On Motherhood

                                                 Mother and Child, Klimt
                                                   
I am not cavalier about motherhood. It has not always been easy for me. As my daughter reaches the twilight of her early childhood, and comes closer to adolescence, I am both amazed at how much she has learned, and frightened by how quickly the years have flown.  She'll be eight in just a few weeks.  It seems like just a few months ago that I could hold her small, infant head in the palm of my hand.

With Mother's Day approaching, I was inspired to write a blog about what being a mother means to me, as well as what it has taught me about life. I know that I have touched on this subject in other blogs, but this is the tug that pulls me out of my bed as the early morning hours tick by.  I should be sleeping, but my muse is a tireless wench who seems to subsist on caffeine and gin. So, here we go.

Photo courtesy of Wikimedia Commons

Any mother will tell you how fragile her life, and the life of her child seems at any given moment.  Fevers and bee-stings are compounded to epic proportions, and I still go into my daughter's room at night to check  to see if she is breathing. I have heard mothers of teenagers say they do the same. Just read the book, "I'll Love You Forever" if you doubt the bedroom creeper phenomenon. I HOPE I won't ever resort to dragging a ladder to my grown kid's window, but hey, you never know. People without children think this is insane. Mothers, on the other hand, will have a handy jar of Vick's Vap-o-Rub and a thermometer in their pocket, and nod in complete agreement. I guarantee if I called my mom right now, at 2:18 AM, and told her I was sick and needed her, she would pull her braless self out of her comfy bed, and drive to my house to take care of my 37-year old ass.  That's the power of procreation, people. Shudder in horror if you must.

That leads me to skydiving. I have always wanted to jump out of an airplane. My husband has done it, several friends have done it. I will, too. But not until after my child is grown, with a job, and not without double-checking the status of my life insurance policies. (That's right, it's plural. I have three). Because, it is my duty to live long enough to see this child up. Nothing is allowed to happen to me. I had the cancer scare a few years ago. I was a single mom, and it was terrifying. Even though it wasn't nearly as bad as it could have been, I felt the weight of my own mortality. I came through it, just fine.  I guarantee it was mostly because I refused to let something like a disease take me away from my spawn.  I was all she had, you see.  Your love for your child is an insanely humbling experience. It will make you feel vulnerable, and complete. It will bring you to your knees.  It should.

And about my own mother - I saw her through new eyes the moment Avery was born. Wow. She really loves me.  Like, she would claw through a jungle for me, with mosquitoes the size of elephants for me. She's made some grand mistakes - we all do.  But when I felt my heart open like a lotus the moment they laid my bloody, screaming baby on my abdomen, I knew that I hadn't loved. Not like this. There are no words. That's not to say that some days, I dislike the way she behaves. I  wonder who replaced my sweet, innocent baby with this mouthy little girl with cornflower blue eyes that mock me. I have my Betty Draper moments when I want to render my liquor-cabinet barren. But, just like my mom, I endure it; because of that love.

Avery and I on my wedding day

Life opens up in other ways when you become a parent. Birthday parties, trips to Disneyworld, Christmas morning - you get to be a kid again. Sure, it's kind of vicarious, but there is nothing much better than seeing your kid dig a chocolate orange out of her stocking, and break off a piece of it to share with you.  Or seeing her dress up in some horrible excuse for a costume, and perform the most adorable, off-key singing routine ever in her school assembly.  It's the little things that make each day special. It's the way she snuggles next to me on the sofa, her legs getting longer each year. Soon, there won't be room for that. And I have to take a sip of  my gin and tonic to quell this sudden lump in my throat.
                                                     
 One of the best things about my daughter growing up is the increasing depth and maturity of our conversations. An only child becomes an old soul at a young age. The company of adults leads to amazing philosophies and sophisticated logic at a young age. I need to hear her voice; I always will. Listen to your kids. Listen to them talk about frogs, and bugs, and that boy who takes their seat on the bus. There will be time to vacuum and keep house when they are older. Make a mess, together. I forget this sometimes. Especially, as a working mom who also loves her career, it can be a juggling act.  Sundays are sacred at our house. We unplug, we stop, we breathe and we reconnect.  Avery and I recently had the deepest conversation about the work week and the weekend. She told me that she loves Sundays, because we can be lazy, and there isn't an agenda. Do this for your family. It means the world to them.

 See the world through your child's eyes. Remember what it feels like to be bored, now and again. Blow the spores from a dandelion. Make a mud-pie.  Chase your kids through the house and let them jump on the furniture, for God's sake - well some of it.  You'll have your House Beautiful centerfold someday. Now is not the time - you won't get this time back. You can't inventory these moments, but you can make some great memories that your child will cherish.  They'll probably forget the expensive gadgets you bought them for their birthday, but they will not forget the times you kissed their battle wounds and made them a milkshake to take the tears away. What do you remember?

Call your mom. If you haven't seen her for months, drop by with some flowers, or better yet, a drawing you did of her in kindergarten. Let her do nice things for you - she still needs to feel needed. It breaks my heart when I hear stories of estranged children and mothers.  I realize that not all children are lucky enough to have good mothers, or their mothers have already passed on. It's not always easy, being a son or daughter.   I know she can annoy the hell out of you, and she may go through your mail when she house-sits for you while you are in Cozumel. But whether that woman gave birth to you, or signed some papers that made you hers for all eternity, she loves you.

Why I Run

                 


When I was six, I was fast. This is one of the best memories of my childhood. I remember running a race in kindergarten, falling and twisting my ankle, getting up and continuing to run like it was nothing, and still coming in first. There was a lot of congratulatory back-slapping and high five-ing from my gym teacher and my classmates. Pretty much after that, all athleticism disappeared from my life.

Fast-forward to age thirteen and every fat kid's nightmare: the ever-loving Presidential Fitness Test. This was a whole bundle of fail for me, every single time. From hanging like a blob of overcooked pasta from the chin-up bar for the requisite three seconds, to eke-ing out a few sit-ups and trying not to fart in the face of my partner, I dreaded this. But nothing could compare to the dreaded 1-mile run that capped off this gauntlet of pain.  Inevitably, the Mile would take place on the hottest day of the year.  About a quarter mile in, my side would start aching and I would hyperventilate. I would pray for it to be over as I rounded the final stretch.  Finally, I would cross the finish line with all of the other chubby kids, and we would groan in a Greek chorus of shame as we tried to keep ourselves from covering our Velcro shoes with vomit. These are my memories of running.

So, why do I do it now?

It really makes no sense; I'm not a natural runner, I am not a natural athlete.  But here I am, training for a half-marathon.  I've ran countless miles between those embarrassing school days, and I can tell you this: I LOVE running.  Everything about it is infinitely appealing to me now - from choosing my next pair of shoes to researching the best training programs for my next race, I look forward to my tri-weekly run just like I used to look forward to a Big Mac.

The shift happened a few years ago. I was going through a divorce, and was incredibly unhappy with how I felt and how I had allowed myself to become so unhealthy. I cleaned up my diet and began exercising. Within a year, I had dropped over 35 pounds. I still wasn't running, but I was feeling pretty good. And then my world collapsed in on itself.

My ex-husband, who had struggled with depression for many years, took his own life, leaving our daughter fatherless at age 3.  We had remained friends, despite our divorce, and I still cared for him as the father of my child.  Suddenly, I had no partner and I was the only person that my daughter had. I vacillated from feelings of extreme helplessness and fear to an intense anger that made me physically shake.  I had a choice - I could be strong and care for my child and find a way to carry on, or I could crumble.  I'm not a crumbler.  I started lifting weights, and I started to run.

The first quarter mile hurt, like it always had. But this time, the hurt was a sentient "thing" that I could battle. I made the pain a monster that I had to destroy. That made it easier.  That monster got driven farther, and farther back as I advanced.  I saw it again at the 1-mile mark, then the 2-mile, and then again at 5 miles. Most runners call this the Wall.  The Wall is real, and you have to run through it, or you quit.  At a time in my life when I felt helpless, running made me feel like a warrior.  I battled shin splints, plantar fasciitis, and aching joints. My counselor said I was handling my grief better than any patient she had ever had. Running was my drug, and the cocktail of endorphins it served me helped me more than any anti-depressant.

When I was training for my first half-marathon, I torqued my knee so badly while running on a local woodland trail, that I was out of commission for over a month. I had to ice, wear a wrap, and miss my race. It was devastating. I had been running for over two years at this point, and was up to a 7 mile long run.  I went to the elliptical, and stayed there. But it wasn't the same - not even close.

A few months ago, I started running again. I was slow, and memories of that chubby adolescent girl haunted me as I huffed and puffed my way through the Couch to 5K program. (This is an excellent program for beginning runners, by the way.)  It was humiliating that I had to start all over.  But, I'm glad that I did. I'm training for the same half-marathon I didn't complete two years ago.  My life is happy and full now, and I no longer need the Pain Monster to push me. I am excited as I feel my body beginning to change and grow strong again.   Even though running makes my calves so big that my boots don't fit, and makes me turn twenty shades of red(not a pretty runner, folks), it makes me feel alive. There's nothing like it.

13.1, here I come.

 Image courtesy of yaletownkeg.com

Feminism or Fishnets? Must We Choose?

                                                           

What does a feminist look like? When someone says the word, what is the image that your mind conjures?  A Birkenstock wearing, bra-less, boho chick with a book by Gloria Steinem under her arm? There's nothing wrong with that - of course not. There's also nothing wrong with the feminist who wears lipstick and patent leather stilettos.  They exist!  I may be one of them.

The truth is, part of being a woman is the conundrum of balancing our femininity with our desire to be treated equally in society.  Sexism still exists - it may not be as pronounced as it was in the 1950s, but it is more subversive.  Women are still objectified in advertisements, pornography, and Hollywood. It's difficult to be taken seriously nowadays if you like dresses and ruffles.  Men still think it's OK to whistle and catcall to women that they do not know.  What's even worse, is that women sometimes encourage the behavior and are flattered by it.  My friends and I were at a bar recently, and a young man walked past us, and felt it was his privilege to touch us on our buttocks as he went by.   He was stunned when I called him out in public.  Perhaps he had gotten away with it many times before.

That's not to say I dislike men; I love men.  I am married to a phenomenal man who treats me with respect, and understands that I am independent and opinionated.  He doesn't feel threatened by that.  I worked with a man once who told me that "an independent woman is unattractive."  Really?  I certainly can appreciate the gentlemanly desire to care for and lovingly protect a woman, and I am not necessarily turned off by that.   I AM turned off by men who assume that I NEED that protection.   A man that can give me the space that I need to pursue my ambitions and support them is very masculine, because he is secure.  My husband realizes that my desire to be successful is not emasculating to him.  I also am secure enough to let him open doors for me.

It really bothers me that young women are beginning to turn to a culture of superficiality.  I have heard about pre-teen girls posting videos on YouTube asking viewers whether they are "pretty" or not.  Having a daughter myself, I worry about this.  Not only because of the potential for predatory behavior (YouTube needs filters and controls, who's with me here?), but what this says about our culture. In her book, "Quiet",  Susan Cain explains how society has moved away from a culture of character, into a culture of personality and superficiality. Our opinions of ourselves are dictated by how others perceive us. How damaging this is! It is ironic that we, as women, have made so many strides toward equality in the workplace over the past 30 years, yet we care more about if others like us.  I've been guilty of that, in my younger years. Thankfully, that matters much less as I age.

But, back to my main point. Since when did I have to quit being "girly" to be a feminist? I am an unabashed admirer of fashion and beauty, in its many forms. I work in the beauty industry. I love helping women, and men, feel great about themselves.  I also enjoy being an Oriental (Belly) dancer. One of the most rewarding things in my life has been teaching women how to control their muscles, fat, and limbs to become one with the music.  I also love a great burlesque show.  See, to me there's a difference in a woman who knows that she is being comical, confident, and sexy in an intentional way rather than a woman who has been beaten into thinking that her body is the only thing she has of value to offer.  I know when I get on stage, and I am putting on my glitter, I am not thinking about stealing anyone's husband, or the attention I am getting from men. I am thinking about how I go into a "zen bubble" when I dance, and how free I feel.  I do it for me, and for the ladies - for that teenage girl who is self-conscious about the little bit of belly she has, and who feels she's clumsy and awkward.  For the mom who has stretch-marks and roomy hips, and for the grandmother with her wrinkles.  It's OK to feel pretty.

I DO have a real problem with objectification. I have a problem with women being brain-washed into thinking they have to be a 00.  Women turning into Fiats, bottles of beer, I could go on and on...Jean Kilbourne's excellent "Killing Us Softly" series is a fine example of how the media influences us.  I was an unwitting victim of this when I found myself in the check-out line with a box of Magnums (ice-cream bars, not condoms). Those racy ads featuring Rachel Bilson had sunk in more than I realized. Although the ice cream is good, the pseudo-sexual image of a beautiful young woman salivating over a phallic shaped ice cream novelty is just another example of targeted advertising.  Sure, it's successful, but at what cost?  I am not a prude, by any stretch of the imagination.  But, the mystery of sex is gone.  Where do we go from here?  Sex sells; always has, always will.  But, I would rather innuendo than soft-core porn in my ads.  "Save some for later, Augustus!"

I worry about our young women, especially if they are confused about their sexuality and their place in this world.   We owe it to the giants of our history - the Elizabeth Stantons, the Eleanor Roosevelts, and the Marie Curies, to do better. We have to...otherwise we will regress into self-imposed misogyny.  Think of fat-shaming, slut-shaming and thin-shaming; these are things that we women do to one another.  And this time, we won't be able to blame it all on the patriarchs, because we will have become willing participants in our own downfall.   It doesn't matter if you wear overalls, a frilly dress, or a bikini.  Be yourself - be a woman.  Whether lesbian, straight, transgender or bi, let's try to not hate on our sex.  We've worked really hard to get here.  Don't take it for granted.

Photo: Courtesy of Wikimedia Commons