I was the night before.  I stumble through the day, unable to accomplish even the most basic tasks and cope with even the smallest tantrums.  My patience virtually disappears, and I snap.  A lot.  At everyone.  My mood fluctuates constantly, and I am reduced to tears easily.  I try to eat my fatigue away, which inevitably sends me on a sugar-induced rollercoaster.  It’s super pleasant.  Just ask my husband.  He’ll tell you all about it.

That’s after ONE NIGHT without sleep.  There’s no telling what kind of psychotic bitch I would become after days, weeks, or even months of sleep deprivation.  Some people can function with little or no sleep.  I can’t.  I don’t.

So, if you happen to be one of those mothers who doesn’t need sleep, or can catch a snooze when the baby is napping during the day, or has a nanny or some other staff to help you during the day, or is addicted to No-Doze, then fine.  Stay up all night with your baby.  You go with your bad self.

But please, don’t tell mothers who engage in sleep training that they are “teach[ing] their offspring to give up hope for comfort at times inconvenient for her progenitors”.

As a clinical social worker and a mother, I’m offended.

Sleep training doesn’t destroy hope, and it sure as hell doesn’t inflict any long-term trauma on the child.  Furthermore, sleep is not a “convenience”.  It is a necessity, and sleep deprivation is related to increased depression and anxiety and other mood and thought disorders.  Sleep is not optional.

It’s ok to do what you need to do in order to sleep.  Motherhood is hard, and we all have our challenges.  Let’s try to refrain from making sweeping generalizations about the rights and wrongs of child-raising unless they are absolutely necessary.

Thanks so much for your enlightening and mildly sentimental opinion article on sleep training.  I had no idea that bedtime rituals were so important!  And did you know that we, as the ‘”primary care-takers”, are also supposed to, like, “feed” our children?  Yeah, with “food”.  Just passing on the latest info.

I’m guessing a) your child never had “sleep issues” or b) you have a nanny.  How cleaver of you to never need “interventions . . . directed more at exhausted parents than at the welfare of children.”  Some of us have a daughter that woke up every 2 or 3 hours for the first 6 months.  And then didn’t sleep through the night until after she was a year old.  Hm, maybe I should have used bedtime rituals, books, night lights, stuffed animals, comforting, etc. etc.  Oh wait, that’s right, I DID.

Clearly, you deserve a gold mothering star.  Only a truly great mother cannot “bear” to let their child cry.  Ever. Too bad I’m not one of those mothers.  I’m fine letting my child cry when I tell her she can’t play with the butcher knife.  Or put the cat in the toilet.  Or watch Sesame Street at 3 AM. But that’s just me.

Did I let my new-born cry?  Not if I could help it.  And the truth is sometimes I couldn’t help it.  I would hold her, rock her, sing to her, burp her, offer her a pony . . . and still she would cry.  And sometimes she would go back to sleep.  Sometimes I slept sitting up so she could remain nuzzled against my chest and tucked under my chin.  But am I doing that with my almost 2 year old? Not so much.  Falling asleep and having good sleep habits is a skill.  One that has to be taught and learned.  Not all at once.  But bit by bit.   Sleep training is incredibly intuitive.  Well, unless you plan on attending sleepovers with your child, and college, and camping out on the floor once he/she is married.  Because, god forbid, your child should learn to go to sleep without you.

For my part, I am “always suspicious” of those who are against “impos(ing) rules on child rearing” and then, uh, impose rules on child rearing.  Even if they do it all sneaky-like by citing Winnicott and writing about warm and fuzzy, hands-in-the-hair moments with their own child.  You’re still saying your way is the right way.

It’s been a rough week here, Siri.  I’m all about you teaching your child to sleep the way you want to.  So let me do it my way.  And let me feel OKish about it.

Best-

Joslyne

When Zoey turned one I was determined to wean her off the bottle.  I didn’t want to be one of those mothers with a 5 year old who was still attached to a baby bottle.  In case you don’t know it yet, as soon as one even thinks the words one of those mothers you are so screwed.  And totally destined to be that which you mock/hate.  Yup, it’s just one of the many ways motherhood comes back to bite you in the bootay.

So, there I was, attempting to wean my daughter off her beloved bottle.  And dragging my husband along for the ride.  It was, in a word, hell.  After several weeks of torturous bedtimes and painful awakenings, I gave up.  Well, I didn’t give up per se.  I decided it wasn’t worth the hassle.  Did it really matter if Zoey still drank from a bottle? And it didn’t.  Then.  But now I feel . . . embarrassed about it.  I can’t even look our pediatrician in the eye when the subject of milk comes up.  Until today I hadn’t shared this shocking/appalling secret with anyone.  So be gentle with me — I am a delicate flower.

Parenting is so . . . hard.  Big new flash, right? But there’s this constant worry about doing it right, doing it well.  And somehow I rarely seem to feel good enough.  In my head I know I’m a reasonably good mom.  But my heart and head aren’t always on the same page — or even in the same book.  Is it just me?  Or are you flitting around with a good hair cut, a roast in the oven, stylish heels, and feeling outstanding about your mothering?  Does this parenting thing make you feel happy and . . .full?

I can’t even walk in heels.  I did just get a haircut but it never looks quite the same as when the stylist, uh, styles it.  It might help if I brushed my hair, but who am I kidding?  That’s only going to happen about every other day.  And my response to a roast is: puh-HA! I love my daughter.  I love my family.  Sometimes I want there to be more to me than feeling guilty about the fact that my daughter still drinks from a bottle.  I am a mom and I am so grateful for that. I am a mom . . . and I want there to be more to me than my mom-ness.

I don’t brush her teeth.

She’s 16 months old, and has six measly teeth – four on top and two on bottom.  And they get brushed about once a week.  In a good week.

She hates it.  She struggles.  She cries.  She turns her head and writhes and pushes my hand out of the way and I just can’t deal with it.  (Ok, to be completely accurate, I probably could deal with it, but I choose not to.)

I’ve done all The Things A Good Mommy Would Do.  I stopped giving her milk last thing at night.  I let her watch me brush my teeth.  I sent an e-mail to the local Mommy list-serv asking for suggestions, and I read all of them (before mentally discounting all the reasons why each suggestion wouldn’t work for us, of course).  I bought her three different toothbrushes, including one that lights up.  She loves to play with all of them, but the minute I go near her mouth, it’s like I’m holding a snake instead of a toothbrush.

Yes, I feel guilty every night when I put her to bed without brushing her teeth.  I am a *huge* fan of dental hygiene, and brush my teeth religiously every morning and night.  I fully plan to brush her teeth.  I really do.  And one day we’ll even get to flossing.  But for now, well, it’s just one more struggle I’m not willing to have.

Zoey is charming.  She batts her eyes and smiles at the flight attendants.  She walks down the aisle to our seats.  ”Ain!”, she points out the window and turns to me, eyes wide, to make sure I’m not missing it.  ”Yes,” I say “A puh-puh-plane!”  Zoey sits in her seat, legs out, seatbelt buckled, and eats jelly beans during take off and landing.  During the flight she carefully arranges stickers in her sticker book and then scribbles over them with a pen.   After each bout of scribbling, she puts the end of the pen in the corner of her mouth, cocks her head, and then nods furiously, “Es! Es!”  I smile, “Ya-ya-yes! Your drawing is beautiful!”  After the sticker book is put away, Zoey peers between the seats and waves at the people behind us.  During deplaning, we are complimented by various passengers: “She is so good!”, “Wow! She did great!”, “You’re a good mom — you were all prepared!”.  We arrive at our destination with pride, confidence, and without incident.

II. Returning: The First Flight

We miss the pre-boarding.  Zoey takes one look at the packed plane, which seems to be holding an unusual number of very large men, and screams, “UP!”  She then attempts to scale my body.   This is a small plane, only about 40 seats, and the aisle is tiny.  Me, my bag, and Zoey do not technically fit.  We are assigned seats in row 20 — the last row.  As we pinball down the aisle, bouncing of this, running into that,  Zoey loses her shoes.  My bag is hitting people in the head, in the shoulder.  Goldfish crackers begin to spill out of somewhere.  Zoey drops her doll.  A small package of kleenex falls out of my pocket, I step on it, slip, and crash into the shoulder of yet another innocent passenger.  Before we are even half-way to our seats, Zoey begins to scream.  I begin to mutter, “Sorry. Sorry. Sorry.”  We are getting a lot of glares and eye-rolls, but no offers of help.  So we just keep going.  During the flight, the sticker book is thrown, the sippy cup is flung, and jellybeans are declined.  It does not go well.

III: Returning: The Second Flight

We grab a bagel and run to make pre-boarding.  The stroller only hits 3 – 4 people.  The screaming begins on the gangway.  And continues until landing.  True, Zoey pauses to eat a few bite of bagel.  And to sneeze/cough cream cheese and bagel mush on to our seat mate.  The woman shrugs her shoulders like it doesn’t matter, but her thin-lipped smile says otherwise.  Zoey then kicks her in the boob before take-off.  During the flight, a man 2 rows ahead of us and across the isle keeps turning around to look at us.  Or maybe to accuse us.  I want to yell at him. Tell him I’m doing the best I can.  That If I could make the screaming stop I would.  Of course I would.  But I can’t.  She falls asleep just as we touch down.  And she is not pleased when she has to wake up to get off the plane.  NOT PLEASED.  Eventually, Zoey is in the stroller, glassy-eyed and strung out.  She keeps whispering, “Mami, no ain. No ain.”  I brush her curls away from her eyes and say, “No more planes.  We’re home.”