tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-70244700076438981882024-03-13T09:24:12.208-07:00Pages Turning...Writing as thought and actionUnknownnoreply@blogger.comBlogger42125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7024470007643898188.post-2469716758311615702014-07-11T10:40:00.001-07:002014-07-11T10:40:25.142-07:00In Response To "10 Things I Wish I Knew About Raising Boys"A number of friends have posted this link on Facebook recently -- <a href="http://www.today.com/parents/10-things-i-wish-id-known-about-raising-boy-1D79911267?cid=social_20140710_27634046" target="_blank">10 Things I Wish I'd known about raising boys</a> -- it's definitely not the first of its kind to get passed around or written about. In short the author discusses 10 things about raising boys: planes, trains, & autombiles, boys don't stop moving, clothes shopping will be a piece of cake, his fascination with his penis starts sooner than you think, roughhousing is innate, you'll probably make a trip to the emergency room, pee will be everywhere, you'll learn not to compare your boy to girls, the goofiness starts early, and boys adore their moms.<div>
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Okay.</div>
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I know that this is the experience of many mothers. Mothers of boys AND girls. I'm not trying to "shame" the women who have posted this -- my friends who have are mothers of boys who definitely fall under these listed items. However, I wanted to give a voice to the mothers, like myself, who have a boy who <i>doesn't.</i></div>
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Although my son loves trains and cars, he also loves his Rapunzel doll, his play kitchen, and cuddling with/swaddling his stuffed animals. Although he's an active kid, he can sit down at a dinner, he loves to draw and color at his little table, and loves to sit and do arts and crafts. He is very picky about his clothes -- the colors, if they match, what characters are on them. He definitely plays with his penis, but I've seen plenty of little girls (including myself when I was younger) explore themselves as well. Toddlers are figuring out their bodies! It's awesome! </div>
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"Roughhousing is innate." I think this is the hardest one for me because my son is <i>not </i>a rough houser and it's been interesting to watch when other boys walk up to him and push him to signal that they want to play, or older men pretend to scare him and tackle him while trying to relate to him. All this causes is crying and fear. What's really interesting is that I was the opposite as a kid. I would growl and tackle people to show them that I loved them. I had wrestling matches with my little brother. Even now, I <i>love </i>roughhousing. My kid...not so much.</div>
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I won't go through all ten things. I just wanted to point out that sometimes it's posts like the one linked above that help perpetuate the essentialism of gender. Just because my kid has a penis, doesn't mean he wants to tackle people or doesn't know how to control his bladder or loves yelling and screaming. Some boys love that -- that's great. Some girls love that -- that's great, too. I wish posts like these would be more along the lines of "10 things I wish I had known about raising <i>my </i>boys." We try so hard to put kids into two distinct categories in regards to their gender, when our children might end up identifying as trans* or neither gender or somewhere in between along the very long spectrum of how people relate to the world and want to express themselves in regards to how they look, how they act, what they enjoy...the list goes on.</div>
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I think, early on, not giving boys boundaries, saying "boys will be boys" when they are mean or hurtful, steering them away from things our mainstream culture says are "feminine," is part of what gives men the sort of entitlement they feel later on in life. It's not teaching them about <i>consent. </i>Soraya Chemaly has a wonderful article about <a href="http://www.huffingtonpost.com/soraya-chemaly/the-problem-with-boys-will-be-boys_b_3186555.html" target="_blank">"The Problem with 'Boys Will Be Boys'"</a> if you want to read more about it.</div>
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Again, I'm not "slamming" the mothers who relinked this post, or the mom who wrote it. Maybe what she wrote really is your experience. But, I want other moms out there who are thinking, "that's not my boy" to please know there's another mom right here who has a boy she's raising to be who <i>he </i>is...not what society tells him a "boy" should be. I'm hoping this means I'm raising a person who is kinder, empathetic, compassionate, and takes responsibility for how his actions affect other people. We should be teaching all of our children that, regardless of their sex. </div>
Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7024470007643898188.post-66945846646508402292014-05-06T18:20:00.001-07:002014-05-06T18:20:07.979-07:00Sometimes the Pancake Mix is on the Floor: Learning to Cut Myself Some SlackToday was one of <i>those </i>days. The beginnings of a <a href="http://hyperboleandahalf.blogspot.com/2010/05/sneaky-hate-spiral.html" target="_blank">sneaky hate spiral</a> day. Technically, it probably started last night when it took two and half hours to get Liam to bed, but that's a different story.<br />
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Today, it began with pancakes. Thanks to Despicable Me 2, Liam has had an obsession with heart shaped pancakes lately. We had heart-shaped pancakes for dinner last night and again, I made them this morning. But, what should have been a major sign to just stay home under the bed all day, was when we had super mega toddler meltdown over the fact that this batch only made four pancakes.<br />
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How dare I only make four heart-shaped pancakes when yesterday's batch made <i>six.</i> The unforgivable injustice began the spiral towards not wanting to wash hands, or brush teeth, or gods forbid put clothing on. Preschool?! Though we do that three days a week, Liam was determined today would not be one of those days. Between many tears, lots of screaming on his part, and finally a last-ditch effort on my part to pretend to be dragons, to which I earned a "Mom, you are frustrating me right now," we finally made it out the door. When we arrived -- my hair unwashed, clothing askew, him with puffy eyes and face from crying -- even his teacher asked, "rough morning?"<br />
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I, naively, assumed the afternoon would be better. But then, the cat got spooked while Liam was holding him and scratched his legs and face. There was lots of hugging and band-aiding and crying. "I don't like Rory anymore!" Liam yelled at the cat. So, we put a movie on so he could nurse his wounds and I could cook dinner, but movie-watching was filled with randomly yelling "OW!" in between crying over concerns of Toothless the dragon (although he's seen this movie and knows how it ends. *spoiler* Toothless is fine).<br />
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Long story short, I ended up burning myself, not getting anything done, haphazardly folding laundry that's still sitting on my kitchen table, and Liam finally, finally being okay up on the kitchen counter with me while I attempted to wash some dishes.<br />
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And then he decided to dump pancake mix all over himself, the counter, and the floor.<br />
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This was my moment of decision making.<br />
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Inside, I wanted to cry, curl up into a ball on the floor and close my eyes. I thought maybe the "under the covers" theory of monsters (if you're hiding they can't be there!) could maybe work with toddlers, too. I wanted to cuss and stomp my feet. I wanted to throw a mom tantrum.<br />
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But, I didn't.<br />
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I gently took him off the counter and brushed him off. Nicely asked him to be more careful next time with the pancake mix and then asked if he wanted to make some pancakes.<br />
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So, it turns out, today was a triumph. Sometimes, I need to remind myself that (especially on days like this) <i>not </i>blowing up on my kid or giving in to my temper means that I've done just fine.<br /><br />
Yes, there are mac n cheese noodles in the carpet and pancake mix on the counter and unfolded laundry in the dryer and trains attempting to break ankles on the floor and the dishes aren't done. But on these days, rather than giving in to the stress or letting it overcome all of my emotions, which I've been known to do in the past, I've just got to think about what I <i>have </i>done...what has gone well.<br />
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Despite this kind of day, at the end of it, I've got a toddler cuddling with me on the couch, saying, "thanks for being my mom."<br />
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And tomorrow is another day to try and try again.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7024470007643898188.post-64232139221035971822014-04-30T23:32:00.000-07:002014-04-30T23:41:12.410-07:00"Mom, Put On Your Ears": On Paying More AttentionSometimes when I'm having a hard time falling asleep, I'll start writing blog posts in my head. As made obvious by how infrequently I post, 9 times out of 10, this helps me fall asleep because I'm even boring myself. There are those rare occasions, however, where something sticks and then I actually have to get up out of bed and type it out. Tonight is one of those nights. (And I'm hoping after getting at least this off my brain, I'll have an easier time falling asleep when I head back in to my snoring preschooler).<br />
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Liam and I were driving to the store today. I was running through the grocery list in my head, while simultaneously trying not to sing along to "Let It Go," thinking about my to-do list to get ready for celebrating a friend's wedding this weekend, and going over my student conferencing schedule for the next day. Though I hate to admit it, I was doing all of this thinking while Liam was talking to me. In my defense, he was reciting the same lines from <i>Leo the Lightning Bug</i> that he had been saying since we left preschool twenty minutes before, so I thought I was in the clear. But then, from the back of the car, I hear<br />
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"Mom, put your ears on."<br />
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At first, I had no idea what this meant. Luckily, I'm in the my-kid-is-totally-a-mini-human-being-and-can-articulate-himself-pretty-well stage, so I flat out asked, "What does <i>that </i>mean?"<br />
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"You need to listen," he said.<br />
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And then he proceeded to pull out the mom trick of whispering his next sentence to make sure I really was, indeed, listening to him.<br />
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Though a funny moment (and a later funny Facebook status update) at the time, I really started to think about it while attempting to fall asleep next to his snoring. Liam reminded me today that with the craziness of the end of the semester, news of a new summer course, both exciting and tragic things happening in life, I've not been a very good listener lately.<br />
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Sometimes, we can take our kids for granted.<br />
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Liam is my constant. He's there (most) every morning when I wake up and (most) every evening when I fall asleep. If I'm not at work and Liam isn't at his dad's house, I'm with him. He's there for stories and dinners and breakfasts and play time and breakfast-for-dinners. He's there when I'm happy, when I'm frustrated, when I'm sad, when I'm tired, when I'm excited -- all of it. And, with not even being four yet, I'm still in the stage where it feels like he always <i>will </i>be a constant. But, the kicker is, he won't.<br />
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Right now, I'm his best friend. Right now, he wants to tell me everything, in excruciating detail, that happened at preschool. He'll tell me all of his fears. He'll share all of his joys with me. I get the tears and the laughter. The tantrums and the living room dance parties. But it won't always be like this. Now, I'm not mourning that eventuality -- my whole goal as a parent is to create a responsible, compassionate, functioning ADULT who builds his own life outside of my home -- but that I need to spend more time focusing on the Liam I have now.<br />
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I remember when I was pregnant and first had Liam, my thesis advisor told me, "Don't blink." I remember thinking, probably too harshly and jadedly, that those words were some sentimental "mom stuff" I would never feel. However, I blinked and now Liam is four. I'll blink again and he'll be eight. I'll blink again and he'll be a teen. And so on and so on and so on.<br />
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So, I'm going to start to try and focus on putting my ears back on. On making my time with Liam, <i>my time with Liam</i>.<br />
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Damn, I never thought an almost four-year-old could teach me so much.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7024470007643898188.post-86309139739237359962014-04-23T10:38:00.002-07:002014-09-08T07:02:25.189-07:00On Divorce: The "You Just Didn't Try Hard Enough" Myth<div style="font-family: Tahoma; font-size: 13px;">
In late December, my (then) partner and I decided to get a divorce.</div>
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The reasons for the divorce are complicated and their own story, one that is between my ex-partner and myself. The Cliff Notes are that for a myriad of reasons, not being together as a couple anymore was the best decision for our family. There were issues on both sides, no one is to blame, and we had A LOT of very important, mature conversations that, frankly, should have happened long before a wedding. A few weeks after my ex moved out, our three and a half year old kid looked at us and said, "thank you for not fighting anymore." I think that explains enough. </div>
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What I feel the need to write about are the reactions. I didn't know what to expect from friends and family (and, as I was soon to find out, strangers). I had kept many of my relationship "issues" away from family, not wanting to harm our image as a couple should we work things out, so it came as a surprise to some of them. Though, for the most part, family and friends (especially) have been supportive, there is a certain rhetoric around divorce that really started to bother me.</div>
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"Marriage is hard. You just need to try harder."</div>
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I understand where this statement comes from. We live in a culture of seventy-two day marriages, marriages for money, marriages for fame -- there is this idea that marriage isn't taken "seriously" anymore, or that committed relationships in general aren't taken seriously anymore. However, the "marriage is hard" argument has become overused, and when dealing with someone who has tried and tried and realizes that their family is heading down a dark path and divorce is the only way out, a very hurtful and damaging statement.</div>
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Marriage IS hard. It's hard living with someone, communicating with someone, making your needs and desires known, sharing a life -- talking about finances, the "boring, adult" stuff. All of that is hard. And marriage takes compromise. It takes each person waking up every morning and choosing to make the relationship work. However, compromise is different than sacrifice. What I found myself doing was sacrificing fundamental parts of myself to try and make the relationship work. I don't blame my ex for this, I did that to myself, but I somehow had lost myself in an effort to do the "right thing" and all it did was hurt my partner and my son. And "hard" is different than "difficult" or a "constant uphill battle." Yes, there will be arguments and disagreements, but every day shouldn't be a battle. Every day shouldn't feel like either walking on eggshells or trudging through a foot of mud. </div>
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Had I realized that earlier, I would have saved us both a lot of pain.</div>
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When I first started telling people about the divorce, a lot of response I got was that "choosing love" idea. But it takes two people for a relationship to work. It takes trust, communication, openness, and honesty -- things my ex and I had lost or never had. </div>
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Divorce is an incredibly personal, difficult decision. And, what it comes down to, is that no one, but the people in it, knows the dynamics of the relationship. When we first made the decision, I had my week of crying, of freaking out, of feeling lost. But then I gathered myself up and starting working towards making the best life I can for myself and my kid. Many people took my pragmatic, positive attitude as either not caring or the divorce being solely my decision. If I've learned anything from becoming a mother, and now going through a divorce, it's that I can't control how other people act or what they say, but I can control how I react and how those things make me feel.</div>
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I know there are a lot of people out there who are disappointed in me. Who maybe think I didn't try hard enough. But, over the last few months, I have felt a sense of relief, of a weight lifted off my shoulders. I've been a better mother -- more patient and understanding. My kid has had less emotional breakdowns at school, has been a better listener, and has overall had a more positive attitude. That tension in the home is gone. I would rather my kid have two parents that are separated, but happy, than parents who try to stay together "for the kid" and spend their relationship miserable and fighting.<br />
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Now, instead, we are attempting to co-parent from separate households -- both still very active in our son's life. My ex may not be my husband anymore, but he always and forever will be our son's dad, and we will always be our son's parents. And he still is, as he always has been, an incredible father.</div>
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So, yes, I've become part of a statistic. But I'm learning that it's okay for me to do what I know is best for my family, despite what others think. It all goes back to that old metaphor about putting on your own oxygen mask first. I don't think that's selfish. If I am going to be a good mom (and eventually a good partner again), I need to make sure I'm taking care of myself, too -- that includes physical, emotional, and intellectual needs. </div>
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I know I'll hold a stigma -- maybe only for a little while, maybe forever -- but I have learned more about myself, love, and relationships over the past four years than I ever have in my life. For that I am thankful. </div>
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And I know that if a friend ever comes to me in the same situation, I won't fall back on "marriage is hard," or "well, did you try?" or "love is a choice." Instead, I'll offer support. I'll be someone to listen. I'll help with a new budget, or childcare, or going out for drinks -- whatever that person needs. The best response I ever heard was, "I'm sorry this happened to you. What can I do to be supportive?"</div>
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Unknownnoreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7024470007643898188.post-80363663521732534752012-07-23T22:07:00.000-07:002012-07-23T22:07:26.606-07:00Unlikely Souvenirs: Lessons I Learned In Portland<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml>
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<br />
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Funk and I received the super generous gift of a surprise
honeymoon from his brother and his brother’s husband. The conversation went
something like this:</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
J: So, we’re sending you on your honeymoon as a wedding
gift.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Me: <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>(Faints)</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
J: And it’s going to be a surprise.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Me: (Faints again)</div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
So, the night of our wedding, sitting in the middle of an
Irish Pub, Loren and I opened up our “honeymoon box.” In it were airplane
tickets, some spending money, and two travel books. We were leaving for
Portland, Oregon in the morning.</div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I WAS STOKED.</div>
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<br /></div>
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I had only driven through Portland before – well,
technically, I slept in the state university student union on a road trip to
Washington – and I couldn’t wait to actually explore the city. Minus the
throwing up and getting sick for the first day part (adrenaline crash,
anyone?), I was not disappointed in the least. From the moment I stepped into
the airport – those fancy toilets that conserve water! Easy, amazing light
rail! Recyclable products everywhere! – to when I walked through the city –
vegan options on every menu! Awesome vintage stores! POWELL’S BOOKS! – I was in
love. I shot off a text to my brother-in-law professing my love for the city
and he warned me I couldn’t move there. So, I decided to pay close attention
and figure out what about Portland I could bring home with me. Here are a few
of the lessons I learned (in list form, because I love my lists):</div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpFirst" style="mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -.25in;">
<span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;">1.<span style="font: 7.0pt "Times New Roman";">
</span></span></span>Portable glass Tupperware for take-out: It’s the
small things that count when it comes to being nice to the planet and this is
one I saw everywhere in Portland. Food truck time? Bring your own dish. Know
you can never finish that vegan hash from the corner bakery? Bring your own Tupperware.
Have a routine of a black coffee every morning? Bring your own mug. It’s so
simple and so easy to do.</div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpFirst" style="mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -.25in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -.25in;">
<span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;">2.<span style="font: 7.0pt "Times New Roman";">
</span></span></span>Make public transport work for you: I know, I
know… public transport in the Los Angeles area SUCKS. It does. But do a little
a research and find out what types of public transport are in your community
and how it can work for you. Here, even if I just take the bus to town (I live
on a college campus) and ride my bike to the grocery store and back, it’s
saving me gas and getting my jeep off of the road for 15 miles (plus, it’s
exercise!). Another thing I have to remind myself is that my own two feet are
great public transport. Again, every little bit helps. </div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -.25in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -.25in;">
<span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;">3.<span style="font: 7.0pt "Times New Roman";">
</span></span></span>Bring reusable bags everywhere: Reusable bags
are really catching on (to the point that Long Beach even has a law banning
plastic bags!) and it’s really great. But even I forget to bring reusable bags
to places other than the grocery store. In Portland, I saw the bags everywhere –
in grocery stores, clothing stores, bookstores, toy stores, restaurants, tattoo
shops – anywhere people knew they’d need a handle and a sack to help them carry
something a reusable bag was there. So, I’m going to tuck mine into something I
never forget at home – the diaper bag.</div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -.25in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -.25in;">
<span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;">4.<span style="font: 7.0pt "Times New Roman";">
</span></span></span>Farmers’ markets are the bees’ knees: Farmer’s
markets are everywhere in Portland and had delicious, locally grown, fresh
food. And guess what? Camarillo has a local farmer’s market on Saturday
mornings (and if you don’t live in Camarillo, I bet your city has one close by,
too). The Camarillo focus is definitely food but other cities focus on art and
culture as well. The market by my mom’s house in Long Beach even has pony rides
and games for the kids (plus $2 hummus and fresh pita straight from the hands
of the family who makes it). Really good stuff!</div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -.25in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpLast" style="mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -.25in;">
<span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;">5.<span style="font: 7.0pt "Times New Roman";">
</span></span></span>A simple reminder:</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The biggest lesson I took home from my honeymoon wasn’t a
specific tip or hint. Instead, the lesson was something that happened gradually
over the five days we were there. So many times, I found myself saying, “Oh! I
wish we had this in California!” After irritating both myself (and, I’m sure,
Funk), I realized I needed to stop complaining and start making things happen.
In my “Rachael world,” I sometimes feel like it has to be all or nothing – I sit
down to a blank page and will-write-a-novel-right-now-or-die or I want to sweep
through and make-all-the-things-sustainable-and-green-and-awesome-this-week!
But then I took the advice I always give to my students who are daunted by the
large task of writing a paper; make a list of what you want to do, or free
write about it, or make one small change to your writing habit. Make the task <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">manageable. </i>So, that’s what I’ll begin.
I can make a small start by remembering my reusable bag, or by bringing Tupperware
out to dinner, or riding my bike instead of driving to town.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>All of these “small starts” will eventually
add up to me living the life I want to live in my own head, the life where I’m
making conscious decisions about how my actions affect more than me, where I’m
practicing what I preach, and am trying to make some sort of change so that I
leave a better place here for my kid.</div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiqvZR-pMInz8IrbHGVIr-ZYWshRhpZVQxsREacFFqVinclPcy1o1cZxAUiYpr93CKV9c4NzvDzadCRahCx83RwHxmxHeyXDtYBnKMg0yvfhJ7jlJlpYeg60d626EEzyXkWzn2vBCDpF_o/s1600/vegan+fritter.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiqvZR-pMInz8IrbHGVIr-ZYWshRhpZVQxsREacFFqVinclPcy1o1cZxAUiYpr93CKV9c4NzvDzadCRahCx83RwHxmxHeyXDtYBnKMg0yvfhJ7jlJlpYeg60d626EEzyXkWzn2vBCDpF_o/s320/vegan+fritter.jpg" width="180" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
So, thanks Portland, for these unlikely souvenirs.(And delicious vegan doughnuts...)</div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7024470007643898188.post-87769440936889352532012-07-18T21:10:00.001-07:002012-07-18T21:12:24.802-07:00Child Autonomy: I’m Vegan But My Toddler Isn’t<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
I’m very interested in children’s autonomy – their ability
to make their own decisions, choose their own actions, and control their own
behavior – and how we, as parents, interfere with or inspire those choices. The
questions of how much to “control” versus “inspire” has been a huge question
for me, especially when it comes to food.</div>
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<br /></div>
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I’m a vegan. Or, putting it in a way that is more
comfortable for most people (the term “vegan,” I have sadly come to learn, has
lots of negative connotations or preconceived notions about it but that is for
a different blog post), I eat a plant-based diet. I do not eat any animal products at all (yes, this means cheese and other forms of dairy, fish, meat, and eggs). I do this for a variety of reasons ranging from <a href="http://www.veganhealth.org/articles/experts" target="_blank">health</a>, to <a href="http://jlgoesvegan.com/4081215028/" target="_blank">ethics</a>, to
morals, and to <a href="http://www.vegansociety.com/resources/environment.aspx" target="_blank">the environment</a>.* Again, I could write a whole blog post about
the reasons why I am vegan but that isn’t the focus of this one. What is
important here is that a vegan, plant-based diet, is what works best for me
physically, emotionally, and intellectually. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The most popular question I get after “How do you get your
protein?” (<a href="http://www.vrg.org/nutrition/protein.htm#table2" target="_blank">easy peasy</a>) is “Well, is your kid vegan?”</div>
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No, the droidlet is not.</div>
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<br /></div>
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Now, this isn’t
because you can’t raise a child vegan (because you TOTALLY CAN and it’s TOTALLY
HEALTHY) but for a variety of reasons I am still exploring for myself. One part
that plays into the droidlet’s meanderings into meat is because my partner, his
dad, is not a vegan. I’m very adamant about making ONE meal for my family at
dinnertime that the droidlet, even at two, eats. This means, though, that Funk
sometimes cooks meat to add to the vegan dish I’ve prepared. When droidlet
wants to try it, I don’t stop him.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
What I eat and put into my body has been a very conscious
decision I have made that has included much research, study, and
decision-making. All things I want droidlet to do for himself some day. Just
like I am not pushing one religion on droidlet, I’m not going to force one food
philosophy on him either (and no, this is not a dig at other vegetarian or
vegan families – that totally rocks that you’re all experiencing it together,
it’s just not for my situation). Now, does this mean I’m going to let him eat
McDonald’s every day? Hell no. Does this mean I’m going to let him eat a ton of
processed food? NO. Ice cream for dinner every night? Um, no.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
What this means, is that I’m going to model healthy eating
habits and make available a variety of healthy foods to my son. I’m going to
show him that plant-based dishes are delicious, fun to make, and help make our
bodies feel good. But I’m also going to give him autonomy. Allow him to choose
chicken if he wants it (of course, hoping it is local and grass fed). </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Will I be thrilled if the droidlet decides to be a vegan one
day? Of course!! But, I will never berate him for not eating like me. The goal
is to teach him that what we put into our bodies <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">matters</i>. To teach him how to make healthy choices and where they
are available. To teach him about locally grown, fresh food.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I’d like to think I’ve
already planted the seed with our <a href="http://www.underwoodfamilyfarms.com/CSA_Program.html" target="_blank">CSA box</a>. Every week, he screams and jumps to
open our vegetable box to see what we got and is stoked to try out new vegetables
and fruits we’ve never had before. Just a small box is showing him that
supporting local agriculture is fun, that healthy food is both visually
appealing and delicious, and that food is something that brings our family
together. Just like with so many other things in life – morals, values,
relationships – I hope that I’m arming the droidlet with the best information
and experience I can so that when we unleash him into the world as an adult, he can make the decision that is right <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">for him</i>. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
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*My Composition Professor self is nagging me for a disclaimer -- these links are very simple and easy to read sources that are usually linked to some sort of vegan advocacy cause. Because this blog post is not trying to persuade people to become vegan or defend my own position as a vegan, I haven't equipped the sources from long, scholarly articles. These links are purely for informational purposes should any readers want a little more detail. </div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7024470007643898188.post-40894103305879710872012-01-04T16:10:00.001-08:002012-01-04T16:10:39.215-08:00Being a Mom Made Me Better At My Job<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">As I was approaching my last year of grad school for my Master’s in English, I had been dating an awesome, goateed, tattooed locksmith for a few months. That Christmas, as I was choosing my thesis advisor and getting ready to embark on the challenge of writing a full short story collection, my body started to feel a little weird. What I thought was nerves over the impending thesis, we came to find, was actually our little droidlet beginning to grow. Surprise! The following August, my son was born. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">I took a semester off from my program and went back five months later to complete one last class, my entire thesis, and teach the last class of my Teaching Associate’s career. And, somehow, I finished. This past May, the droidlet and his dad cheered my on as I walked across that stage and officially became a Master of English (I just pictured myself as a Jedi. Heh.).</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Luckily, I got hired right away, as an adjunct faculty member for two different colleges. This meant I went from having a breezy summer hanging out with my son to teaching five classes, four days a week.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">At first, I was very, very scared I wasn’t going to make it. However, now that I am charging into the second semester of this schedule, I realize that being a mom has actually improved my skills as a professor.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Before, when I was teaching as a Teaching Associate, I would do something like stay up all night playing Lord of the Rings Online or watching Dr. Who episodes on BBC America and then the next day realize “holy crap, I have 25 essays to grade before tomorrow!” Then, a caffeine-out eight hour shift at a local coffee shop would commence the next morning. Though I rallied at my students about procrastination, I, myself, was a procrastinator. Now, with little guy, I literally cannot do this anymore. Much to my free-spirited, spontaneous chagrine, I was forced to start managing my time and it’s improved my life. I now have scheduled times to grade and do work, where I am only focusing on my students. This means, that when I’m with my son it is all about him. Before, the priorities in my life would get handled when I thought of them (or remembered) and now, I’m making a conscious effort to get everything organized.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Before the droidlet, I didn’t really have boundaries between my home life and my “school” life. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I would<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>answer emails at all hours of the night, accept late work from students without giving them too hard of a time, easily reschedule appointments, and always keep their essays out and ready for feedback. Now, I’m much more effective in my teaching and interaction with my students. I still have my open-door policy, open communication, and support. However, now, I have more structure. I make it imperative for students to make and keep consistent appointments. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>My students know I won’t be staying up ‘til 11 to check emails, so we handle issues during my office hours or after class. I’ve established a clear boundary of when and where we can discuss work which allows my students the academic and individual support they need while allowing me to come home, confident that I’ve done my job.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Having the droidlet while working has also forced me to not be so hard on myself. When I first began teaching, I was wracked with the “mama guilt.” I felt guilty for being <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">happy</i> at school even when I was away from him. I felt guilty for being gone eight hours a day four days a week. And the guilt was double edged. I’d then feel guilty at home chasing him around and reading books while a stack of papers burned a hole in the back of my head from my briefcase. I felt guilty just snuggling on the couch after he had fallen asleep for a nap because I could be lesson planning. And then the guilt even started to slip into my relationship with my partner. There was guilt over falling into bed with hardly a word to him because I was exhausted from my new schedule. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Guilt that our apartment was never clean. Guilt. Guilt. Guilt.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">The problem was that I was trying to do <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">everything</i>. Be the most amazing professor my students ever had, be super mom, be the perfect partner, do all the laundry, wash all the dishes, feed all the snakes, clean the whole house, “no thanks, I don’t need help, I totally got this” – when I definitely did not have it.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Then, one night, I asked my partner if he could cook dinner three times a week. He was <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">stoked.</i> Then, I started taking the droidlet to the park more frequently (being out of the house makes me less likely to clean or want to do work). Then, I started to schedule time at school to actually benefit my students in an efficient and effective way. I started asking for help – swapping lesson plans with other professors, having mini “dates” with my colleagues where we could voice frustrations and achievements so that when I got home I could talk with my partner about his day. All of these little “yes, please, I need that” completely changed my life around.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">My son has taught me so many things. One of the greatest – that has helped me be a better partner, professor, and mama – is to be able to ask for that little bit of help. And I’ve come to realize, people are more than willing and happy to give it. </span></div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7024470007643898188.post-84556741374387183562011-04-18T09:00:00.000-07:002011-04-18T13:33:42.619-07:00Awkward Elevators<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpFirst" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", "serif"; font-size: 12pt;">Elevators are awkward. The getting on and getting off, the standing in close proximity to strangers, the too-strong-perfume peoples and the random ringtones and text beepies emanating from people’s pockets – or hands. And all of this wouldn’t even be that bad except for the inherent awkward silence that befalls all elevators. </span></div><div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpFirst" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt 0.5in;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", "serif"; font-size: 12pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Now, I’m all for a good awkward silence. I was telling my students the other day about how part of what makes me an effective teacher is that when I ask a question, I’m not made at all uncomfortable by the silence that (usually) follows and will patiently wait until someone answers (you have to allow for a little time for students to gear up and really think about the question). So, I guess what bothers me about the elevator awkward silence is that I so badly want to talk to the other elevator occupants.</span></div><div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt 0.5in;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", "serif"; font-size: 12pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>This might mean I’m an annoying person who can never keep my <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>mouth shut. But, let’s think about this. The doors close and for a few moments, I and maybe two to five other people, share an experience together. Is it a particularly moving experience (wah wah), not technically. Is it traumatic or dramatic? Since I’ve never been in a falling elevator (one of my biggest fears everrr besides spiders and the dark..), no. Yet, I feel this impulse that for some reason these people were brought to this elevator at the same time as me, maybe for a reason? Okay, call me a hippie. Maybe I just really don’t like the silence of it all and am sad that people would rather be reading their Facebooks on their smart phones in the elevator than interacting with other real life humans. Or maybe part of me has an obsession with the whole elevator thing because of the opening of Haruki Murakami’s <a href="http://www.amazon.com/Hardboiled-Wonderland-World-Haruki-Murakami/dp/0099448785/ref=sr_1_1?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1302891918&sr=1-1">Hardboiled Wonderland and the End of the World</a>. Because of this book, I still want to write a story that deals with time travel occurring (unbeknownst to the occupants) in an elevator. Maybe that’s why I hate the silence – I’m upset that something cool like time-travel isn’t happening while I ride the elevator and when the doors open I’m not faced with ninjas to battle (yup, <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Teenage_Mutant_Ninja_Turtles_(arcade_game)">TMNT circa 1990</a>) so I try to make up for that with a desire to at least talk to the people in the elevator with me. (And that way, if there are ninjas to battle when the doors open, I at least know who’s on my team).</span></div><div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt 0.5in;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpLast" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 10pt 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", "serif"; font-size: 12pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>I feel like this whole post has maybe gotten away from me, and I wish I had some awesome little anecdote about a truly awkward situation in an elevator, but I don't, so I’m going to try and bring it back some other way. What it all comes down to (I guess) is that elevators are pretty cool but really awkward, yet have the potential for some cool magical realism.</span></div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7024470007643898188.post-39458615692146716982011-04-15T09:00:00.000-07:002011-04-15T09:15:37.573-07:00Small Delights: "Cartoon You"<div class="MsoNormalCxSpFirst" style="line-height: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", "serif"; font-size: 12pt;">A few days ago, I was having one of <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">those</i> mornings. I, for lack of better words, was feeling very “emo” for no apparent reason at all. So, I popped in Tegan & Sara on my drive to school, sang out loud with the windows down, and even let myself have a small relief cry when I got to school. After not feeling better from my normal remedies, I decided maybe I was hangry (hungry/angry…it exists, just ask Funk). So, I grabbed some tofu and brown rice, sat down at a table, and commenced chopstick goodness.</span></div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpFirst" style="line-height: normal;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", "serif"; font-size: 12pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Somewhere between a green onion and teriyaki sauce, I realized the woman siting at the table next to me was staring. At me. Not just observing but <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">staring</i>. I thought, “Okay, maybe I look super cute today or have teriyaki sauce in my hair or a spider on my head. Oh, god, please not a spider!” and then I didn’t think much of it because I was feeling so, well, crappy.</span></div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", "serif"; font-size: 12pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>After a few minutes, I could feel someone hovering at my side.</span></div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", "serif"; font-size: 12pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>It was the woman. She pushed a small, postcard-flyer for a campus carnaval into my hand and rushed through the words, “I wanted to draw cartoon for you.”</span></div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", "serif"; font-size: 12pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>That is when I noticed a cartoon outline of a pin-up style girl with chopsticks, darawn in permanent marker on the flyer. She even dated and signed it. Before I could even say thank you, she was out the door.</span></div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", "serif"; font-size: 12pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>The crappy day officially ended.</span></div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal;"><br />
</div><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", "serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-language: EN-US;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>This tiny event was one of those reminders that sometimes we affect people without realizing and that, sometimes, even a small cartoon can brighten a day.</span><br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhiCYHGvMti-_QO6yFxj7kXrQxfeN8iLdyGW7qoQCFtcGNshHlEBMPBU-YodwLHSKjmIt2XFAhica0QsHUxgJFuOGvB16evFFfg80TCnmQYNiENXvBt_BMhLNM6VJ-Aagnz8D7lL5QnVgQ/s1600/cartoon+you.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" r6="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhiCYHGvMti-_QO6yFxj7kXrQxfeN8iLdyGW7qoQCFtcGNshHlEBMPBU-YodwLHSKjmIt2XFAhica0QsHUxgJFuOGvB16evFFfg80TCnmQYNiENXvBt_BMhLNM6VJ-Aagnz8D7lL5QnVgQ/s320/cartoon+you.jpg" width="240" /></a></div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7024470007643898188.post-46167909854332689482011-04-14T17:41:00.000-07:002011-04-14T17:41:12.057-07:00Live Like You're... On Vacation (?)<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", "serif"; font-size: 12pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Before Spring Break, I semi-lamented to my students, “Woo hoo, I’m going to Ohio for Spring Break!” complete with a sarcastic fist pump to the air.</span></div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", "serif"; font-size: 12pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Funk, Droidlet, and I decided to visit Funk’s aunt (Crafty) and his cousins (Green Lantern and Catan Champion) for the week. And, I’m not going to lie. I was a little nervous. Nervous for the colder weather, the country town, and Droidlet’s first plane ride and I was slightly skeptical about whether or not this was going to be the best use of a Spring Break.</span></div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", "serif"; font-size: 12pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>But, I geared up for the event (and rented a car for the first time. Hooray for being 25!) and was starting to get a tiny bit excited for the upcoming relaxation. We had an uneventful plane ride. Droidlet got my gene of falling asleep even before a plane takes off and we scored a 2011 Toyota Camry for all our driving needs. Then, we proceeded over long (no, not dirt) country roads to Aunt Crafty’s house.</span></div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", "serif"; font-size: 12pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Now, let me tell you:</span></div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", "serif"; font-size: 12pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Ohio.is.awesome.</span></div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", "serif"; font-size: 12pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Seriously. We had an amazing vacation.</span></div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", "serif"; font-size: 12pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Of course, 90% of why it was so great is because Funk’s family is just <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">awesome</i>. We had rounds of Settlers of Catan until 1:00am, great conversations, emotional support, and visits to kick-ass museums (helllooo American Bicycle, Annie Oakley, and the Air and Space museums!) among lots of great food, photographs, memories, and incredible company.</span></div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", "serif"; font-size: 12pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>The other 10%, though, really had to do with “vacation mentality.”</span></div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpLast" style="line-height: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", "serif"; font-size: 12pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>The properties of “vacation mentality:”</span></div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpLast" style="line-height: normal;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpFirst" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt 0.5in; mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -0.25in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", "serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;">1.<span style="font: 7pt "Times New Roman";"> </span></span></span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", "serif"; font-size: 12pt;"><strong>“We’re somewhere new, so let’s try everything!”</strong></span></div><div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", "serif"; font-size: 12pt;">We tried new diners, new food, new drinks, new places, new beds, new homes… the list goes on. We even got to share some “news” with our family (among them, Japanese beer for the Catan Champion and Yuengling (the most amazing beer EVER) for the rest of the family… yes, we spread alcohol joy wherever we go). Sometimes, at home, when not in “vacation mentality” we tend to fall into routines and normal habits. Which, are good in their own right, but this was a nice reminder that there are still lots of things in Ventura County I have not yet tried.</span></div><div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt 0.5in;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt 0.5in; mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -0.25in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", "serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;">2.<span style="font: 7pt "Times New Roman";"> </span></span></span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", "serif"; font-size: 12pt;"><strong>“Meh. I can check the internet later.”</strong></span></div><div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", "serif"; font-size: 12pt;">I went on the internet a total of, maybe, three times (including my phone!). Granted, part of this was because the cell phone reception, but a <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">huge</i> part of it was because I was so busy doing other awesome things and spending quality time with people I love. This was a big slam in the face… why don’t I take internet breaks more often? Facebook did not explode while I was in Ohio, my blog didn’t smoulder to ashes, and the blogs I normally read were still up and running, as usual.</span></div><div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt 0.5in;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt 0.5in; mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -0.25in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", "serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;">3.<span style="font: 7pt "Times New Roman";"> </span></span></span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", "serif"; font-size: 12pt;"><strong>“Picture moments.”</strong></span></div><div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", "serif"; font-size: 12pt;">I feel we tend to take more pictures – but at the same time keep the camera down enough to experience the moment – more on vacation than in “regular life.”</span></div><div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt 0.5in;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt 0.5in; mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -0.25in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", "serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;">4.<span style="font: 7pt "Times New Roman";"> </span></span></span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", "serif"; font-size: 12pt;"><strong>“Talk, walk, and talk some more.”</strong></span></div><div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", "serif"; font-size: 12pt;">Maybe it’s just me, but I tend to walk waaaay more when I’m on vacation. Walking through museums, walking down main streets, just walking outside and around a new block (and finding a flattened craw fish in the road). And between all the walking, we had actual conversations. Funk and I got to walk and talk about things outside of our parenthood bubble; we got to reminisce about Funk’s mom with Aunt Crafty; we got to talk about all the new stuff happening in the Green Lantern’s and Catan Champion’s lives. </span></div><div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt 0.5in;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", "serif"; font-size: 12pt;"></span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", "serif"; font-size: 12pt;">Of course, there are downsides to vacation mentality. Well, the only one I can think of is that we spend a little more money than we might normally (like buying Droidlet a super awesome “Speed Limit: 18,000 mph” sign with a rocket ship on it). Other than that, this vacation mentality made for a week of having a fulfilling life.</span></div><div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt 0.5in;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpLast" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 10pt 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", "serif"; font-size: 12pt;">I think it’s time to implement this mentality more often, right here, at home.</span></div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpFirst" style="line-height: normal;"><br />
</div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7024470007643898188.post-32420390727346429512011-03-21T21:03:00.001-07:002011-03-21T21:05:03.961-07:00When to Stop Reading and Start Doing<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">And I find myself again, unable to fall asleep, browsing the wide world of web and reading about amazing events, cultural moments, and fun adventures. In particular, tonight I read about the <a href="http://salonofshame.com/">Salon of Shame</a> started by Ariel of the Offbeat Empire (bride, mama, and now home!). The Salon is a reading night where people come and read out of their old, embarrassing teenage diaries or old, horrible poetry they wrote in younger years. It sounds like an awesome event, something I would love to start (and Ariel even hooks readers up with a <a href="http://salonofshame.com/start-your-own/">guide</a>!). I already picture like-minded friends from my Master’s program, Funk’s rag tag group of peoples, and friends from Camarillo getting together to laugh, share, drink, and run down our embarrassing memory lanes. Yet, I ex out the page and move on to my next search. I sometimes complain that there isn’t much to do in Camarillo… why don’t I make it happen?</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>This same thing happens over parenting. I read and read and read about all the different “types” of parent I can choose to be. I read about all these activities I can do with Droidlet to help his learning and development. Yet, sometimes, the day just gets away. It bolts out the door and I’ve spent another day running errands, playing a little, feeding, bathing, and doing “basic” stuff with him.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>These “I wish I could ‘cause it would be awesome” ‘s also happens with academic/professional stuff. I research creative writing journals to submit my stories to – and then never submit. I research online zines to get involved with or send submissions – yet I wimp out on the “join” page. I say I’m going to go back and revise awesome academic papers for publication and yet, they remain in their old folders.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Now, I’m not saying I’m a fuddy duddy who sits at her computer all day and doesn’t engage in life. It’s more that I’m tired of making excuses for not doing all of these things I think would be awesome and/or I covet other peoples’ lives because fun, interesting, original events happen for them. That silly cliché of “Life is what happens when you’re making plans” couldn’t ring more true for me right now. It’s time for me to put down the books, turn off the computer, and start having the life that I want. Because that’s the whole point, isn’t it? Not to watch movies or read articles and <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">wish</i> that was my life but to take an active role in all the awesomeness I’ve got going on; and when I feel a lack, seeking out and creating those great moments. </span></div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7024470007643898188.post-92031428554566615792011-03-15T13:19:00.000-07:002011-03-15T13:19:56.847-07:00Our Family Bed: When Restless Nights Are Worth It<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">“Oh. So, Droidlet <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">still</i> sleeps with you?”</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>This is a question I get. A lot. From friends, family members, or strangers who ask. Apparently, with Droidlet getting to his six months post-womb state, the hottest question is whether or not he is sleeping through the night. And sometimes (okay, lots of times) I do wish there was a magic button in his brain that once his body ticked to six months, lit up, and forced his little brain to fall asleep at ten and not wake up until six. However, this is not the case. And after an inquiry about whether or not he sleeps through the night comes… “well, where does he sleep?”</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>I wish after I reply, “with us,” the conversation would be over with an “Oh, that’s wonderful!” or “That’s great your family can make that work!” Instead, responses always come in the “you’lllll seeeee” form detailing how I’m basically ruining my child because he is going to want to sleep in our bed until he is twenty-five or that he will never ever ever sleep through the night or that (although we have been co-sleeping for over six months now) we will definitely roll over on and suffocate our baby.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Now, I’m not writing this in complete defense or to get upset about those who don’t co-sleep, but rather, I want to reiterate that we’ve made a choice that works for our family and our child. Also, there are very important aspects to keep in mind. Funk and I are well aware of the “dangers” of co-sleeping (especially when Droidlet was a newborn) which is why we <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">always</i> practice in the SAFEST way possible. We never go to bed under any sort of influence (not even one glass of wine), Droidlet does not have covers on him and does not sleep on a pillow, and he isn’t on the edge of the bed where he can potentially roll off. These issues are very important to follow and help make our co-sleeping safe and great for the whole family.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Of course, it’s not perfect. There are nights when Droidlet, especially now that he can move around, tends to kick us in the back or slap us in the head. I’ve woken up with little fingers up my nose and on some mornings have even found Funk on the floor because Droidlet basically inched his way over to Funk’s side of the bed. However, Droidlet sleeps best when in our bed and we love the family experience of sharing sleep together. Oh, and the whole “you’ll never have sex if you co-sleep”… trust me, it’s not true.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Eventually, it will be time for Droidlet to move out of our bed. Whether this is Droidlet-led, or parent-led, or whichever comes first, we haven’t decided. If this will happen next week, or at one, or a two, we don’t know. What we do know is that, for right now, sleeping with the little bot in our bed is what works best for us. We haven’t noticed any “unhealthy” behavior because of it – Droidlet is a happy, bubbling, growing little guy. The choice of where Droidlet sleeps is just that – a choice that works for us – and it has been a wonderful experience to have as a new family trying to figure out the odds and ends of sharing a life together.</span></div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7024470007643898188.post-47134625874743634402011-03-08T09:03:00.000-08:002011-03-08T09:58:54.690-08:00"I would... if I didn't have a baby."<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">I hate hearing myself think this (yes, I <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">hear </i>myself <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">think)</i>. HATE IT. Generally, it happens at night, when I’m tired – when Droidlet is asleep and I’ve been lesson planning/working on my thesis/hunting for better paying jobs for far too long and I stumble across something that sounds awesome:</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Teach English overseas! Join the PeaceCorps! Be an assistant to a crazy 86 year old author woman who lives in a mansion in Agoura Hills! Be a free lance writer!</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>And I think in my head, “I would…if I didn’t have a baby.” </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>I promised myself when I got pregnant that I would never use Droidlet as an excuse. Yes, there would be reasons that are tied to him for why I may have to cancel a girls’ night or not go on a weekend adventure up North, but none of those would be Droidlet’s “fault” and instead, a decision I make for what is best for my family. Yet, here I sit in front of the computer, with lots of interesting, random events and opportunities popping up in front of me and all I can think is “I would…if…” </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Where did I go?</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Of course, I am realistic. PeaceCorps is not in the cards for me anymore but that's not just because of the little bot but because of my educational pursuits, my relationship with Funk, and my closeness with my family. A good balance? Supporting my cousin whole-heartedly as she entertains this as a possible path for herself while I continue to navigate my own revised plan.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Before getting pregn</span><span style="font-family: Calibri;">ant, I talked a lot about getting my PhD or MFA – definitely furthering my education. And aside from “Is Droidlet sleeping through the night yet?” and “How is your thesis going?” the most common question I get is “So, are you, um, still gonna go for that PhD?” in a very <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">why the hell would you do that to yourself? </i>kind of way. And for that half-split-very-miniscule-itty-bitty-second, I almost think “I would…if I didn’t have a bab-“ and then I catch myself.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>YES. Yes, I am still going to get a PhD. Now, the path to that PhD may have changed a little bit. I still need to decide whether I’m going to enter a program immediately, or when Droidlet starts school, or when he leaves for college, or when/if I become a grandma. I haven’t figured out the when of it, but I do know it’s going to happen. I am not done attending school, I am not done learning, and although those two things aren’t mutually inclusive, I love having them intertwined.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>So, why would I let “having a baby” get in the way of smaller decisions?</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>I think part of it is battling what society tells me I need to be as a mother. Droidlet should come first, in every single way – my goals should become secondary in order to let him have a fulfilled life with all the opportunities he needs. Of course, I don’t believe this. I think him seeing me teach and write and pursue research and education will be just as enriching if I was able to stay home and school him myself. He’ll be able to do fieldtrips to the universities I speak at and will learn about other people needing their space to write and think and create. Hopefully, he’ll learn a respect for reading, writing, and research because he grows up in a home with an “academic” (whatever that turns out to mean for us…).</span></div><span style="font-family: "Calibri", "sans-serif"; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-language: EN-US;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>So, it’s time to get that excuse out of my head, remove it from my repertoire of silly excuses and justifications that bounce around up there. “Want to take a hike, Rachael?” Why, yes! I’ll just strap the baby to my back and make sure to stop and feed him every hour to prevent altitude sickness and yay! he gets to start to foster a love for the outdoors. “Rachael, want to try for this crazy job opportunity?” Why, yes! I’ll work out a flexible schedule and maybe a work-from-home time so that I can be both mama and awesome writer-making-money-lady! "Hey, why don't you try to publish some of your work?" Why, yes! This is the scariest thing ever, ever but during Droidlet's naps I can research journals and maybe, just maybe, some of my thesis work can be sent to publishers! And the list goes on. Because the possibilities are endless. <strike>Even for</strike> Especially for a mama. </span>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7024470007643898188.post-66008123291925790272011-03-07T09:00:00.000-08:002011-03-07T09:00:03.239-08:00"ChildFree" is Not a Bad Word; And Neither is "Mama"<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">I have many childfree friends – childfree in the “I have a made a conscious decision to never have kids. Never ever” and not in the “maybe” or “just not yet” sort of way. Many people seem to be under the impression that those who have chosen not to have children cannot/will not/don’t want to get along with those who have had children and vice versa. However, I’ve come to realize how much I <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">need </i>my childfree friends.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Of course, this doesn’t take anything away from my friends who are mamas and papas or who do want children someday. Unfortunately, this blog post isn’t about those awesome people but about other awesome people in my life. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Part of the reason these relationships remain strong is due to respect, from both sides. I never try to convince my friends that they should have kids, that they are “missing out,” or that they’ll “regret it” later (none of which I believe). I never assume that being childfree means hating children or not knowing how to take care of them. I trust my childfree friends with Droidlet – they love him and our little bot family.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>And this respect is reciprocated. My friends don’t spout off statistics of over-population, or refer to me as a “breeder.” Yes, I had a child, but that does not mean I am breeding for the sake of procreation, or because I believe it’s my role, or because I <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">have </i>to. My feminist friends don’t try to retract my feminism card because I’m a mama. And most of them are even gracious enough to put up with me talking about the Droidlet, though I try very, very hard to not <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">only</i> talk about him. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>What’s most important is that mamas and papas benefit from childfree friends and vice versa. Some of Droidlet’s coolest aunties and uncles are childfree and are going to play a huge role in his life and shaping the person he becomes. I very much believe in building a community around Droidlet of people who are going to open his perspective, love him like crazy, and broaden his world – this includes both friends with children and those without. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>And yes, I’m not delusional. I know that it gets hard sometimes. I know it’s frustrating when I have to flake last minute on plans because something happens at home; or when I do get overly excited about this huge life change (I HAD A BABY! AHHH!); or when I get that small pang of “what if” as I watch my childfree friends live a lifestyle that isn’t a reality for me anymore because I chose to have the little dude. I know it won’t always be rainbows and butterflies and puppy dog kisses. I just think it’s important that mamas don’t feel like they have to drop all of their friends that don’t have kids; or for childfree people to feel they can’t associate with women who do decide to have children.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>So, rock on, you childfree ladies who are proving to the world that having children is NOT the primary goal for a female and making a life decision that works with who you are. And rock on, you mamas out there who are proving that being a mama doesn’t mean losing your life, your goals, or your individuality. And thank you, to the ladies and the mamas, who remain friends and show how children bring people together, not rip them apart. </span></div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7024470007643898188.post-23564753014337478992011-03-04T10:31:00.000-08:002011-03-04T10:31:01.944-08:00The Parenting Guilt MonsterI've met a new monster. Not a vampire with sharp teeth (you know, the actual scary, non-glittering kind); not a vicious werewolf; not a phantom ghost. Instead, this is a tricky monster, who sneaks out from under the bed (which is quite a feat since our bed is on the floor), or charges from the closet, or climbs the roof and jumps onto our balcony - all when I least expect the monster and definitely when I least need it.<br />
<br />
The Parenting Guilt Monster.<br />
<br />
That little thing - from under the bed, in the closet, on the balcony, but usually in my head - that tells me I'm not doing enough for the Droidlet. This little monster ignores the fact that I am writing a Master's thesis, teaching a composition course (and that we realllllly need that extra money every month), and that I am still trying to hold some semblance of myself together - not to mention stuff like, ya know, keeping the apartment from becoming a place where "real" monsters would actually want to live. And instead, this parenting guilt monster, focuses on the things I <em>don't</em> do.<br />
<br />
He scratches me with his claws when I come home a few nights in a row (of working on my thesis or lesson planning) after the Droidlet has gone to bed, completely ignoring the fact that Funk has been there with Droidlet the whole time. He attacks my back during the day when I let Droidlet play in his walker for longer than fifteen minutes, telling me I'm a lazy mom. The monster ignores how I play with Droidlet and when we sing and dance and laugh and cuddle and instead attacks my neck and between gnawing on my skin mentions how I don't give the Droidlet enough - enough cuddles, enough educational opportunity, enough time.<br />
<br />
The kicker is, I know none of this is true, yet the Parenting Guilt Monster is still there, taunting and stalking me.<br />
<br />
So, I've come up with a plan of attack; with a Parenting Guilt Monster Battle kit. Now, the normal silver bullet, strings of garlic, wooden stake, magic potion aren't going to do for this kind of monster. This kind of monster goes for the jugular of self-esteem, the heart of confidence, and hides doubt inside your skin. To battle this kind of monster takes a different tactic.<br />
<br />
Inside the kit, I keep a few small items. <br />
<br />
1. Words of Funk (and other people who support my family). It's good to fall back on conversations with others, their boosts of confidence, their marvel at how well this little family is doing despite the overwhelming situation of a "surprise" pregnancy.<br />
<br />
2. A good book. Yes, this sounds strange, but sometimes the best battle against the Guilt Monster is to let myself escape into something that has nothing to do with being a mama. And, generally, what works best for me is a good book. Right now, a Jeanette Winterson novel.<br />
<br />
3. Playing with the Droidlet. Sometimes when the monster is on the attack, I just need to grab the Droidlet, smile at him, and his smile in return lets me know I haven't messed him up... yet. Sounds cheesy, yes, but seeing him laugh and smile and what a happy baby he is helps to show me I must be doing <em>something</em> right.<br />
<br />
This is about as far as my arsenal goes for now. You other parents out there, or non-parents who have to battle the other species of Guilt Monsters (like the Work Guilt Monster, the School Guilt Monster...), what's in YOUR arsenal?Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7024470007643898188.post-90854353947596403902011-02-19T19:21:00.000-08:002011-02-19T19:21:52.077-08:00Confession: I Dye my Hair... at a SALON<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Every few months, my inner (and most of the time outer) alternative, go local business, feminist, thrifty self finds my body walking into the last place on earth it would expect: A “beauty” salon. And not a hippie-ish, subcultural, green beauty salon, but a trendy, has a jewelry boutique, caters to upper class women of the San Fernando Valley beauty salon. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">The first time I went, I felt very uncomfortable. Not only had I never done anything to my hair (but get it cut at Supercuts) but, as I walked into the door, I automatically felt underdressed and misplaced. I couldn’t afford the products on the wall, most of the stylists had on Gucci and wore knee high leather boots, and even the lighting fixtures looked like they should be a part of a museum. But, I had a gift certificate in my hand – and a large need for change – so, I entered through those strange doors and went with it.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">To be fair, my stylist is awesome. Obviously. I have visited her every couple months for the past <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">five </i>years. From my first visit, she has made me feel comfortable – we share book recommendations, she’s heard stories of my various boyfriends and girlfriends, and puts up with me showing her pictures of Droidlet every time I come in. She is very good people and very talented at what she does.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">But when I’m there, there are two things that I can’t help but notice:</span></div><ol style="margin-top: 0in;" type="1"><li class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt; mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">How much I do not fit into the salon culture and</span></li>
<li class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt; mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">How flippin’ judgmental I can be of other women.</span></li>
</ol><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">And it is the number two that bothers me the most. As I sit there, I make “tsks” and sighs in my head at all the women reading trashy celebrity magazines, sipping wine at eleven in the morning, and spending hours there in the promotion of vanity. And I think these things as I’m sitting with foils in my hair, in front of a mirror (not reading a trashy magazine, though; I always bring a book). Going to the salon always highlights the reverse classism I have – I look upon with disdain these other moms and women with money, with Prada dresses and coach purses, who (I briefly assume) are so unhappy in their personal life that they resort to spending time plucking, primping, and prepping their physical attributes.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Yet, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">I am sitting right there, too</i>. Yes, I try to convince myself that dying my hair is part rebellion (I will not settle for my natural blonde!) and that I am, technically, supporting a local business (my stylist rents her chair space from the salon; she’s not a member of the business but an individual contractor) but the bare bones truth is that I pay (way too much) money for pampering and a new hair color every few months.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">And it honestly makes me feel good. I love the consistent change I get from my hair having a different color. I love that I get offered coffee, tea, wine while I am there. I love the two to three hours of uninterrupted reading time under the flattering lights. Granted, there is a part of me that just says “Dye your hair with henna!” or “That money could have bought Droidlet’s next few months of food!” or “Rachael, you are giving in to the stereotype that women have to change their physical attributes to be attractive” or “Why are you focusing so much on your physical appearance, which sooo does not matter?!” yet I always return. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">If anything, it reminds me not to be so judgmental of other people. I am constantly preaching tolerance, acceptance, and compassion yet, I turn around and judge others (generally, upper class, white, heterosexual men and women). The fact that I do this bothers me and every day I work on rectifying it. I would never want Droidlet saying he didn’t like someone or want to be friends with someone because that someone had more money than him; I would get angry with Funk if he told me he was bothered by someone just because that someone owned a nicer trumpet; I get angry with myself when I jump to conclusions about the women in the salon.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">And sometimes, stereotypes are lived up to. I hear lots of complaining about husbands/babies’ daddies, lots of talk about weight loss, and lots of talk about cosmetic surgery and tanning booths. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">And sometimes, stereotypes are broken when I also hear lots of talks about charity events, animal rescues, and world politics.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">I need to remember to check my judgment at the door (and out of my life completely) and view my time in the salon as a social experiment – including the (sometimes) hypocritical me. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7024470007643898188.post-81718973822899358192011-02-15T10:00:00.000-08:002011-02-15T06:57:16.408-08:00Cold-Blooded: Or Why My Snake is Cooler than Your Dog<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Okay, I do love dogs. However, dogs don’t really jive with our little drove of droids (or the apartment we live in) and both Funk and I have always had a love for all things Herpetology.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>When I was growing up, my dad always had iguanas (and our awesome cat, Lix, who is still kickin’ it strong at <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">nineteen </i>years old!) so, some of my childhood memories are of those awesome green creatures crawling up his wall-papered apartment walls and attending Cold-Blooded conventions where I got to pet Burmese Pythons and hold DuMeril’s Boas. I was probably one of the only girls not scared of our first grade class Rosy Boa and who had two fire-bellied toads at home named Yzerman and Federov (yes, those were Redwings players at the time). </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>So, when Funk and I first started dating and I found out he had six (6!!!) snakes, I was elated; and earned awesome points for wanting to hold them. We’ve downsized to three (Jadzia, a Green Tree Python, Charlie, a Ball Python, and Cleo, a Grey-Banded King Snake) but have added three Bearded Dragons (Toothless, R.D., and Gronkle… all named after How to Train Your Dragon dragons). We are, officially, a reptile family. And yes, I think it’s rad.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>And no, none of the snakes are going to eat Droidlet.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Here is why having reptiles rock:</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">After initial set up, reptiles are semi low maintenance</b>. Yes, there needs to be heat lamps and the right environment in their cages or tanks, but once all that’s set up, they get fed every two weeks and need watering every once in awhile. Other than that, the snakes just need to get handled occasionally (or all the time!) and sometimes need a little help shedding. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span><strong>Just like any other pet, they’ll teach Droidlet responsibility. </strong>He’s definitely going to be helping out with the Bearded Dragons. We bought them when we were pregnant and have called them Droidlet’s dragons since before he was born. As soon as he’s able, he’ll be helping clean their cages and feeding them their meal worms. Plus, how rad will that be for his friends who come over and maybe have never seen a reptile before?</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">Reptiles can cuddle, too!</b> Have you ever had a snake wrap around your arms or curl up in your lap and just rest in the warmth of your body? No, it’s not a death grip, the snake is smart, it knows it can’t eat you. Bearded dragons love chilling on your shoulder or chest. You’re sharing your body heat with a cold-blooded creature and getting to feel their way awesome skin.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">There are different options for feeding</b>. I know a lot of people freak out about feeding the snakes live mice (and if you are on the whole animal cruelty or living the vegan lifestyle, obviously snakes aren’t for you). I totally understand. But there are options. Don’t mind the mice but aren’t cool with them being <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">live</i>? You can get frozen pinkies for your snakes! Also, there are some water-dwelling snakes that eat fish (if that’s easier for you). And don’t forget about the other reptiles out there – most turtles and tortoises are vegetarians, Bearded Dragons eat meal worms and crickets, and iguanas eat everything from lettuce to corn.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">Exotic things are pretty awesome. </b>Our Green Tree Python looks like a mix between a dragon and the snake from The Jungle Book. She is <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">gorgeous</i>. It’s like having a piece of moving, living art in our living room. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Plus, the more people that own snakes and other herps, the more education gets spread about how they aren’t “bad” animals. Snakes do bite. They strike when they’re hungry and they think food is in front of them. Sometimes the heat signal from a hand reaching in their cage, especially when they’re hungry, can be mistaken for a warm mouse squirming around. But dogs bite, too; cats scratch; birds nip. All animals come with some sort of “what if” situations. I think because of cultural mythology and a lot of hype, reptiles (especially snakes) get a bad name. However, like with any animal, it’s all about safe handling and good pet ownership practice. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Long story short, I love my Funk and Droidlet, and our herp kids. </span></div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7024470007643898188.post-61027731663018500992011-02-14T08:41:00.000-08:002011-02-14T08:41:20.616-08:00The "V" Word (no, not that one, the other one)<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">I know what you’re thinking. Something along the lines of: here comes Rachael’s tirade about how commercialized Valentine’s Day is, how it doesn’t mean anything at all about love, how it was another holiday created by the capital-T They to help keep us oppressed, etc. etc. etc.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>And I almost did.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>But then I thought back to Super Bowl Sunday (this connects, I swear) and how Loren and I were joking the whole game about how professional sports <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">has</i> to be fixed, from professional baseball to the World Cup, poking fun at how the Black Eyed Peas seemed to have escaped Tron, and me feeling bad for how quickly Christina Aguilera gets blasted <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">all over the internet</i> within minutes of her performance ( I could write a whole blog post about how ridiculous I think all of that was, for one flubbed line. Sigh), and then our conversation turns back to our conspiracy theory about fixed sports when I look over at Droidlet. Our smiling, drooling little guy, watching us talk even though he has no idea what we are saying and I think:</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Our son is going to be so jaded.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Which, of course, is an exaggeration. The thought was there, then it passed, and it didn’t come up again until I sat down to write my ohemgeevalentine’sdaysucks blog. Because I realized something. I’m actually going to be stoked when he comes home from school one day and wants to do Valentine’s Day crafts, or make homemade Star Wars valentines for his friends. And of course my heart is probably going to burst when he brings home his first valentine for Funk and I – the cheesy cut out lace doilies and lopsided hearts, or even macaroni noodles, or who knows, by the time Droidlet is in school maybe he will be designing it on Photoshop. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>So, I stopped myself. True, I think Valentine’s Day is completely over commercialized. True, I think that we should be showing the people that we love in our lives that we love them everyday – not just try and do something super duper special on one day out of the year. Yes, I believe that the “holiday” seems sort of arbitrary. And no, I don’t think down on anyone who does celebrate it. There was a time when I celebrated with roses and boxes of chocolates; there was a time where I always went to the pub with a bunch of friends, celebrating our “singleness.” In all honesty, even today I am bringing my class Blow Pops and chocolates.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>But Funk and I are going to have a normal night. We are going to cook dinner, hang out with our Droidlet, probably cuddle on the couch and continue to show each other how much we love each other. Just like we do every other day of the year. No presents, no giant heart-shaped cards. Just our little family. And maybe a little note that says “all my base are belong to you.”</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>And man, I cannot <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">wait</i> for all of these jewelry commercials and internet ads about heart shaped diamond necklaces and “showing her you care” by buying blingy heart earrings to be gone… </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>I mean, happy V word day.</span></div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7024470007643898188.post-88211932129238931572011-02-11T10:00:00.000-08:002011-02-11T10:00:01.349-08:00Small Delights: Light Sabers<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi8DfcKoZ02Zp3ZFKBGDnsiMFRdS50biwYgYbZvFk5x4bwri_fStUEpIurTci6sO6GNDr69fCDUn_ULsfFowb8lce8W29jwcN-uXf2vh6i_geTph8ZOzwqwIDocZanVNeV3CkobbnwdvAE/s1600/lightsaber.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" h5="true" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi8DfcKoZ02Zp3ZFKBGDnsiMFRdS50biwYgYbZvFk5x4bwri_fStUEpIurTci6sO6GNDr69fCDUn_ULsfFowb8lce8W29jwcN-uXf2vh6i_geTph8ZOzwqwIDocZanVNeV3CkobbnwdvAE/s320/lightsaber.jpg" width="239" /></a></div>I know I wrote a whole post on <a href="http://rachaeljordanpages.blogspot.com/2011/01/on-censorship-and-acronyms.html">privacy</a> and how I wouldn't post pictures of Droidlet on here. But I couldn't help it this time. Plus, my justification is that the person who made the light saber for him put the picture up on a knitting website to show off the pattern, so it's already gone viral. This means my small delight for today is my son as Darth Vader at five months old. Yup, he's a badass.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7024470007643898188.post-84393511355103715332011-02-10T13:14:00.000-08:002011-02-10T13:18:14.146-08:00Mom Jeans & The Sexuality of Motherhood<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">The other day, I was talking with a family member about the loss of sexuality for mothers – the societal stereotype that once a woman becomes a mother, she forfeits any aspect of her identity as a sexual being. This ties in with gender norms that tell women that when they become a mother, their life is only about their children and absolutely nothing else. I’ve written other posts on <a href="http://rachaeljordanpages.blogspot.com/2011/01/bisexual-mamahood.html">bisexuality and motherhood</a> or just <a href="http://rachaeljordanpages.blogspot.com/2011/01/life-after-self-inflicted-mama-death.html">general musings</a> on how to, as OffbeatMama.com puts it, “integrate your pre-kid identity with your post-kid reality.” </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>But it’s interesting to see the reactions, mostly from other women, when a mother is out with her children and looks put-together, or dare I say <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">sexy</i>. There seems to be the assumption that because a mother has makeup on or her hair done, she has neglected her child(ren) in some sort of way to make this happen. Or women who maintain a physically fit body get torn down about spending more time in the gym than with their children – but we don’t know their circumstances. Maybe three times a week is “grandma” time so mama squeezes in a jog, or maybe her and her baby do yoga together, or maybe she’s like me and squeezes in a little pilates floor workout while the baby is having tummy time (Droidlet actually laughs at me when I’m doing some of the moves. It’s awesome.). Maybe, the underlying issue is insecurity coming from other women because of our culture’s insiste nce on physical perfection, but it’s very hard to watch women, mothers, tear each other down for taking care of themselves.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> In having this conversation with a family member, they reminded me of this old SNL skit:</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><iframe allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="390" src="http://www.youtube.com/embed/iOzwItHfOJ4" title="YouTube video player" width="640"></iframe><br />
<br />
<br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Don’t get me wrong, I roll out to the grocery store in yoga pants and tank tops on the days where it’s just too much, but it’s also nice to shower during Droidlet’s morning nap and actually put on some eyeliner for a day. It makes me feel good, puts me in a better mood, and therefore, I’m an all around happier mama. For some women, they are most comfortable in their workout clothes or jeans and a sweatshirt and that is <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">fine</i>. This isn’t about fashion, but the underlying assumption that a woman can’t look good, or be sexy, when she is a mama because it means that she’s not fully taking care of her kids. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span></span><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>What ties into the physical perception is also the misperception that once a woman has a child they don’t want to have sex anymoreneveragainno. Quite frankly, the issue of sex in our culture is taboo to begin with and I think becomes moreso for a woman who has had a child. What’s funny is that what most people don’t talk about is sexual desire during pregnancy. Myself and many of my friends who have been pregnant had a huge horniness spike while pregnant. Most of us had sex up until the day we went into the hospital to give birth and for a majority of us (once the labor pains went away) have kept up that sexual libido. It’s so interesting to me that the thing that put the baby there in the first place becomes something that we are afraid to talk about. SEX IS AWESOME – before AND after having a baby.</span></div><span style="font-family: "Calibri", "sans-serif"; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Being a mother does not mean the loss of the sexual self (in any form that it comes in for each individual) and it doesn’t mean giving up everything else in life – including personal grooming, if that’s your thing – to be a mama. The same battle of balance in sexuality is also fought for those mothers who, post-kid, choose to go back to work, or to continue their education, or retain their hobbies, or still go to Burning Man, or still go to music festivals… the list goes on and on. It’s really all about balance. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "Calibri", "sans-serif"; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;">And speaking of balance, I have that thesis thing to write and should probably shower before class. Balance, balance, balance...</span>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7024470007643898188.post-7355345219851097312011-02-06T14:52:00.001-08:002011-02-06T15:44:53.694-08:00Why Dads Don't Babysit<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">It’s always interesting when I am out without the Droidlet and people ask me “Oh, is Daddy babysitting today?” It almost makes me laugh every time because Funk <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">is</i> at home with the Droidlet, but Funk is most definitely not babysitting. I asked Funk one night if people ever ask him if I’m babysitting when he is out without us and his face scrunched up as if saying, “What kind of question is that?” </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>When I honestly think about it, the question seems so ridiculous. Funk isn’t babysitting Droidlet. He’s not on some “temporary assignment.” They are spending time together, hanging out, just being. I’ll often reply (sexistly-) that they are having “boy time” or “father-son” time. But it’s strange that I even have to put it that way. I don’t think of it as “mother-son” time when I am alone with Droidlet. I’m a mama. I spend time with my babe. Funk is a papa. He spends time with his babe.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Of course, this all has to do with gendered expectations. And although I think the idea of a stay at home dad is becoming more normalized, there still tends to be a double standard. A friend of mine made a really good point about the perception of a parent and child conduct. When a father and his children are out at a store and the kids throw a tantrum/start a rucus/are acting like monkeys, the sentiment is still “oh, you’re being such a supportive father! How great of you to be out with your kids!” However, if this happens when a mother is out, the mother receives dirty looks – the why-aren’t –you-controlling-your-children-looks looks.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>This is especially interesting for me because Funk and I try, as much as we can with him working full time and me working part time/being a student, to have equal parenting with the Droidlet. While Funk is at work, I have full reign of the Droidlet and home, but when he gets home, I work on my thesis or lesson plan, and Funk is more often than not the one who rocks Droidlet to bed and handles the nighttime feedings. On weekends, you’ll find both Funk and I doing various household chores and playing with the baby. Both Funk and I are equally involved in the physical, emotional, and life choices that we make for Droidlet. Since conception, Funk has been at EVERY single doctor’s appointment for Droidlet as well as every class dealing with childbirth/rearing (even the breastfeeding one! GO TEAM!). </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>And all of this was just natural. We didn’t pre-plan it, it’s just the way our family <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">works</i>. I’m reminded daily that not many fathers do all of the things that Funk does for our Droidlet (and I believe there are more out there than let on). I’m saddened when I hear mother’s refer to their husbands/partners/boyfriends as “sperm donors” or “just the father” and wonder,<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>not only if men feel they can’t take on these roles, but if women don’t give them the <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">chance</i> to try.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>In our house, we joke that Funk has more of a “mothering instinct” than I do. The best part is, we’re setting an awesome example for Droidlet. We’re showing him that compassion, affection, and nurturing aren’t “feminine” or “women’s roles”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>- something I think is important with all the “machisimo” and masculinity that is in the rhetoric of raising boys. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Instead, we’re showing him that he can love and kiss and hug and wrestle and dance and sing and play with both his parents and that both his parents play an <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">active</i> role in his life and the life of the family.</span></div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7024470007643898188.post-3736834340947821632011-02-01T21:21:00.000-08:002011-02-01T21:21:19.890-08:00"As Long as He's Healthy": The PreConception of Able-BodinessAfter the whole "sex debacle" we had with Droidlet - "It's a girl!" and then nine days before her/his due date "It's a boy!" - the line we constantly heard from everyone in regards to our sex-switching baby was:<br />
<br />
"Well, as long as the baby's healthy..."<br />
<br />
Even before the in-utero sex change, many well wishers, after telling them we did find out the sex, would say something to the extent of "Well, as long as she has all her fingers and her toes!" For some reason, these statements always irked me and I could never pinpoint why. <br />
<br />
Until now.<br />
<br />
A friend of mine studies <a href="http://www.nyupress.org/product_info.php?products_id=4784">"Crip Theory"</a> and we were talking the other day about how our society, on many different levels, favors able-bodiness. We brought up examples from our personal experiences of how people tend to ignore individuals with disabilities, be uncomfortable with their community integration, or desexualized and/or treat them as children. For example, I used to work with this awesome guy who has Down Syndrome. One day, when we were hanging out and getting an Iced Tea from The Habit, a woman walked up to me and told me how nice it was that I "took him out for a walk" but couldn't believe I had "brought him to such a public place." My friend looked at the woman and said, "I wanted an iced tea." Not only did she refer to him as if he were an animal, but apparently didn't want him in a public area. After his response, we sat down and chit-chatted while the woman watched on in amazement. <br />
<br />
My friend has a quadriplegic friend and they have heard comments from "why would anyone want to date a woman in a wheelchair?" when seeing her with her boyfriend, to men approaching them in bars saying "I'd be all over you if you weren't in that chair" - as if she wouldn't have a choice in the matter either way. <br />
<br />
This conversation helped me realize why those statements had set something off inside of me. Although it's not the explicit intention behind people saying, "as long as the baby's healthy," this statement does assume a predominance of able-bodiness. What is this statement assuming? That if my baby is in the NICU when he/she is born, I will love him/her less? That if I don't count all ten fingers and all ten toes that he/she is less of a baby? These statements had irked me because they assume that if there was a <em>physical </em>"lack" with my baby when he was born then he was less of a baby, less of a person, which is very much NOT true. <br />
<br />
Of course, I know that the well wishers behind these statements were mostly saying they hoped everything was okay with the baby, that the baby didn't have complications. But, what does this say about our societal preferences? Why is it "heart breaking" for people to see a child or adult with a disability? Is there a big difference between saying "As long as he has all his toes!" and "Let's hope he's not gay!"?<br />
<br />
What this boils down to, yet again, is taking a look at how our language can be exclusive. Yes, I wanted Droidlet to be a healthy baby without complications, but why and how do we define the term "healthy?"Unknownnoreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7024470007643898188.post-32359574306337192362011-01-28T13:26:00.000-08:002011-01-28T13:26:13.570-08:00Music & Identity<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">In college, music became a central aspect of my identity. I lived for shows on the weekends – from San Diego to San Francisco – I made mixed “tapes” at least once a week. I remember listening to Blueprints for the Black Market and Never Take Friendship Personal o my way to the Antelope Valley every weekend one summer. Play me “Sun” by Mae and I automatically think of driving along Pacific Coast Highway at one a.m. my freshman year of college.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>I loved the self-induced anxiety of being at the front lines of a show – watching Anberlin andSaosin at a crammed pool hall in Lancaster, watching The Used for the first time in San Diego (hey, no judging of my past musical taste, please), hearing bluegrass boys jam it out at local fairs. Back in 2005, I wrote (albeit not greatly) about the raw energy inherit in a good show:</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"> </span></span><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">The first show where the sweat raining out of my pores floods my body and matts my hair to my face. My arms and back are slippery with the wetness produced by the heat and energy that is all around the room. My legs get confused with others as my feet try and find a stable spot on the floor only to get pushed and moved in an erratic formation as soon as I feel I have a place.<br />
<br />
It is amazing. <br />
<br />
Amazing to feel others' slick bodies rub against mine, to feel the bass vibrate throughout my body and make my heart skip a few extra beats, to feel the energy escaping from those on stage to those of us in the crowd in a swirling, chaotic collision of sweat, emotion, and love for music. The anticipation that was once in the air has now evaporated and disappeared as though it had never existed at all. Now, all of us just live in this one moment, feeling the words course through our bodies and the strumming of guitars heat our blood. <br />
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<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span></i>Five years ago, and obviously a much more novice creative writer, this was my connection to music. But, somehow, music’s centrality has faded. I still <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">love</i> music. I listen to my swing, my Regina Spektor, and my Jill Tracy whenever I’m out and about on my own. But my days of scouring the internet for new music and gifting my friends “mix tapes” have come to a halt.<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"></i></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>I know part of this is interests shifting – starting a graduate program where my friendships are focused around academics, not taking as many road trips where music is the sole entertainment, becoming a new mama and being in throes of new mamahood everyday. But there’s the problem. I want Droidlet to love music; to be exposed to everything from The Ohio Players to The Black Keys to Nickel Creek to Explosions in the Sky and sift through all of it to find whatever music it is that touches <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">his </i>soul, that makes him want to dance in the sunlight and the dark, that makes him want to sing. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Maybe, I’m being a little hard on myself. In utero, Droidlet went to a Killswitch Engage show and a Sharon Jones and the Dap Kings show. We listen to at least one musical a day and he loves dancing to “Do You Love Me” and (of all things) the Tarzan soundtrack. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Maybe this is more a reminder to myself to listen to the bands I love. To blast Voo Doo Glow Skulls when I drive to class, to introduce Droidlet to jack when he’s in the car. Or maybe, I’m just long overdue for the self-induced anxiety of a show. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7024470007643898188.post-47651703039864664582011-01-26T09:41:00.000-08:002011-01-26T09:41:31.821-08:00In Defense of a Princess: LeiaIn my <a href="http://rachaeljordanpages.blogspot.com/2011/01/my-disneyland-hypocrisy.html">Disneyland</a> blog, I do alot of ragging on princesses. After more thought, I've realized that it's not "princesses" per se that are bad but the current ideology that surrounds princesses. As Peggy Orenstein, author of Cinderella Ate My Daughter: Dispatches from the Front Lines of the New Girly-Girl Culture, writes how the new culture of princesses "instead of being about a girl's empowerment and effectiveness in the world, it's actually about her self-absorption and spoiledness." Rather than being about asserting femininity, which is fine, it becomes about over-sexualization of childhood and definition by external looks.<br />
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Enter Princess Leia from the original Star Wars trilogy. A non-diva, kick-ass princess. A princess who doesn't wear a tiara all of the time and actually rocks some pretty awesome pants. A princess that I can get behind.<br />
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When we first meet Leia, she is part of the Imperial Senate and acting as a spy for the Rebellion. A spy princess! Later, she's tortured by Vader for information but resists and doesn't give up anything. She's definitely not the stereotypical portrait of a passive princess waiting for her prince to come.<br />
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With that said, I do need to acknowledge that Princess Leia does have a tendency to get herself captured and then rescued by Han, Luke, and Chewie. However, one of these captures (in Return of the Jedi) is because she poses for Jabba the Hutt as a Bounty Hunter in order to save Han Solo - hooray for role reversal! The princess goes in to save her "prince" and gets thisclose to succeeding. Granted, she ends up in a super sexy metal slave outfit because of this, but at least the outfit is shown being forced upon her rather than her choice of wearing it. Therefore, can I say it's a sign of oppression? AND she ends up <i>strangling</i> Jabba with the very chain he tried to keep her captive by. HELL YES. Even when she's getting rescued, she isn't passively standing by looking pretty, but being an active participant, kicking ass and taking names.<br />
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And yes, there is still the love between Leia and Han Solo, but it is one filled with sarcasm, great one liners, and mutual rescuing.<br />
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This is what I love about Star Wars. Leia is just as much a hero as Luke. The Jedi order has just as many awesome female characters as males and look at how many great bounty hunters have graced the Star Wars world (hellllooo Zam and <a href="http://www.starwars.com/databank/character/aurrasing/img/movie_bg.jpg">Aurra Sing</a> (my personal favorite)). <br />
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So, again, I need to be careful with my definitions and assumptions. "Princess" itself is not a bad word - it's the commercialization, sexualization, and narcissism that comes along with certain modern notions of the princess. If one day, Droidlet (or any other future children, male or female) decide they want to play princess dress up, I'll throw them a Jedi robe and let them pick their color light saber. Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7024470007643898188.post-32929645954540219942011-01-24T18:53:00.000-08:002011-01-24T18:53:36.945-08:00Subcultures in the ClassroomAs part of my first day of class, I like my students to get to know one another. Combine this with our first essay topic about how a specific place (example: a specific coffee shop) is a location for a subculture (let's say, a poetry group) within its community (Camarillo) and you get a great discussion about what "subculture" means and finding out which subcultures the students in my class identify with.<br />
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Today's discussion started out like it usually does - talking about subculture through the lens of mainstream society, the idea that to be "sub" means to be a cut out of the "popular culture." As usual, my students took cultures to mean races and ethnicities. Multiculturalism got brought up (which is great) but it wasn't until I asked: "But what happens when people of a mix of different races and ethnicities find a common interest and all hang out together because of it?" Did the light bulbs beam on top of their heads. And then the learning began - from teacher to student and from student to teacher.<br />
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Initially, music tends to be the easiest place for students to recognize subcultures. My students cited underground hip-hop and rap as some of their main subcultures and a few of my students interests in Dub-Step (am I even spelling that right?) taught me a new musical genre I have never heard of. Some of them, however, have never heard of Punk, or Rockabilly, or Gothic. This reminded me how my students regional and ethnic backgrounds <i>do</i> influence their subcultural ties. The curtain drew even wider when we tried to move out of the scope of subcultures defined by music. I brought up Queer Culture (citing West Hollywood (WeHo) a place most of them are familiar with because of the university's proximity to LA) which led students into brainstorming about other cultures not normally recognized such as Deaf Culture and Geek Culture.<br />
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I was impressed by my students openness to share and explore, even on the first day of class. I learned about a student who considers herself part of a Robotics subcultural (she competed in robotics competitions in high school and loves the conventions), I have an international student with a love for comic books, a student who identifies with a culture surrounding the TV show, The Office, another who listed "a group of adventurers," and yet another who noted he was from the Bay Area which lends itself to its own subcultures. He even joked how people know he is from northern California because he uses the term "hella." This launched a great discussion about how subcultures don't only share music but sometimes are more centralized around certain language or a certain way of dressing. <br />
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It's wonderful because every semester, I am reminded of the diversity of the people in my different communities. It's great to be able to show my students other ideas and cultures; and learning just as much from each of them.<br />
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Hopefully, they put as much thought and enthusiasm into their first essays as they did into their first day of class. Part of my job as their instructor is to make sure this excitement and interest is sustained throughout the semester. So, cheers to the launch of Spring Semester 2011: a reminder that my students have alot to learn... and just as much to teach.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0