Mommy Bloggers

Mommybloggers: Integrity, Community and Taking Back the Respect We Earned

2009-08-02T01:21:42Z

Back in 2005 before the first BlogHer conference, two amazing women- Jenny of Three Kid Circus and Meghan of I'm A Bloggin'- were asked to be on a panel about mommyblogging by BlogHer co-founder Elisa. I was honored to be asked by Lisa Stone to join them. We were told it would be a small room and not to feel bad as it may not have many attendees. In fact, I believe the words "mommyblogging" and "passing phase" were used by Elisa. (Yes, we laugh about that now seeing as there was an entire track dedicated to mommybloggers in 2009.) You see, back then mommybloggers were at the very bottom of the blogging food chain. We were just moms writing as a "little hobby." We were not taken seriously. We were not respected. We were the frivolous bloggers who would go away soon enough. During that session, the room was filled to capacity. Not only were other mom bloggers present, but tech bloggers, literary agents, a reporter and others who were just curious to see what we had to say.The main topic of conversation that first year at the first BlogHer during their first mommyblogging session was the phrase "mommyblogger" itself. Was it derogatory? Was it demeaning? Do you we fight it or embrace it? Many opinions were shared that day but the bottom line came down if "they" were going to call us mommybloggers, we were going to make it a phrase to be proud of when we were labeled with it. Many women that day did not want to be labeled at all. Especially not labeled a mommyblogger. At that time it was "uncool" to be a mommyblogger. We did not have respect. We did not have the "power" that other kinds of bloggers had. In fact, it was almost a joke to be called a mommyblogger. We did not have the media clamoring to talk to us about our blogs. There were not agents knocking on our doors for book deals. We certainly did not have marketing representatives or PR professionals coming to us for our opinions.

Alice of Finslippy said it best when she stood up at the closing keynote and declared, "Mommyblogging is a radical act!" And? It was. At that time, to be called a mommyblogger and have a mommyblog was radical. We had to fight for any respect we received. We had to work hard to earn any recognition that was not negative. It was radical to embrace (or even accept) being called a mommyblogger.

What did we walk away with that day? If "they" were going to continue to label us mommybloggers, we would make it a term that was synonymous with respect, integrity and quality writing. The opinions and writing styles represented by the women in that room at that panel were as varied as the writers behind them. It wasn't as if we walked away holding hands and singing Kumbaya. We weren't suddenly some bonded community that adored each other and created a uniform way of mommyblogging. For goodness sakes, some of us didn't even like each other but we did respect the writing represented by each oone of us Regardless of any of our differences, we did agree on one thing: We would no longer sit back and be disrespected for being a mommyblogger. We were not going to sit at the bottom rung of the blogging ladder and be content. As a collective of individual writers, we were taking back the term and demanding respect. Not by telling people to respect us. Not by storming the gates of the media and demand they respect us. No, we gained respect through our writing. Call us what you want--label us what you want-- we were first and foremost writers. Good writers. We just happened to write about our family lives and our children.

Part of embracing the term was starting the site Mommybloggers. I registered it and went to Jenny and Meghan and asked if they wanted to start a site that focused on featured the quality writing of the amazing women who were labeled "mommybloggers." Thus, a we began to shine a light on how amazing these women writers really are.

It was inspiring to see the changes in the perception of mommybloggers after that first year at BlogHer. We mommybloggers proved through our writing that we were a powerful group of bloggers. We showed that the power of our blogs reached much further than our immediate family. We could change the world with our words on our "little mommyblogs."

Many of us that day were blogging long before some of the "big name" mommybloggers of today even had children. Yet, when they became moms and were suddenly labeled mommyblogger, they brought even more respect to our community. Simply because they were popular? No, not exclusively. Because they could write well and they did so with confidence and authority and wouldn't let the label mommyblogger change that. It was an exclamation point on what we were doing. And I admire them immensely.

The fact of the matter is, those of us who were blogging at and around that time were pioneers in the mommyblogging field. We did it with pride, openness and quality. We told the stories of our lives. We shared stories about motherhood honestly and without apology. We took back the term "mommyblogger" and made it synonymous with power, integrity and respect. We worked hard to gain that respect. We fought for it. We earned it. And even those who did not want to be labeled at all could be proud when referred to as a "mommyblogger" because we all made that happen. Together. Individually with our own blogs. Yet together.

In the past year or so a new crop of mommybloggers has popped up. Many women who are a part of this new breed of mommybloggers have come to the scene heralding with much pomp and circumstance a sense of entitlement. They feel they are owed something. They feel just by slapping the label mommyblogger on their blog (blogs where they barely if ever write about their personally lives or families at all), they have earned the same respect as those who are writing quality stories that engage their readers. Do not misunderstand me. I am under no circumstances saying that this includes all new mommybloggers. I don't care if you started blogging 10 days ago or 10 years ago. It is not in the length of time blogging but in the attitude behind it. There are some absolutely amazing mommybloggers who are just starting out who I absolutely respect. It is not about being new. It is about being a part of the "new breed" that is stirring things up.

What do I mean by a " new breed" of mommybloggers? I am talking about the ones who project an air of entitlement because they are a "mommyblogger." I am talking about the ones who shout so loud to marketers that the rest of us can barely be heard above the clamor. I am talking about the ones who behave rudely to PR people who do not give them what they want, complain if someone else got something they did not, or cry foul if they are not the ones sent on a trip that other women took. I am talking about the ones who try to tell others how to make PR work for them and how to get the best things and how they deserve those things. In the midst of all of the noise and self declared importance, where is the quality writing about life and family that actually brought respect to the mommyblogging community?

Now, before you even go there I will say that I do not have a problem with working with the media. (I have done several interviews both in print and on tv.) I do not have a problem working with marketers or PR representatives. (I have great relationships with many, many of them.) I do not have a problem with sending bloggers on trips to teach them more about a product and show them firsthand where it all starts. (I have been on a few of these and have referred many other mommybloggers for these trips when asked.) And finally, I do not have a problem with free products, product reviews or working with a company to test a new product. (I have done all of those more than once.) I do have a problem with assuming you are entitled to it, demanding you receive it and throwing an Internet hissy fit when it doesn't go your way. I have a problem with behaving so poorly and rudely that the term "mommyblogger" is suddenly becoming synonymous with greedy, rude and self important sense of entitlement.

Who do you think brought those marketers and media to your blog? Those of us who fought (and still fight) to bring respect to the term "mommybloggers." Our writing, not our shouting, demanding or grabbing gained us the respect this new breed feels entitled to have.

This weekend I heard bloggers that I admire and respect say things to distance themselves from the term mommyblogger. The always kind and spot on Julie of The Mom Slant saying more than once "Don't call me a mommyblogger!" Kristin of Motherhood Uncensored who never pulls a punch declaring her new motto " Not all bloggers are like that" when referring being called a mommyblogger. Hearing Busy Mom (The Original) --who happens to be one of the most mellow, no-judgemental, pioneers in the mommyblogging community-- refer to all of this as the year shame died which in turn prompted the title of a brilliant post from the amazing blogger, Liz of Mom 101. I heard and experienced all of those last weekend.

And it broke my heart.

These are the women who stood up and earned respect for term "mommyblogger" through their amazing writing, professionalism and pride in what they write about. Even those who resist labels all together wore the mommyblogger label with pride when it was applied to them are now these women want nothing to do with it. Those same women who brought respect to the term and the community are now repulsed by it.

And I am heartbroken.

And I am mad.

It brings to my mind a question that I have been pondering since all of this finally came to a head at BlogHer.

And I want you to think about this long and hard.

If you join an established and respected community, do you owe it anything? Is it your responsibility to respect what has been built with hard work and diligence by the people who consider themselves a part of that community? Especially if it is a community without set rules, guidelines or membership but rather it is merely a community of writers who have worked hard to support each other through their writing and willingness to stand up for each other both on their blogs and in their personal lives?

If you throw on that label, what does that mean? Does it mean anything? Should you respect those who came before you--the pioneers if you will--or do you say to hell with how it has been done or the work they have put into this community, this is how I want to do it?

If a community is built by being open to everyone who identifies with it, respects it and is proud to be a part of it, what happens to that community when just using the label that identifies it throws it into turmoil. When it places someone right smack dab into the middle of this open community and that person has little respect for what it stands for already?

Does self labeling make you are part of a community?

I don't know.

What I do know is my heart broke when I heard amazing writers who have never fought the term mommyblogger and even go as far as bring it respect, not want to be associated with it. Worse? When I was talking to a Susan Getgood, woman I respect immensely, and heard the words, "I don't even want to be called a mommyblogger anymore if this is what is has come down to." come out of my very own mouth, my heart dropped to my feet. The look on her face (and the tears that began rolling down my cheeks) said it all.

But now? You can forget that. Too many amazing mommybloggers fought too hard to walk away from something we brought respect to. Mark my words, we will take back the respect we earned and fought for. Will we do it through screaming, threats, blog attacks or excluding people? No. Absolutely not. That is not what built us up in the first place and it is not what will sustain us through this insanity of poor behavior.

What will we do? We will write the hell out of our blogs and remind people who mommybloggers are and why we earned the respect we have. Just before I left I was handed a fortune cookie. (I was overwhelmed so I cannot remember the link of who gave it to me. Tell me and I will link you!) That fortune cookie says it all for me.

The end looks much like the beginning. Return to what you once knew and many have forgotten along the way.

I have not forgotten. Have you?

This is the flu on video. Complete with a secret. Shhhhhh!

2009-02-20T04:55:13Z

Flu babbling with a secret from Jenn Satterwhite on Vimeo.

The Best Dentist EVER!

2009-02-13T03:15:15Z

This is an essay by John Taylor, the superintendent of Lancaster County School District in South Carolina. I wish every school board in the States had to hear it read by a parent at the start of every board meeting.

My dentist is great! He sends me reminders so I don't forget check-ups. He uses the latest techniques based on research. He never hurts me, and I've got all my teeth, so when I ran into him the other day, I was eager to see if he'd heard about the new state program. I knew he'd think it was great.

"Did you hear about the new state program to measure the effectiveness of dentists with their young patients?" I said.

"No," he said. He didn't seem too thrilled. "How will they do that?"

"It's quite simple," I said. "They will just count the number of cavities each patient has at age 10, 14, and 18 and average that to determine a dentist's rating. Dentists will be rated as Excellent, Good, Average, Below Average, and Unsatisfactory. That way, parents will know which are the best dentists. "It will also encourage the less effective dentists to get better," I said. "Poor dentists who don't improve could lose their licenses to practice in South Carolina."

"That's terrible," he said.

"What? That's not a good attitude," I said. "Don't you think we should try to improve children's dental health in this state?"

"Sure I do," he said, "but that's not a fair way to determine who is practicing good dentistry."

"Why not?" I said. "It makes perfect sense to me."

"Well, it's so obvious," he said. "Don't you see that dentists don't all work with the same clientele. So much depends on things we can't control. For example," he said, "I work in a rural area with a high percentage of patients from deprived homes, while some of my colleagues work in upper middle class neighborhoods. Many of the parents I work with don't bring their children to see me until there is some kind of problem, and I don't get to
do much preventive work.

"Also," he said, "many of the parents I serve let their kids eat way too much candy from an early age, unlike more educated parents who understand the relationship between sugar and decay.".

"To top it all off," he added, "so many of my clients have well water, which is untreated and has no fluoride in it. Do you have any idea how much difference early use of fluoride can make?"

"It sounds like you're making excuses," I said. I couldn't believe my dentist would be so defensive. He does a great job.

"I am not!" he said. "My best patients are as good as anyone's. My work is as good as anyone's, but my average cavity count is going to be higher than a lot of other dentists because I chose to work where I am needed most."

"Don't get touchy," I said.

"Touchy?" he said. His face had turned red and from the way he was clenching and unclenching his jaws, I was afraid he was going to damage his teeth.

"Try furious. In a system like this, I will end up being rated average, below average, or worse. My more educated patients who see these ratings may believe this so-called rating actually is a measure of my ability and proficiency as a dentist. They may leave me, and I'll be left with only the most needy patients. And my cavity average score will get even worse. On top of that, how will I attract good dental hygienists and other excellent dentists to my practice if it is labeled below average?"

"I think you are overreacting," I said. " `Complaining, excuse making and stonewalling won't improve dental health' ... I am quoting from a leading member of the DOC," I noted.

"What's the DOC?" he asked.

"It's the Dental Oversight Committee," I said, "a group made up of mostly laypersons to make sure dentistry in this state gets improved."

"Spare me," he said. "I can't believe this. Reasonable people won't buy it," he said hopefully.

The program sounded reasonable to me, so I asked, "How else would you measure

good dentistry?"

"Come watch me work," he said. "Observe my processes."

"That's too complicated and time consuming," I said. "Cavities are the bottom line, and you can't argue with the bottom line. It's an absolute measure."

"That's what I'm afraid my parents and prospective patients will think. This can't be happening," he said despairingly.

"Now, now," I said, "Don't despair. The state will help you some."

"How?" he said.

"If you're rated poorly, they'll send a dentist who is rated excellent to help straighten you out," I said brightly.

"You mean," he said, "they'll send a dentist with a wealthy clientele to show me how to work on severe juvenile dental problems with which I have probably had much more experience? Big help."

"There you go again," I said. "You aren't acting professionally at all."

"You don't get it," he said. "Doing this would be like grading schools and teachers on an average score on a test of children's progress without regard to influences outside the school: the home, the community served and stuff like that. Why would they do something so unfair to dentists? No one would ever think of doing that to schools."

I just shook my head sadly, but he had brightened. "I'm going to write my representatives and senator," he said. "I'll use the school analogy. Surely they will see the point."

He walked off with that look of hope mixed with fear and suppressed anger that I see in the mirror so often lately.

Parents, please don't fall for this; start attending board meetings; become active in the PTA; volunteer in your child's school. Be nosy; you're a tax-payer and the school is obligated to answer legitimate questions. If they tell you ". . . on average. . . ." tell them that you are not concerned about the "average;" you want to know specifically how many children are in your child's third-grade classroom. My daughter's third-grade classroom - in one of the country schools associated with a huge school system - had 37 children in it, while the town schools averaged 18. One of the town schools had three third-grade classrooms, each with 12 students! but "on average" everything looked great. Demand specifics, NOT averages.

No Child Left Behind is an insidious mistake that will not benefit anything or anyone. It's especially horrific for our gifted children.

If you understood how absurd the analogy of the dentist is, then you will understand how outrageously ridiculous NCLB is.

Our children deserve much better than to be regulated and knocked around by legislators, most of whom haven't seen the inside of a public school classroom since the early 1960's.

As long as parents don't darken the schoolhouse doors, though, the administration will do as they darn well please with our kids, and what they darn well please is to spend the least amount of money, put as many children in each classroom as possible, treat the teachers like scheisse, cater to the lowest common denominator, and listen only to those parents who make their voices heard. And heaven help the teacher who tries to do anything to help the students that isn't mandated; he/she will end up in the Rubber Room.

Stand up, parents. Don't put up with this idiocy. Our brightest students are spending most of their school day sitting idly, waiting for the others to catch up. The rest of their time is spent drilling and cramming for standardized tests. Call your child's school today, and ask about art, and music, and recess, and gifted programs, and inclusion policies. Every child is a special child, and No Child Left Behind simply means No Child Advancing Forward.

IT: The Pronoun of Desire

2009-01-14T03:45:16Z

I wonder sometimes if one of the reasons some people age horribly and die, is because they have stopped hanging out with friends.

Of course, if they are REALLY old, they may have stopped hanging out with friends because there's not that much to do in the cemetery.

But for people (naming no names) who are perhaps just beginning to be on the older side, whose friends are still (mostly) alive, it's just as much fun to hang out with friends as it was years ago, when we all skipped last hour Chemistry to pile into someone's blue Corvair and head out to the State Park to meet guys.

When my children were little, and it was almost impossible to get away and hang out with friends (partly because it was purt nigh impossible to get away, and partly because they had small children also; living a hundred or a thousand miles away contributed to the level of difficulty. . . .) those few and far-between episodes of getting together quite possibly saved what little sanity I do have.

When we meet now, and yes, Virginia, we still meet at least once a month, the only thing that's really changed, besides our faces, hair, bodies, and big purses, is the fact that we no longer have little children at home. Some of us have GRANDCHILDREN. Not me, though.

Ahem. Are my children reading this journal?

But the giggles, the nonsense, the silliness, the goofiness, the sheer love and devotion, are all still there in full force; possibly in fuller force than when we were younger.

Yes, definitely. Fuller force.

Maybe because, THEN, we knew what we had but didn't fully understand that it could vanish in the wink of an eye. We were young, we were attractive, we knew it. And it would last forever. How could it not? And NOW, we know what we had and we know what we still have and we understand completely that yes, it could very well vanish in the wink of an eye, and that yes, some of it already has. (We have mirrors.) And even though we no longer have some of 'it,' we also know that, whatever 'it' was, we still have SOME of 'it.' And we aren't afraid to use it, either.

No, not THAT kind of 'it.' Although, now that you mention 'it'. . . . . . . . . . .

Those of you with small children: be sure you make time for your friends. "Hanging out" isn't just for teenagers. You need it more than they do. Hire one of those teenagers to watch the little kids, and go meet your friends for a few hours. Keep doing it until you are dead. I'm serious as can be: hanging out with friends can save your sanity, save your health, save your marriage, and make you a better person from all angles. Do not allow marriage and children to put your friends on the back burner. Keep them close to you, even when circumstance very naturally keeps them apart from you. Good friends won't intrude into your marriage, but they will BE THERE when mere marriage isn't enough and your sanity and your SELF need expression that isn't found anywhere on this earth except in the company of FRIENDS.

Friends will listen to you, give you advice (needed and unneeded), comfort you, hug you, bowl with you, eat cheeseburgers with you, share a giant margarita with you, recommend books for you, laugh (or cry) through a movie with you, and just simply BE there with you, and for you, in ways that no husband could ever be. Not for want of trying or intentions, but simply because women need other women, and not even Hugh Grant or Colin Firth will do, when it's FRIENDSHIP we need.

Um, a handsome, educated Brit can come over and keep me company any time, actually, but even so, it's not the same as good friends who keep you company when not even a homely, ignorant Brit will give you the time of day.

Husbands are good for companionship, friendship, romance, true love, sex, dancing, and partnership, but it takes a woman friend to really, really UNDERSTAND. Women need friends, with whom to have fun with and just hang out with.

Your older children and possibly a husband who won't be requiring any sex for a while, might make a comment about how "hanging out" means something entirely different on an older woman with, um, body image deficiency. Remind them all that they know where the food is kept, and that the sofa sleeps one person very comfortably indeed. And then leave.

Get out there and use 'it.'

Readers may interpret "it" as they please. All answers are probably correct.

We're back!

2008-12-18T14:27:34Z

Due to technical difficulties, life and well...life, MommyBloggers has been down for a while. But guess what...

We're back.

Look for more content soon.

Interested in being interviewed or featured? Let me know!

Until then, peace out...for now.

Oh, and I know comments are still wonky. We are working on that. You can email me at mommybloggers@gmail.com if you want to be one of our featured mom bloggers!

It has risen!

2008-12-18T08:43:57Z

I know! I know! You thought Mommybloggers had died and gone the way of...well, something that has gone away and is not online anymore.

Wrong!

We had technical difficulties combined with busy schedules combined with a massive, major overhaul.

We are back.

We are going to kick it old school.

And?

We are ready to bring it.

Are you with us?

I Watch My Children Grow Up Every Day, From The Top of my Piano

2008-07-14T22:54:30Z

I keep my photograph albums in my cedar chest. Dozens and dozens of albums, all crammed full of pictures. Beautiful pictures of my beautiful children. . . pictures I loved. . . pictures that were calendar-quality!!!!! Pictures of my babies, and of my toddlers, and of my preschoolers, and of the first day of kindergarten. . . pictures of birthday parties and skating parties and picnics, and playgrounds.

Mostly, pictures I hadn't seen in years. Some of them? I'd forgotten they even existed.

That's why I was so excited when I got my wireless digital picture frame last Christmas. I'd wanted one desperately ever since I first saw one on display at Sam's Club.

As soon as it arrived, I opened that cedar chest, got out all of those wonderful pictures, started scanning them, and then I put them all on my FrameChannel account.

I took the frame out of the box, wrote down the serial number, and typed that in on FrameChannel. Bingo.

I've got over eight thousand pictures of my beautiful children in a random, looping slideshow, on my wireless picture frame.

It's the showcase of the living room. Nobody can walk past it without stopping and watching for ages. The frame even plays my Mp3's, so I've got a soundtrack to the memories of my life running 24/7 on the back of my piano.

This isn't an advertisement or anything. It's just a statement about the most awesome material object in my house.

When I stand and watch my wireless frame, I am watching my children grow up before my very eyes. I also see my parents, my siblings, our vacations, our pets, and, and, and. . . you name it. If it was precious to me, there's a picture of it on my wireless frame.

The sensation is indescribable. When I look at all of those pictures that had lain hidden for so many years, the sensation is just simply, well, indescribable.

My kids are in their twenties, but not on the back of the piano. There, any time I want, I can see my babies.

My parents. My brother. My sisters. All ages of them.

Any time I want.

If you are looking for a gift for someone you love, you might consider a wireless or digital picture frame. Seriously, if my house caught fire and all the humans and cats were safe, I'd run back inside for that frame. It's like another family member, because it's ALL my family members.

I love it. Sometimes, late at night when nobody's watching, I look at it and cry. Not the bad kind.

The Emperor is Naked

2008-06-26T22:45:34Z

Little wonder that our students are so confused about what they're "supposed" to look like these days. Teen magazines that used to give us ADVICE about our appearance are now telling kids that unless they look like (insert talentless celebrity here), they're hideous. AND, many kids have no home backup to instill some self-respect and common sense, so they believe this stuff. Many of the mothers who are supposed to be the voice of reason, believe this stuff. Sad but true. . . .

Trends come and trends go. Rubenesque women used to be the epitome of feminine beauty. Adult women built like eleven-year-olds (Twiggy) were popular. Breasts are flattened by a board placed strategically under the underwear and tied into place. Breasts are bigger. Breasts are pointy. Breasts are smaller. Hems are high. Hems are low. A waistline is hidden. A waistline is enhanced by a corset so tight a woman can't even put it on by herself; she needs a winch fastened to the bedpost, later spelled wench and transformed into a person. How empowering it must have been, for women to finally get clothing they could put on all by themselves!

Now, supermodels are built like concentration camp prisoners, and the walk down the runway looks a lot like the walk to the Belsen showerhouse. * These women look like a sneeze would blast them backwards like a bullet from a gun.

(You know, Victorian men must not have seen very many naked women; otherwise, why and how could a man have possibly believed women were supposed to look like a wasp?)

There were fancy schools in Victorian England that had a rule that each young woman must have a 17-inch waist, just like Scarlett O'Hara.

It wasn't just in England, either. Laura Ingalls Wilder (one of my many literary idols) writes that her mother reminisced to her daughters about how, when she was married, her husband could span her waist with his hands. This, while advising her daughters to wear their corsets even while sleeping or ". . . what your figure will be, goodness knows."

Mothers nowadays dress their small daughters in clothes that a high-class prostitute wouldn't be caught dead in. I am, more and more, thinking that school uniforms might not be such a bad idea.

At the turn of the century, schoolgirls wore pinafores over their dresses to help keep the dress clean, but also to hide the curves and allow the girls to be children a little longer. Remember Anne Shirley, Diana Barry, Jane Andrews, and Ruby Gillis? (Oh, I hope you do!) Emily Starr? Marigold Lesley? Pat Gardiner? They all wore pinafores to school every day, and after school, too. When the pinafores were removed for parties, etc, these girls looked like young women, but because they were still girls, really, the pinafores were worn all other times. Anne Frank, at 13 or 14, still referred to herself and to Peter VanDaan, who was 16 or 17, as "children." Now, there are "mothers" - and I use that term lightly, and, in fact, it's part of a compound word - who put skimpy, suggestive clothing on their innocent children and expect the world to approve and the perverts not to look!

"Ladies," - and I use THAT term loosely, too - if you allow your child to go out in public wearing Daisy Dukes with "Bootie Cutie" embroiled across the butt, you don't have far to go to find the pervert in this picture. It's YOU. Are these the same "mothers" who wear tight, short, revealing clothing and then get all astonished and furious because people are "looking?" Probably. Stupidity reveals itself in many forms.

People have always done ignorant things to their bodies in order to conform to society's current popular trends. That means, there have been stupid people for generations!

Big booty used to be all the rage, and emphasized with bustles. Now, a big butt is a sign of sloppiness and obesity, and whether or not her butt looks big is something most women worry about daily. Fear of a butt that's large enough to actually sit on comfortably sends otherwise sane and intelligent women to the liposuction clinic to get all that sucked out, that they might be "beautiful." Balancing precariously on a protruding tailbone doesn't seem either attractive or comfortable, but that's how supermodels have to sit these days because they traded their cheeks for a check.

Tiny feet were a symbol of rank. High-born Chinese women suffered intense pain all their lives, and had to be carried because they could not walk normally on the new-born-size buds that were what had become of their feet. Women used to lie about their shoe size, because small feet were, and still are to some people, a sign of beauty. Now, a woman who wears size eleven or twelve shoes isn't the exception at all.

Hands were to be kept soft at all costs. Soft, smooth hands indicated servants to do all the work, which indicated money, which indicated good marriage fodder.

There are so many silly interpretations of beauty that I could never go into them all in one post. Besides, I don't want to.

Clean, kind, honest, ethical, intelligent, humorous, witty, and brave. What outside feature could possibly outrank that? I suppose really shallow people would disagree, and I have a hard time overlooking my own, shall we say, "shortcomings" in the beauty arena, but truth be told, beauty fades and these other qualities are merely enhanced.

Oh, and while it may be true that the old standards of feminine beauty were set by men, I honestly believe that now, women set the standards for beauty. I also believe that women are not very nice to each other when it comes to what's "beautiful" this week, and what's "passe."

Remember Marilyn Monroe? Remember how beautiful she was? Size 12. Elizabeth Hurley has been quoted as saying, "I'd kill myself if I was that fat. . . she was very big."

I'm not finished yet. I also believe that we women need to start pointing and laughing at 79-pound toothpicks sashaying down the fashion aisle in between bouts of rehab, instead of throwing our money at them and their keepers: the jokers who get rich because somewhere, a woman spends a hundred thousand dollars on a half-yard of fabric, two safety pins, a button, a necklace made of real diamonds that looks like it was strung by an Alzheimer patient on the front porch of a nursing home, assisted by a four-year-old, a hat made of 19 cents worth of purple felt, a feather, and an old rusty key, and shoes consisting of a paper-thin sole, a ten-inch heel, and a single clear plastic strap across the top, in which one cannot walk. As long as there are women who will buy this hideous, overpriced scheisse and wear it, there will be women who pretend to believe that it's beautiful.

What we need is someone to stand up and say, "The Emperor is naked." Because, my friends, he is.

*I am NOT being disrespectful here. I am being descriptive. It's a visual thing.

(Previously published on Scheiss Weekly)

moments of joy

2008-06-05T00:41:16Z

I have a cherished memory. I was in my early twenties and working in New Brunswick at a summer English language program for adults. Students came from all over the world (but mostly from Quebec) and lived in residence on a university campus.

The staff, most of whom were young, lived in residence with the students and were (in addition to teaching all day and coordinating recreational activities) in charge of patrolling the halls at night to ensure that only English was being spoken (every student signed a contract to that effect and agreed that if they were caught in violation of this rule three times, then they would be sent home. I have never heard of a university based program to be as tough as this one. But it worked). Most of us loved the work but it was intense, exhausting (the hours were very long) and, at times, very stressful. And it was exactly the environment that fostered strong bonds between staff members.

One evening, most of the staff were told that we could have an unexpected day off. At eleven o'clock that night, a bunch of us piled into two cars and drove all night to a friend's cottage (stopping only for gas and to take pictures at the world's longest covered bridge). We arrived at dawn (I couldn't tell you where exactly, but it was beautiful), and a few of us immediately went to put on our suits and go play in the rapids. I remember laughing and playing in the cool water as the sun came up, then crashing for a couple of hours on the cottage floor. Later that morning, we all went for a paddle and I remember drifting lazily in the sun (I am still a very lazy paddler).

We left after dinner that night, to be back in time for work the next morning.

I have lost touch with all of my friends from that day but the memory remains a special one, as a time that I was joyfully living right in the moment.

I was feeling a bit sad the other day as I reflected that I am unlikely to ever have that kind of experience again, what with responsibility, health and (let's face it) age all working against me.

But then I realized that such joyful moments occur routinely, I just need to remember to be open to them. And my kids help a lot with that.

A couple of weeks ago, S. had his birthday party. This was the first such party he wanted in years, so we agreed to go all out and have it at the movie theatre. They were such a nice group of kids and had a great time being silly together! And as I looked down the aisle and took in nine enraptured faces (we saw the new Indiana Jones movie. Good fun), each kid balancing popcorn on skinny knees, I realized that I was having one of those moments. Pure joy.

Cross-posted to Not Just About Cancer.

The mother of a teen boy? Me?

2008-05-27T12:37:42Z

As I've told you before, I'm an only child.

As a matter of fact, my mother and grandmother were only children, too.

Aside from the whole "small family reunion" thing, a downside to all this only daughter-ness is that I don't always know how boy children work.

My oldest child is a girl. I've been a girl. I "get" the girl thing.

The boy thing?

Not so much.

My middle child, a boy, is nearly 12 years old, and my oldest is a girl.

She's 13 and is a very dominant personality. It is impossible to ignore her, and sometimes I get so caught up with her, that I forget he's growing up, too.

Earlier today, he responded extremely rudely to something I said, so his punishment was that he wasn't allowed to go to the store with his dad and brother to pick out a movie. He had to stay in his room instead.

He is also very, very, very, very, very bull-headed, (has been since he was a wee child) and he still didn't respond appropriately to me when I went to talk to him.

Did I mention the bull-headed part?

Anyway, I went back and explained to him yet again why he was being punished, and yet again he responded inappropriately.

Here I was trying to talk to him to finish it up and let him out of his room, and he would have nothing of it.

I walked away wondering if the hospital had given me the wrong child 11 years ago and then it dawned on me: he's nearly a teenager.

I guess he never ages in my head since I'm often caught up with his sister. Then, I'm surprised when something like this happens and I remember he's no longer 8 years old.

I recognize that I need to do something about that, but I may just toss him out the window, instead.*

Yep, he's almost a teen.

(* No teens or pre-teens were harmed in the making of this post. It is a joke. I wouldn't throw him out the window, who would mow the grass, then?)

teaching and learning about persistence

2008-05-26T18:50:34Z

Part One (in which running is harder than walking)

Yesterday, my oldest son and I went running.

He is a couch potato and I want him to get fit and get moving.

I used to be a runner but stopped shortly before my surgery in 2006 and have not run since.

S. balked at this proposal at first but I stood firm. Then we saw Run Fatboy Run and he came around (he adores Simon Pegg. And the 'slacker turns long distance runner and gets the girl' theme really appealed to him. Whatever works, I figure).

We did Week One of a beginner's run/walk programme. We ran for one minute and walked for two minutes for a total of twenty minutes (we also did ten minutes of walking to warm up and cool down on each end). Even though I walk almost every day (and sometimes quite briskly), I really felt it (I was also running in a pair of really crappy old shoes which I threw in the garbage when I got home). It's hard to imagine that there was a point in my life when I was able to run for more than an hour and that I once finished a half-marathon.

And S., who had started by saying that he can walk faster than I run (which is true), was panting pretty hard at the end and asking "are we done yet?" Every few seconds.

Still, we both agreed that it was hard work but not overwhelmingly so (I even think that S. was a little proud of himself) and that we would keep at it. I told S. that I expect him to finish the programme with me (in ten weeks we will be running for twenty minutes in two ten-minute increments) and then he will be off the hook.

By then, I am hoping that we will both be addicted.

He was asking yesterday about running a marathon. I think it would be fun to do a 5k together.

We'll see.

On Friday, we will go out and do it again.

Part Two (in which I am pretty)

It was well past D.'s bedtime last night when he asked if he could 'do' my hair. I couldn't resist.

Ever since I was a little girl, I have loved having my hair brushed. This hadn't happened for a very long time. My hair hasn't really been long enough for years and when it was, there wasn't anyone in my life who was interested in brushing it.

D. set to gently brushing (he was standing on the bed as I sat on it). As he worked, he would make comments:

"Tell me if I hurt you."

"S's hair tangles because it is curly."

"Your hair is like mine and S.'s is like Papa's."

"In the light, your hair looks golden."

and

"I like your hair, Mama."

After brushing, it was time to add some adornments. We both loved the end result:

I have been growing out my hair since it started growing back after the Adriamycin. What you see is the result of almost two years of persistence (I am sure that the current treatment regimen has slowed progress, too).

Recently, I have been thinking of giving up. I had very short hair in the months before my diagnosis and I keep coming across photos of myself with short hair in which I think I look pretty good.

But after last night I don't want to cut it any more.

And I've invested in all these cute little clips. Who knew I could wear them all at the same time?

Cross-posted to Not Just About Cancer.

The Summertime Boredom Blues, in E Flat Minor

2008-05-22T03:22:30Z

Summertime sure has changed since I was a kid, back when dinosaurs ruled the earth. In the summer, I would leave the house right after breakfast and I wouldn't return until Mom called us to lunch. (Each neighborhood mom had a distinctive lunchtime call. Nobody ever got confused until the people with the parrot moved in across the street. Stupid parrot quickly learned to mimic every mom on the block, and we kids were constantly running into the house asking "What do you want?" and the answer would be "Why are you here? I didn't call you!")

All the moms knew that if any of us chose to behave poorly, anywhere in the neighborhood, the MomPolice would instantly put a stop to it and notify the wrong-doer's mother. Every mom was everybody's mom. The village kept us civilized.

After lunch, we were all off again, riding our bikes all over the neighborhood, climbing trees, playing kickball in Becky's back yard - the biggest back yard on the block. We played there even when Becky wasn't home; all back yards were open source back then.

We came back home again only when it started to get dark; we ate a late supper, took a much-needed bath, watched The Beverly Hillbillies, and went to bed. All the summer tomorrows promised to be just as exciting as the first day!

Were we fat? Nope, although there was always one fat kid, usually nicknamed Porky or Chubs or some such politically scandalous thing nowadays. Were we afraid of strangers? Nope. We were warned about taking rides or candy from strangers, but a stranger would have to be insane to try and kidnap one of us; the screaming and tattling would have begun before his foot hit the accelerator. Remember what happened to the child molester in the novel "A Tree Grows in Brooklyn?" Yeah, I'm all for it. Get him, ladies!

Nowadays, kids are rarely allowed to leave the confines of the house, let alone their own yard. Kids on bikes are watched all the way up the block and all the way back. Go AROUND the block? Heaven forbid.

Kids in summer, nowadays, watch a lot of television and play a lot of video games and do a lot of computer surfing. The trees are too small to climb even if each one didn't have a little fence around it. Other people's back yards are private property.

Your kid wants to play ball? He's put in a structured program run by adults. Your kid wants to play outside? He'll get DIRTY, and wouldn't you rather watch a DVD, and here, have some cake. Kid wants to go someplace? You drive him. And he watches tv in the minivan instead of looking out the window.

I know there are real dangers out there, dangers that were always there but which seem magnified these days. Our kids need to be taught to protect themselves and each other. But parents, let your kids fly free and occasionally out of sight on their bikes, and let them navigate their own neighborhoods, and let them get filthy and hungry and turn off the damn television set.

Give your kids an empty bottle and tell them to fill it with lightning bugs. Send the kids out in the yard to find four-leaf-clovers.

I know! Give them some CHORES to do! Oh, imagine.

And once a week, send them to Steve Spangler's website to sign up for the experiment of the week.
Help them do that experiment. Make it a family affair. There's even a link for special summer activities for kids over there right now.

Whatever your kids do this summer, try to have them do it outdoors whenever possible.

Just a few thoughts from an empty nest mommy who misses her bicycling days almost as much as she misses her kids.

hide. then seek (or not).

2008-05-20T16:00:31Z

My two sons are five years apart.

When D. was born, this proved advantageous. S., who wanted to impress his new little brother, was able to do many things on his own and keen to help with the little one.

Five years later, the age gap presents more of a challenge. A five year old and a ten year old will always be likely to have very disparate interests. This fact is exacerbated by the differences between my two boys and the fact that my youngest knows exactly how (while simultaneously feigning innocence) to get under his brother's skin.

D. is an extremely social child, while his brother is more introverted. Ever since he was tiny, S. has been able to happily amuse himself with a toy, game or book. Not so, D. who always wants to be at the centre of things.

We have been encouraging D. to play on his own (and we have absolutely forbidden him to announce, "Someone needs to entertain me!") but there are times when we ~~force~~ encourage the boys to play together. This generally involves a fair bit of arm-twisting (or, on occasion, bribery) to get the older one to consent. Especially since we explained that this did not mean he could just turn on the TV and leave the room.

For a while, whatever game we would suggest or D. would want to play, S. would try and get his little brother to agree to hide and seek. We became suspicious one day when D. came to report that his brother had been hiding for a very long time. We found him deep in his closet with a flashlight and a book.

One day, this strategy back-fired.

On that occasion, D. had a friend over. S. once again suggested that they play hide and seek. I think he was actually keen to play that time (he is often much more interested in little kids when they are not his brother) but, as S. hid, the little kids quickly lost interest.

Some time later (it could have been as long as forty minutes), the younger boys having moved on to another game, we heard S. calling from somewhere upstairs, "Is anybody going to come and find me?"

You can read more of my writing at Not Just About Cancer.

Why are those dirty, neglected children cackling? And why are they so demented?

2008-05-19T05:27:09Z

Confession time.

We are now swimming-lesson and gymnastics-class-free. And no "play dates" either. And we never go to the park. Or the public swimming pool. In short, we are child abusers who make our kids find their own fun right in their own backyard. That's not a euphemism. I really do mean in their own backyard.

Our house is small and right up at the front of the lot. This means that our back yard is reasonably large. It is completely fenced and we've removed all giant, impaling stakes and try to keep the chainsaws out of reach.

Most afternoons, when Henry and Eddie aren't obsessively getting down to some Lego-ing, they are out in the back. Sometimes I look back there and am amazed at what I see. For example, last December they started this great game.

We have one of those heavy-duty wheeled carts like you see in garden centers. They piled up all the outside toys on the back of it, and stuck a trike on the front. Eddie gets up on the trike and Henry pulls him around the yard.

What are they doing you say? Well of course Eddie is The Grinch and Henry is Max the dog. Dur.

They go all around the yard setting traps for the citizens of Whoville, and saying things like "heh heh heh No Christmas for you!" It is a laugh riot. Well, to me at least.

And that's why I don't feel bad that we don't participate in many of the traditional social rituals for kids their age. Sure, we do birthday parties and events like that, but my kids spend a lot of time in our yard working their imaginations. And that is just the way I like it.

Originally posted at the Plain Jane Mom Blog.

Comments

2008-05-17T14:34:37Z

Just a quick update to let you know we are working on fixing comments. Thank you mothergoosemouse for letting us know that they were not working on Twitter. Also to landismom who emailed me this morning to share the frustration this is causing so many of you.

I deeply apologize. I am working hard to fix this!