Don’t Be the Good Girl
On the eve of my 42nd birthday, and since absolutely no one asked, I thought I’d share the biggest piece of advice that I wish I could give my younger self: Don’t be the good girl.
First, after the age of 18, be a woman. Feel free to be a woman that loves pink ruffles or hair bows or fairies but be a woman. “Girl” should be reserved for actual girls — the young, twirling kind that populates elementary schools and the teenagers sulking about parties they can’t go to or playing on phones. Girls (and boys) need our guidance and protection as they grapple with changing bodies and hormones and attention.
But as we usher men into a position of authority, let’s do the same with women. Women (and men) still need guidance and protection, but they can do so better on a more even playing field. So, let’s have girls and boys and women and men, but never girls and men (in more ways than one). If “woman” is too much while “girl” is less threatening or more innocent or “sweeter,” well then, I’d rather be too much.
Second, be kind or compassionate or brave or badass, but there’s no need to be “good” by anyone’s standards but your own. You are already good. (Read that again.) No one should have to meet anyone else’s expectations to prove they are good. *
Last, the biggest problem with anyone else’s definition of a “good girl” is that it’s always changing. Fall short of whatever sexual politics are demanded by a particular situation, and you’ll be a tease or a slut, a prude or a whore. Be confident without getting too big of a head. Don’t play dumb, but never be a snob.
You will waste precious years trying to live in gray areas you never wanted to belong.
Good girls can’t win, and there’s no gold star at the end of it all for trying, over and over again, to twist and turn yourself into something they can’t find fault with anyway. They will always find a flaw, so live by your rules, not theirs.
Good girls make even better wild women, so be one of those, however you, and only you, choose to define it.
*Psychopaths excluded, but I think we all know psychopaths aren’t reading overly reflective writing by middle-aged women.
Everyone “Has A Great Story”
One of the latest trends in business is to talk about people “with great stories.” Whether you’re ordering a sandwich or getting money advice, these days people are quick to tell you that the founder of the company or the person that baked the bread, or the inventor of your banking app “has a great story.”
I have two problems with the idea that someone “has a great story.”
The first is that everyone has a great story. (If you don’t believe me, please consider that Oprah Winfrey built her empire on this idea.) If someone doesn’t have a great story, it isn’t that they’re lacking key elements in their background like overcoming adversity or finding a purpose, it’s simply that they don’t know how to tell their story.
Having a great story isn’t a fixed value or a personality trait. Having a great story is just another skill set that needs to be taught like you would send in experts to help people learn bookkeeping or leadership skills or how to pitch to investors.
Second, saying someone “has a great story” seems to have become shorthand for explaining why women, people of color, and those from non-traditional backgrounds have a seat at the table in business.
No one ever tells you that a straight, white man “has a great story.” It’s just assumed that straight, white men involved in business are qualified for the positions they hold and deserve respect.
“Having a great story” has become a preemptive statement to explain why certain people are in the room. And please don’t get me wrong — I love a great story as much as the next person. I just also happen to think that we’d be better off if we accepted that women, people of color, and people from non-traditional backgrounds ALSO belong in the room — without explanation or excuse.
Having a great story doesn’t need to become another prerequisite we put on interactions to exclude people from the conversation or a seat at the table.
I don’t want there to be entrepreneurs in the ether scared to champion their ideas because they don’t know what their story is while straight, white men aren’t thinking twice about getting in front of customers and investors.
Stories shouldn’t become the newest currency we use to get ahead in a system that doesn’t value women and people of color as equals. We need to change the system, not the ways we make exceptions in that system.
Story is powerful and transformative, and the greatest story would be rebuilding the whole system to best benefit all rather than simply championing a few that can master this moment.
How To Say No*
At a recent career development event, I got into a discussion about how hard it is to say “no,” and what came out of this conversation is that I’m a “no” loving Goblin that will go to her grave shouting, “Nope! ! I’m not interested. Not for me!”
But seriously, I love to say “no.” Now, this wasn’t always the case. I spent a lot of my 20s and 30s saying “yes” to things I didn’t want to do because I didn’t want to hurt anyone’s feelings, and it made me exhausted and resentful.
And no one wanted that — not me, not my host, not the bartender serving me glasses of wine because I drank to better pretend like I wanted to be there. But, I did it anyway because I put “yes” and “should” together, and that was a toxic combination that made me beholden to everyone else’s needs before my own.
In my 40s, I say “no,” and, I won’t lie, it’s amazing.
So in the interest of turning you all into ghouls that will admit they’d rather stay home and read their book, here’s how I learned to say “no.”
1. Start with the small stuff.
Have you ever been the only woman in a meeting, so someone asks you to get coffee?
Yeah. Start by saying “no” to that stuff.
Not a woman and/or never asked to get coffee? Here are some other easy things to say “no” to as you get the ball rolling: Do you want new windshield wipers with your oil change? Would you like to upgrade your single purchase to a monthly subscription? Do you want to make that hamburger a combo meal? Would you like to apply for the in-store credit card? Do you have a moment to hear how multi-level marketing can change your life?
(If you notice a theme, there’s a hidden benefit of greater financial freedom when you start saying “no,” too.)
Practice saying “no” to the things that annoy you, and see if you don’t end the day less irritated than before.
2. Move on to the medium and big stuff.
If you’re like me, there’s stuff you’ve been wanting to say “no” to for a very long time, but people-pleasing or obligation or guilt has been holding you back.
Well, there’s no time like the present to start unleashing that “no.” Are you the least enthusiastic and poorest prepared assistant coach on your kid’s soccer team? Maybe it’s time to let that one go.
Have you been waking up early to grab donuts for the office, and it makes you cranky? Are you on at least one committee that you dread? Do you have a “volunteer” gig that isn’t driven by passion, but by a thought that you “should” do this?
You can say “no” to all of that, and the world will keep spinning, I promise. Sometimes it helps to imagine life like that scene in Jerry Maguire when Jerry quits, makes a huge speech about his reasons, and immediately afterward, the whole office goes right back to what they were doing.
When you say “no,” people will figure out a way to go on without you. (If the thought of this terrifies you, it’s a great time to examine why you keep saying “yes.”)
The flip side is that you will go on without that activity or task, too. As Donald Miller says in Business Made Simple, saying “no” to what you don’t care for allows you greater freedom to say “yes” to the stuff you really want to do. So if you don’t like saying “no” because we’ve been conditioned to believe that makes us helpful or team players, don’t think of it as saying “no,” think of it as saying “yes’ to the things you really care about.
3. Become drunk with your newfound power. (Kidding, not kidding.)
Saying “no” can be pretty intoxicating because when you do it right, you’re listening to yourself and not all the other voices that claim they know better than you how to spend your time, energy, and resources.
And as someone told me recently, “you at your most you is liberating.” Use this power wisely.
When you say “no,” you free yourself up to spend time on the stuff you really care about — like your goals, hopes, and dreams. You can stretch and grow and help people because you care about helping, not because you think Joanne won’t like you if you can’t find more items for the PTO’s silent auction.
There are lots of good and valid reasons to say “no,” and the truth is that you don’t owe anyone your reasons for turning them down. As Glennon Doyle says, “ The most revolutionary thing a woman can do is not explain herself.”
If you want to give someone a reason why you said no, that’s your call, but I prefer the sentiment that “no” is a complete sentence.
Some people (notice I said “some,” not “most”) will be mad when you start saying “no.” This is OK — and should be expected — because those people are not your people. If someone primarily likes you because you never say “no,” they don’t actually like you, they like what you can do for them.
Truthfully, I got better at saying “no” as I had children and took on more and more responsibility at work. I can’t let those precious, precious babies watch all the Henry Danger episodes that they want or consume Oatmeal Cream Pies at every meal, so “no” is necessary.
And when it comes to work, if I have a vision, and I know what we need to do to execute that vision, I have to say “no” to anything that makes me take my eye off the ball.
I say “no” at home because I love my children, and I say “no” at work because I respect myself and my abilities.
Saying “no” is the ultimate self-care. Embrace it.
*Or “No, Thank You.” “No” isn’t inherently rude, but if it feels that way, try a “no, thank you.”
Saving Money Is A Privilege
When something goes wrong, like a job loss or a car accident or an illness, it’s not uncommon for people to say, “Well, that’s what savings are for,” or “At least you have an emergency fund.”
We are surrounded by reminders that we are supposed to save money early and often — retirement! 401Ks! compound interest! And we’re all told to fear living paycheck to paycheck because the money will run out.
I’m not here to argue with the fact that saving money is something we should all do, but I do take issue with the idea that it’s something everyone can do. The simple reality is that to function in society, at certain income levels, there’s no choice but to live paycheck to paycheck.
When I was 28, I made somewhere between $32K and $36K per year. After paying taxes as well as taking out money for health insurance and parking at work, this amounted to about $2,000 per month.
This is what my monthly budget looked like:
$750 mortgage (Which is way lower than most rents and only possible because my parents helped me with a 20% down payment on my house.)
$300 gas/water/electric (I didn’t have cable or WIFI at the time. Here I’ll give a long-delayed thank you to my old neighbors for the unsecured Internet.)
$100 car insurance
$100 gas
$90 medication (This was all antidepressants because I like not having intrusive thoughts that my life isn’t worth living.)
$65 cell phone
= $1405*
So, that leaves $600 for the month or $150 for the week for everything else — groceries, clothes, entertainment, unexpected emergencies (like co-pays at the doctor’s office or buying shampoo). Also, let’s keep in mind that your 20s tend to be the time in life when everyone gets married, so I was paying for a lot of wedding showers, wedding gifts, bachelorette weekends, etc.
I think social interaction is really important, too, because if you’re holed up in your house all the time worried about money, your mental state is going to deteriorate pretty quickly, and sometimes you need to spend some money on some beers so you can see your friends.
Yes, you can look at this budget and say, “You could save $20 a week. Come on!” And you could. You’d be sacrificing something, but that $20 per week becomes $500 per year, and then well, you’ve got $500 that will turn into a $20K down payment on a house in a short 40 years!
The basic fact of the matter is this: It’s a lot easier to save money when you make $75K, or better yet $175K, per year as opposed to $35K per year, and the gulf between those salaries often isn’t closed in a lifetime.
As a culture, we continually tell people without enough money that it’s their fault they don’t have more money. We treat having or not having money as a moral failure rather than an economic reality.
If for any reason you don’t believe me on that last one, consider this: it’s considered reasonable to say that you’ll give money to panhandlers, but only if they won’t spend that cash on cigarettes or booze. We don’t tell rich people that they can’t drop $2500 on a nice bottle of wine if they can afford it, but we absolutely police the consumer choices of the poor.
I don’t think it has anything to do with the fact that we think poor people don’t have money because they spent it all on alcohol. I think it’s because we consider poverty a failure, and in America, failure makes you a bad person, so we get to tell you how to live your life from here on out. (After all, you already messed it up once, so forget having nice things.)
For further proof, consider this: Many states put restrictions on food stamps saying that you can’t use EBT for seafood or organic produce. There is absolutely no reason anyone on food stamps should have their benefits restricted at the grocery store unless you believe that what you get to eat is also a punishment for how you’ve lived your life. Can’t find a job that makes at least $50K? No crab for you.
To live in America today, you have to make a certain amount of money to survive. It isn’t possible for everyone to save, and we have to stop acting like not having savings is a fatal mistake on the part of the individual rather than an indicator of a capitalist society content to leave large segments of the population behind.
Shame for not having savings doesn’t belong to individuals with low salaries. Shame for not saving belongs to a system that has kept wages low while housing prices and wealth generation skyrocket.
Saving money really is a privilege, and when people are unable to save, we should look at the system, rather than the individuals falling behind, when wondering what makes them more financially successful than others.
*Also, this is the budget of a single person. There is literally no way to make these economics work if you’re also responsible for childcare. And if anyone is thinking, “well, you should have thought about that before you had a kid,” I’d like to put a pin in that immediately. If we are going to posit ourselves as a pro-life society — as we often do — then we don’t get to be reactionary and punitive once someone is pregnant. There is literally one way to become un-pregnant, and if we aren’t going to let people use it, then we need to be ready to support mothers. Hell, we should support mothers anyway. As long as society treats children like a burden, we can’t be surprised that people see unplanned pregnancies (which account for half of all pregnancies) as hardships to overcome.
Fill The Page
Whenever it’s time for me to write or post on social media or speak up for myself, there’s a little voice inside my head that says: “Who do you think you are?” Because somewhere inside of me, I tend to think it’s not OK to take up space or have a voice or assert myself.
And, truth be told, it’s not really a “little” voice. That voice is loud, and frankly, quite rude. It’s even defiant because it shouts over the voices that say, “we’ve done this before, it’ll be ok” or “so what if people don’t like it?”
I mean, if this voice was a toddler, it’d spend a lot of time in its room, and if it was a dinner party guest, it’d never be invited back.
But it’s not a toddler or a troll or even someone that I once knew that spends way too much time commenting on my posts. (Not that that last one ever happens in real life. I love everyone — says the girl who has not made nearly enough progress on that whole people-pleasing issue.)
That voice is me, too, and that’s really the rub of the whole situation. Because it’s hard to be your biggest cheerleader when you’re also your worst critic.
But I saw an interview over the weekend with Anthony Anderson from “Blackish” that has me thinking differently. In the interview, Anderson said that acting is a gift, and it’s his responsibility to share his gift with the world.
Maybe it’s our job to express ourselves, and not to keep it all inside. And maybe, like Glennon Doyle says, we’re here to have all of those thoughts and feelings — not to push them all away — because that’s what makes the human experience.
If what you had to say was a gift, wouldn’t it be wrong to keep it to yourself? Wouldn’t the greater responsibility lie in making sure you shared your voice and not that you fought it all back to be quiet and avoid making a mess?
What if I have a responsibility to all those words floating around my head desperate to find a page? Doesn’t it make far more sense that I’m here to fill the page rather than make sure it stays blank?
I think it’s past time to show certain voices the door.
Voting Rights Matter
Last week, I had to go to the courthouse to renew my car tag.
Ideally, I would never step foot in a courthouse considering my aversion to waiting in line, collecting forms, and general inefficiency, but long story short, we moved, I didn’t get a notice in the mail, and you can’t renew your tag online if they have an old address on file.
As I was walking the long hall to the Department of Revenue, a man stopped me. “Would you mind signing our petition?” he said. “We’re trying to get on the ballot.”
“I’m happy to help,” I said.
“Have you heard of libertarians?”
To be perfectly clear, in our current political system, I’m no fan of third-party voting. After the 2016 election — an election that led me to days/months/years of crying and drinking wine because of the victor — lots of people would tell me, “I promise I didn’t vote for him. I voted for Gary Johnson!”
I nodded through the tears and usually thought something like, “Well, you might as well have voted for Trump while the world burns.”
When people told me they were considering voting for third-party candidates in 2020, my husband had to restrain me. (This was no small feat since I was ridiculously pregnant with twins and regularly took out anything in a 3-foot radius with my belly.)
I’m not a fan of third-party voting when margins are razor-thin, and it seems clear (to me, at least) that one of the candidates might be an authoritarian, Nazi wannabe. (Too much? I have a flair for the dramatic.)
However, it’s not my business to tell people how to vote. (My husband is laughing while he reads this sentence.) But it is my business to do everything I can to make sure that all people who want to vote can exercise their right to do so.
As our country puts barriers in place to discourage and disenfranchise legal voters, it’s imperative that we do what we can to open all the doors others try to close. Letting people have a say in their government lies at the heart of democracy, and I would hope anyone flying a flag or declaring their patriotism is also ready to defend and protect these sacred voting rights.
People should be free to cast a ballot for the candidate of their choice — even when it’s Gary Johnson.
So, for this petition and all the others like it, where do I sign?
What My Children Have Taught Me— By Birth Order
Since it’s almost Mother’s Day, I started thinking about the rascals that made me a mom, and what each of them has brought to my life.
My oldest child taught me what parental love is, as they all do. Having him was like being broken open and put back together again. I used to not care that much how old lived to be, so long as I had some time on this earth to get a decent shot at my dreams. Living to 70 or some seemed like more than enough and would be a blessing considering that not everyone is as fortunate. After Ben was born, I wanted to live to be at least 90 so I could hopefully spend all those years watching the man he would become.
Of course, having a baby also introduced me to a new level of terror I had not known before. As a friend of mine from Nashville says, having a baby feels like the universe hands you the thing you will love more than anything and also says, “and by the way, everything can kill it.”
If the growth of love and terror after your first child’s birth could be shown on a graph, I’m pretty sure it would be the same overlapping vertical line.
For a while, I worried that I had passed along all of this love and all of this terror to my oldest.
He is anxious to do things — like swimming to the deep end of the pool or talking to new neighbors. However, at the end of the day, he still gives it a go. If I’ve asked him to try something new, he has never turned me down, and I tell him I want him to be proud of himself for doing things that challenge him.
Our small victory this week is that after two months of crying or general upset before nearly every swimming lesson, he told me he was looking forward to time in the pool, and “you don’t even have to give me a buck!” (I’ve been paying my kids a dollar to complete each swim lesson, and for some reason, my almost-eight-year-old insists on saying “bucks” when “dollars” would work just fine. Our concept of money is another story — we have a “store” at our house, and one toy costs a billion dollars because that’s all he would need to sell to make it. Because, “duh, Mom.”)
He is at an age where we argue more, I think because we’re at a time in his young life when he has to pull away from me on this journey to become more of himself. He isn’t as much a part of me anymore — physically or psychologically. He doesn’t insist on staying at my side, and he’s comfortable having opinions I don’t share. (The latter, unfortunately, includes a passionate desire to watch YouTube videos about creepy things caught on security cameras even though I’ve banned YouTube in the house.) As Natalie Maines sings, “you’re of me, not mine.”
The growing up and growing apart process has been a little painful for both of us. We argue more. There are occasions when he declares that I’m “the worst mom” or I’m “boring and old,” but he’ll still find me at the end of the day to tell me he loves me or that he feels bad about when we didn’t go where I wanted to eat because someone (ahem, middle child) was throwing a fit.
There’s more attitude and angst, but at the end of the day, he is still my sweet, brave boy. His curiosity and kindness are a gift, even when it means I have to answer the interminable, “would you rather be bitten 1,000 times by a scorpion or eaten by a shark” questions.
My middle child is painfully honest in everything that he does. He has no pretense, so to him, everything is just as wonderful or awful or weird as it seems.
When he saw his dad eating salad, he screamed, “Daddy, you’re eating leaves!” Nothing we said could convince him that eating leaves was a normal and good thing to do. (The fact that he was screaming about it could also indicate that we weren’t eating as healthy as we should have been during quarantine.)
When he saw me cleaning toilets for the first time, he asked why I would do that and declared, “It’s disgusting.” In fairness to him, cleaning toilets isn’t exactly not disgusting.
The older boys love to name an age and then ask how old they will be when their siblings reach a certain birthday.
“When I’m 10, how old will Ben be?”
“He’ll be 13,” I say. “Can you believe he’ll be a teenager when you’re 10?”
“That’s good,” Flip says, “because teenagers are faster than a chicken.”
I have no idea what it means either.
He said that when the babies turned six months old, “their prize was hugs.” And for his father’s upcoming birthday, he wants to “give him snuggles.”
Flip is not embarrassed or worried about his answers falling short or being judged. He is just completely himself.
This honesty translates to an adorable earnestness when he wants to do something. He is often telling me that he is “just so excited” for what comes next, whether that’s Christmas or Easter or a day at the lake.
This is the first season Flip has been able to play on a soccer team, and it’s a very big deal because it also means he will get his first award. He cannot wait to get the medal that is handed out at the end of the season. He calls it his “gold” and has already asked if he can take it to school the next day to show his friends, particularly his BFF. (I won’t use the name of his BFF because I’m not sure that friend’s mom knows I’m a blogger yet.)
When we were talking about his medal the other day in the car, his older brother had some words of wisdom. “You know,” he said, “it’s just a medal. It’s not a toy. You can’t play with it or do anything special.”
“I don’t care about that,” Flip said. “It’s just cool to have a medal, and then I’ll be cool.”
The open-hearted nature of his wants and needs also breaks my heart wide open before it gets put back together again, and the nights when he opens his arms up wide because he wants a cuddle before bed are times I will always treasure.
The babies are at an age where they are still pure joy. They smile at me and their father all the time. They love it when their older brothers pay attention to them or come near to play. They love friends and strangers.
“I just look their way and they smile,” the pediatrician said the other day during their check-up, and it’s true.
Maybe being born during a pandemic means they are that much more appreciative of times they can interact with people outside of our immediate family. Maybe they are just babies being babies.
They complete the family I always wanted, and there are still so many times I look at them and can’t believe that they are actually here. Identical twins? It’s not something I ever considered, but of course, now it seems like an embarrassment of riches.
They are all my dream.
I know Mother’s Day is painful for many, and I wish I could make that better. I’ll be spending my day making Perler beads — “because that’s one of your favorite things to do,” they say — and hanging out with my favorite dudes. I’ll aim for more presence and gratitude, and less worry because all of the kids have taught me that being seen for who you are is a true gift.
3 Things I Learned During My Pandemic Pregnancy
All things pandemic and 2020 and pregnancy tend to share lots of highs and lows. So before we delve into some of the things I learned after finding out I was pregnant, at 40, in a global pandemic, I wanted to say that I know many people would love to be pregnant or have a baby and can’t, and there are many people that lose pregnancies and babies and face immeasurable grief.
When I talk about the highs and lows of pregnancy, it is not to detract from any of those experiences or say that I don’t know how lucky I am. It’s simply to say that this was my experience, and any experience can be both beautiful and awful. Nothing has to be all or nothing (although it certainly can be, like all trips to the dentist are miserable). Some things are no fun before you see the beauty, and some things are beautiful until the pain comes.
That being said, I have a few notes on my own pandemic pregnancy.
- Shipt Shoppers are Angels That Walk Among Us
We were probably almost two weeks into full-blown lockdown when I realized that the smell of salad dressing was really offensive to me. Like REALLY offensive.
Fun fact: Before I knew I was pregnant with my first child, the smell of chicken was so intolerable to me that I insisted on throwing it away outside — the inside trash can was just not good enough at containing the odor. My husband later told me that my chicken drama made him suspect I was either pregnant or crazy, and he was glad I wasn’t crazy.
I decided that I might need a pregnancy test, and since we were in the throws of a pandemic and all, I added that item to my grocery delivery for the week.
Thank heavens for the brave angels that delivered groceries during COVID. I was already a nervous wreck, and the idea of being pregnant at 40, when the risks are greater, had me extra worked up. But my amazing Shipt shopper delivered my pregnancy test — seemingly without judgment. I wiped that sucker down with Clorox and went about my business.
The same Shipt shopper picked up my next order, too. This one had prenatal vitamins included.
I tried to tip well (but stopped short of writing “welcome to our journey”) to show my gratitude.
2. My OB/GYN’s Office Has a Really Nice Couch
The first ultrasound of pregnancy is always nerve-racking. You hope they find a strong heartbeat and waiting to hear that sound is intense. (I also know that for many people, this ultrasound is one of heartbreak and grief, and I see you.) For me, that first ultrasound is second only to the anatomy scan for prenatal tests that do a number on my nerves.
As I was lying there, trying to get comfortable on the fake leather table covered in paper that is never actually comfortable, the ultrasound tech said, “I have a surprise for you.”
I said, “No, you don’t.”
“Wait until you see!”
“No thank you.”
There’s a quote that says there are only two things in life no one is prepared for — twins.
I am, of course, blessed to have two new, healthy babies in my family, but that doesn’t mean that finding out about their existence for the first time wasn’t a bit of a shock.
When you find out you’re having twins (or I imagine getting any other unexpected news), you also find out about a whole new expanse of the doctor’s office where you can lie down comfortably and take time to process.
There are spots that are more comfortable than those faux-leather, paper-covered exam tables.
And while it’s nice to know that they exist, I also hope I never see them again.
3. I Don’t Need Alcohol as Much as I Thought I Did
At one point during this crazy year, I looked at my husband and said, “I’m trapped in this house by the pandemic, I’m trapped in this body by pregnancy, and I’m trapped in my head by anxiety. I want out.”
To his immense credit, he handled that really well because I’m pretty sure my tone was terrifying, and his response was very calm and assuring even if I don’t remember the actual words.
Normally, I’d let a glass (or bottle) of wine deal with all of those icky feelings, but I didn’t have that as an option. As the pandemic dragged on (with no seeming end in sight), I realized I wasn’t going anywhere, and neither were my issues, so I was going to have to figure something out. There was no amount of cookies or shopping to hide anymore. (Trust me! I tried to shop it all away! At one point, I’m pretty sure I wanted to purchase all of Amazon and Target. Thank God for credit limits.)
There are ways in which these twins probably saved my life, and not being able to drink during a pandemic is one of them.
I know we say it all the time, but I think it bears repeating because we’ve all been through a lot: 2020 was hard y’all. Damn hard. In addition to worrying about our health and the health of those we loved, there was economic hardship and uncertainty, shortages of necessities like toilet paper, communities fighting amongst themselves (I have a whole novel in me about what became of the school board meetings in my old neighborhood), and October. Do we all remember October? News seemed to break every hour. There were debates and COVID diagnoses and Supreme Court confirmation hearings. I swear October 2020 was a whole year in non-pandemic times.
And through it all, I was stuck with me and none of my usual distractions.
I thought I would want ALL THE WINE as soon as I delivered the babies, but I didn’t. Somewhere in the pregnancy that I counted down by the day, I had started to cope.
(I’d like to be clear about a couple of things here: 1) By “started to cope,” I mean “put into practice years of mechanisms and habits I’d learned from friends, family, books, and therapists.” 2) I got a new psychiatrist who also changed my life by putting me on an antidepressant that isn’t an SSRI for the first time in my almost 20 years as a medicated person. Finding a trusted partner to help you with your brain chemistry matters.)
Now I can have a glass of wine at night because I want it, and not because I need it. It’s not something that I’ll say works for everyone, but it works for me right now. And if it stops working, I’m open to pausing and re-evaluating what I need to do. Because I’ll also say this about living through a pandemic — I learned that we can try different things or need different things at different points in our lives.
I’ve always been naïve in thinking (or hoping) that maybe you can do things once and then call it a day. I overcame my fear of spiders! I crushed my feelings! I feel loved! I thought that once you did the thing, you’d be fixed and never have to deal with that particular issue or insecurity again.
But life is really a bunch of things you have to pursue and do over and over again — more feelings, finding balance, effing exercise. Life is more about brushing your teeth than graduating college, and by that I mean, yes, the big milestones matter but how you do the small tasks that make up your daily life have a much more direct impact on your wellbeing and peace of mind.
And I really don’t like brushing my teeth.
But I can also have flashes, like the other night at the soccer field, when the sun was right and it was warm but not too hot, and my older children were playing together, and my babies were smiling, and I knew we were in a great moment. I’m just going to keep trying to have as many great moments as I can, without judging them or worrying about how long it will last and when the next one will be. I’m just going to hold on to the moment, and keep the faith that there will be more, and hope that that’s enough.
After a year of daily dread, those moments feel like more than enough.
About That Hoop Skirt
Last night, I was in bed with my children thinking of how much I treasure these nights — nights when my boys are snuggly and want to be close. My four-year-old was telling me about Star Wars because his “head is full of stories.” So full of stories, in fact, that he often tells me he can’t remember where his socks or his mask are because the stories are taking up all the space.
My seven-year-old was drowsy and curled into my back, exhausted from a day that included playing outside and painting the tunnel at school with a new girl in class.
I had all of the cuddles, and I was loving it.
Then it occurred to me that the mother of Daunte Wright would never hold her baby again. Because of an air freshener and racism.
The truth is that my boys only have to achieve mediocrity, and they will probably be fine. Meanwhile, Black children have to be the best just to survive. The injustice of it all is heavy and heartbreaking.
I don’t think I can be a good mother if I don’t worry about what all mothers go through, so for me, that includes caring about racism and immigration, and poverty. White mothers have to do better.
We can’t keep championing our ancestors because we loved them. Our ancestors are long gone. They’re OK, whereas there are babies yet to be born that will bear the very real consequences of the decisions we make today. We can’t keep letting Black mothers and fathers bury their children for simply existing.
Let’s be clear: I have no idea if I’m doing this right, and I’m not trying to make a systemic issue about myself. I just happen to know and be a privileged white woman, so I feel comfortable speaking to other privileged white women.
And maybe we white ladies should start with our own inventories.
When I was 17, I participated in an organization called the Birmingham Belles. At the time, Birmingham Belles touted themselves as a civic organization tied to the history of Birmingham, particularly an old plantation in the city named Arlington.
Alone, I probably never would have thought too much about the Birmingham Belles because it played on two things I cared about very much at 17: being chosen and being in an exclusive group. I could concoct 10–12 lies about wanting another volunteer organization on my resume or being acknowledged for my academic accomplishments, but the bald truth is that I liked being picked to be in something that not everyone got picked to join. (There is a whole other essay in the fact that most people who weren’t picked had some horribly glaring flaw like being from the wrong suburb.)
Fortunately, I had a US history teacher from Canada that saw things differently. I’ll never forget how he asked, “Has anyone thought about what it means to spend so much time celebrating the antebellum South?”
I never had.
“You know that antebellum means ‘pre-Civil-War,” so what does it say to glorify the period before the Civil War?”
The list of questions I hadn’t asked was long.
“Do you think it says something to want to go back to a time when slavery was legal?”
Sometimes the Socratic method is a bitch. (And some of you reading this essay might think 17-year-old Laurel was one, too.)
So, it started to click in my head that maybe dressing up in a hoop skirt to hang out on the front porch of a plantation wasn’t at all harmless and that it certainly couldn’t be just about “pretty dresses” or “having fun.” (As a 41-year-old, typing the phrase “dressing up in hoop skirts to hang out on the front porch of a plantation” hurts, and I almost can’t believe how little thought I put into that very idea. But now I also know how easily anyone can adjust to racism and other unjust systems of oppression.) And maybe that hoop skirt said I was fine with a period in history in which one group of people owned another group of people.
Now, I’d love to say that this caused me to pull out of Birmingham Belles, but it didn’t. I’d also love to say that as a newly-enlightened Southerner I began to see the racism all around me, but that would be a lie.
Here’s a short, but not fully complete, list of problematic events from my past:
· Our elementary school held slave auctions for the student body as fundraisers. I either purchased or won (via raffle) my P.E. teacher and then made her take us to the park dressed in a Hulu skirt and wig.
· A fraternity I was aware of didn’t just host an infamous party tied to antebellum themes, rumor was they also hired little people to staff it. (Because in the ’90s and early ’00s, what was better than having fun at the expense of other people?)
· I knew someone who went one step short of donning Black face for Halloween. While he never named his costume, he heavily implied that he was dressed as a Black person. He later got called on it during a class and was not phased.
When facing up to the past, I’m left with two options. I can either say, “Hey! I did these things, and I don’t think of myself as racist, so I must find a way to justify the things I did.” Or, I can say, “I participated in racist things. Maybe, as Avenue Q says, I’m a little bit racist.”
I’m choosing the latter. Because as uncomfortable as it is to say, “I might be racist,” I can both hold an opinion of myself as a good person and admit to my mistakes. Were they normalized at the time? Sure. Does that make it OK? No.
Also, at the end of the day, it isn’t my discomfort that matters. Who gives a shit if I’m uncomfortable? I should be. What matters is that racism is very prevalent and costing people their lives. The important thing to do is dismantle racism and the systems that perpetuate it. The discomfort of white people is nothing compared to that.
Fellow white ladies, we have to do better. A lot better. We’ve been helping to hold a system in place that is dangerous and morally reprehensible. We can’t keep voting straight Republican tickets or blindly defending the police or crossing to the other side of the street when we see a Black person without acknowledging the very real and very awful consequences of our actions. Regardless of what you think about pro-life candidates or the police officers in your own family, we have to admit our current systems are not working.
When you look around and see that all the people being killed by the police share one skin color while all of the people holding managerial titles and sitting in board rooms share another, maybe it isn’t that certain people worked harder than others. Maybe it has to do with power structures and implicit bias.
My inventory begins here: I’ve worn a hoop skirt, and it was wrong. I will do better.
P.S. I think “cancel culture” is like “the war on Christmas,” largely fabricated to make middle America afraid of change. Most adults know that people make mistakes and most people that genuinely apologize seem to be just fine. Please don’t bring “being canceled” into the conversation.
3 Tips For Strong Writing
There are a few rules you’re usually taught to craft good writing:
1) Something has to happen.
A story can have the most beautiful prose in the world, but if nothing happens or changes from the beginning of the tale to the end, you haven’t written an actual story. You’ve probably written a good description, but not a narrative.
2) Show and tell.
Balance descriptions with dialogue. Mix exposition and explanation. Don’t just tell your reader about what’s happening, show them with setting and characters, and conversation.
3) Explore tension.
All great writing needs tension, and for the purposes of our discussion, let’s think of tension as two seeming opposites that really aren’t opposites at all.
My therapist would refer to tension as two sides of the same coin. Most people will already recognize the most common forms of tension because they drive our favorite stories: win or lose, live or die, will they or won’t they? It’s the “miracle” Olympic hockey game from 1980, Ross and Rachel, and every action movie you’ve ever seen.
I read once that there’s a reason Walker: Texas Ranger always wins in the ratings game over more cerebral dramas. The tension — life or death — is easily recognizable, the stakes are high, and that tension is usually resolved within the same 45-minute window week after week.
You can thank another tension — guilty or innocent — for the incredible proliferation of the Law & Order franchise.
Tension is all or nothing. In life and death, there is no in-between. You either survive, or you don’t, and nothing is more imperative than winning that fight. We all want lasting love over heartbreak, and no one wants to go home a loser, but those are also the only two possible outcomes when you’re in it.
Tension is also what drives our greatest genres — comedy, and tragedy. It has been said that tragedy plus distance equals comedy. Embarrassing yourself in front of a love interest is devastating at the moment, but usually funny a few years later once you’re dating someone else, in the same way, that tripping on your way to scoring a winning goal is not funny when it happens. It is only with time and perspective that we can laugh at ourselves later. And sometimes it is much, much later, if at all.
I’ve been told that the only difference between a comedy and a tragedy is a laugh track — that it isn’t the storyline itself that lets us know whether to laugh or cry, but cues from our peers. Whenever I hear this, I think of an old episode of Frasier when Niles has, yet again, been thwarted in his efforts to win over Daphne. He retreats to a spot under the piano to drink wine and sulk. It is the laughter from the audience that lets us know we’re supposed to find this funny as opposed to empathizing with Niles’ pain.
People also say life is a comedy for those who think and a tragedy for those who feel, but I don’t like that one as much. I don’t think it’s a difference between feeling and thinking that makes for comedy or tragedy. Most of the funniest people I know feel things SO VERY DEEPLY. It’s that they’ve learned to use comedy to navigate a world that is hard on the sensitive, not that they are thinking any less critically about the world around them or missing any observations.
This life will break your heart a million times over and keep going — grief, failed relationships, lost opportunities. Read the news — “We found news ways you can die!” “Mother never expected to find this in her child’s crib!” “Miscommunication at work ends terribly!” — and you can cycle through all of the emotions in a matter of minutes. Hell, I cried watching the Real World: New York reunion the other day because those precious babies were so young when MTV put them on the air and now they’re middle-aged like me. So there’s really no telling if I was crying for them or me or a world in a pandemic, but I was crying while watching Paramount+ on a Sunday night as I folded laundry all the same.
We are all broken. Hearts are much too tender for what we put them through in a lifetime.
The tension for humankind is finding a way to be both broken and whole at the same time because that’s what we all are — broken and whole. We’ve all been hurt and knocked around, but we tend to our cuts and bruises and go on. Sometimes, we can’t go on, and that’s a whole different tragedy that requires its own kind of reverence.
Our challenge has always been to find a way to go on despite the brokenness, to bind the pieces together into something more.
I believe that what you bind those pieces together with is usually what gives your life meaning — be it God or family or community or pet rescue or the search for the perfect donut. If you live a religious life, you are very familiar with the idea of being a broken soul made whole by God’s love. If church isn’t your thing, it is no less remarkable that you’ve chosen to go on in this life by pulling your broken pieces together with a different kind of purpose.
This weekend I watched a story about the lost Ark. (It was the real one; I’m not watching Indiana Jones and trying to pretend. Some people don’t have a TV. I love mine, and I’m not afraid to admit it.) Whenever I think about The Temple and The Holy of Holies, my mind circles around how much time and effort it took to build that first temple, and how devastating it must have been when it was destroyed.
But the greatest act of faith isn’t building, it’s re-building. Putting in all of that work again, when you know what can be lost and how much it will hurt, is such a pure expression of love.
We are worthy of re-building. We are worthy of taking the time and effort to put the pieces back in place. We are worthy of feeling whole.
The saying goes “be kind because everyone you meet is fighting a hard battle.” I say to be kind because we are all just a little bit broken, so handle with care. We are all carrying precious cargo, and we need some consideration of the load.
It’s true in this year, and it’s true in all the years: Be kind. Watch your step. Grab someone’s hand if you think you might trip.
And in the spirit of making sure something happens between the beginning of this essay and the end, yes, a lot of writers break the rules. But it’s also true that you have to know the rules before you can break them. Good writing sometimes breaks things apart before it puts them back together.
I Don’t Want to Be the Girl
In an effort to create a mother/son holiday tradition, I’ve started taking my boys with me when I go shopping for Christmas ornaments every December 26. Staring at a discount table with “90% off sale” signs plastered to every visible surface, it’s one of the few times I feel confident saying, “pick out whatever you want!”
It may not be every little boy’s — and certainly not my husband’s — dream, but at present, it works for us.
This year, while I was waiting in a (masked and distanced) line to pay, I caught the following conversation:
“I’m the Daddy. You be the girl.”
“I don’t want to be the girl. I’ll be a boy.”
“No, if we’re playing family, you’re the girl.”
“No!!!!!!!”
I was in the middle of pulling my distraught four-year-old off the floor and trying to figure out how, in the coolest and least-mom-sounding-way possible, to vouch for my gender, when this thought flashed across my mind: Why would you even have this argument?
Truth be told, most days I don’t want to be the girl either.
I love being a mom, but I also have no desire to compete in the world of Pinterest-worthy party decor and curated lunchbox selections.
I’m never going to recreate a landscape from The Land Before Time in Bento Box form with dinosaur shapes cut from allergy-free sunflower oil spread and local raspberry preserve sandwiches, a forest backdrop of lightly-seasoned organic broccolini, and the sweet dulcet tones of a fully-compostable straw strumming in and out of a 100%-post-consumer-waste juice box to approximate the distant thunder of a coming storm.
I’ve been in a battle of wills since I enrolled my seven-year-old in elementary school. I want him to buy his lunch at school because I would really love ONE LESS thing to do each day, and he refuses. So, I’ve been trying to bore him into compliance with the exact same lunch — a Lunchable, a yogurt, and a Z bar — ever since.
It’s been one year and seven months, but I’m sure he’s going to cave any day.
When I threw the same son’s third birthday party, I arrived at the venue, and the woman handed me a diagram. “These are some options for your table displays.”
Table displays? Seven months pregnant with my second child, I thought it was amazing that I remembered to buy a cake.
Pre-marriage and kids, I had a notorious memory. Need to know how we celebrated the end of third grade? I can tell you. The name of that dive bar we found when we got lost on our way to a frat party in college? Got it. Tax receipts from 2008? Filed and accessible.
For the twin’s first doctor’s appointment, I had to pause before confirming their birthday.
And, to make that too-long pause even more awkward, I then thought I needed to recall two dates, as if my sons did not, by virtue of being twins, share a birthday.
“Did you think it was two different days?” the nurse said.
IF YOU MUST KNOW NANCY, FOR A MOMENT, I DID.
I tell everyone I’m more forgetful than I used to be, but the truth is I never had to keep track of dentist appointments, birthday parties, school projects, book fairs, Teacher Workdays, cafeteria menus, and who has enough clothing to get through the week for four people in addition to myself before.
Then there’s the emotional labor.
You see, it’s not enough to schedule, remember, coordinate pick-up and drop-off and attend those dentist appointments, you also have to be ready for every moment of anxiety, fear, trepidation, and eventual triumph that comes with a pediatric teeth cleaning, and sometimes you cycle through all those emotions before you even get to the parking lot.
Yes, their toothpaste tastes different than the one we use at home. No, the water spray can’t hurt you. I promise x-rays aren’t that bad!
At least dentist appointments involve a relatively small circle of interaction — receptionist, dental hygienist, dentist. The school day, with its classmates, teachers, administration, carpool officiants, other parents, and support staff is an entire ecosystem that must be navigated with compassion, care, and the occasional “I don’t know why you only have time to do the monkey bars on Tuesdays, but let’s just roll with it.”
The concessions necessary to navigate the world as a woman start so young. Even Izzy from “Jake and the Neverland Pirates” has to explain herself.
In. Every. Single. Episode.
Jake? He has a sword. Cubby? He has a map. Izzy? She has pixie dust, which helps you fly. The fairies gave it to her, but she can only use it in an emergency.
Jake is ten years old and carrying around a deadly weapon, but Izzy, by virtue of being female, has to explain (and mitigate the power) of her gift. Have any of us ever thought about how tired Izzy must be from that lengthy explanation before she even takes her seat at the table? Captain Hook hasn’t even shown up yet, and she’s already done more work than everyone else.
Sound familiar?
I long to interact with the world the way a white male does. My husband is often telling me to leave a room when I want to or “just say no,” not understanding that a woman’s world is one of negotiation and explanation. I can just say no, but I’ll be judged for it, so I tell everyone why I’m saying no, leading to a different, albeit slightly different, realm of judgment.
I’m constantly amused that anyone would ask why I’m so tired as if Monday is different from Thursday or Saturday. In my head, I gesture to ALL OF THE THINGS as reasons I could always use a nap. Being female is hard work. (Hell, being human is hard work, but I gave this essay a specific title, and I need to stick with it.)
In an ideal world, I’d never have to tell my sons that being the girl is fun; they would see it. They would watch Black Widow with the same reverence as Iron Man. They wouldn’t scowl if they got stuck with a pink balloon. They wouldn’t associate so much of my role with laundry and cleaning up.
It’s a change that is bigger than me, but I try to remind them that my life isn’t entirely about being the only one who knows where all of the shin guards and toilet paper are. (No, shin guards and toilet paper aren’t in the same place. That would be madness!)
And until then, I do what centuries of women before me have done — continue plugging away at problems — big and small — in the hopes that tomorrow is brighter than today. It’s the kind of work and meaning I can buy into, and doing it makes me proud to be the girl.
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How Not To Entertain Yourself While Pregnant
Whatever you do while pregnant, don’t:
1. Google anything and everything about your pregnancy and/or newborns.
A personal low? I Googled “can my baby kick too much” because I was convinced I could diagnose ADD/ADHD in the womb.
2. Wander the aisles of Babies R Us or Buy Buy Baby wondering what you’ve gotten yourself into. It's a very costly place to worry, and buying more wash clothes isn't going to do much.
Hint: You’ll be there daily in the first few weeks anyway, so you might want to wait.
3. Try on those tiny bikinis you see the sorority girls picking up thinking you will look OK (or even like a celebrity) because you’re “all belly.”
If you are super tiny, this might work. I don't wear a bikini when I'm not pregnant, so God only knows why I thought this was a good idea. When I put on that Target brand swimsuit one fateful March day, I did not look like a celebrity rocking her baby bump on the beach, and it still frightens me to remember how my ass looked in so little Spandex.
Everything I Dislike About The Fair In One Photo
Every year, when ads start popping up for the state fair*, I think, "Oh my gosh, that would be so much fun!"
My mind is filled with stock photo images of autumnal delight -- children mesmerized by the twinkling lights of rides, cotton candy and caramel apples, young ladies and gents playing games to win stuffed toys for their paramours ... In my head, it's wondrous.
I get geared up to go. I imagine my head thrown back in laughter as I tilt-a-whirl. I smile at the SO, "I know what we could do this weekend ..."
Then, we arrive, and just as the stench of cigarette smoke and broken dreams reaches me, I remember that no fair has ever lived up to my glossy-staged-photo dreams, but instead always ends in too much hand sanitizer and nightmares of Enterovirus 68.
Cotton candy isn't tasty. It's sticky, like everything else at the fair, and I don't like sticky.
In that germaphobic, I'm-the-freak-that-worries-about-their-insurance-policy spirit, I give you everything I dislike about the fair in one photo:
My son does not want to pet the animals in the petting zoo. Which is cool because the animals in the petting zoo don't want to be touched either. There's a stranger in our photos -- who doesn't smile -- wearing a shirt with the phrase "tickled pink" embroidered on the pocket.
I think it's safe to say that no one involved in this is tickled pink.
And then there's me -- getting felt up by "the 'roo" that we all know isn't a kangaroo. (My aunt, who spent a significant portion of her adult life in Australia, confirmed this for me, and said that this creature was either a wallaby -- or an overgrown rat -- but it definitely wasn't a kangaroo.)
Of course, the kangaroo/wallaby/rat probably has the innocent intention of tapping out SOS on my chest in Morse Code in hopes of salvation, but considering how I feel about stickiness, I think you can imagine how much I wanted an animal that had spent it's day in a poop-filled pen in the parking lot touching me.
When we leave, the SO always gives me the "I told you so" look, and I nod in agreement -- until next year.
* I actually dragged my family to something known as a "fall festival." It's like a kissing cousin of the state fair. It may not carry the title, but the rides, shows and prices are the same.
The Misanthropic Parent
Most likely, one day, my son will discover that I don’t really like people.
Of course, I like my family and my friends and most people depicted on ABC Family shows.
My problem is with other “people.” (And, just to be clear, I’m not talking about “you people” in some thinly-veiled racist way. However, racists are part of the “people” I don’t like.) I’m talking about “people,” like the guy that jumps in line when we’re all waiting for the next available cashier in an orderly fashion. (No, you are not the genius who figured out the line with no wait while the rest of us poor saps stood around like sheep waiting on Tanya on register eight.) It’s the unsolicited-advice-givers and I-don’t-know-what-to-order-at-the-top-of-the-line-during-rush–hour types that make me a tad crazy – and dark.
Where do I think my son is most likely to learn that I don’t like people?
The Zoo.
Like many families, we love an outing to the zoo. There’s fresh air, and cute animals, and walking. And on nice days, there’s also every other family within a 15-mile radius.
On our first trip to the zoo, I was enjoying the otter exhibit when a barefoot woman emerged from the lily pond to talk to me. (I have issues with feet and bacteria. We were already off to a bad start.)
“Have you seen the otters?” she said.
“Not yet,” I said. Then I proceeded to tend to my son – you know, the one in the stroller that I came to the zoo to spend time with. I was doing my best to mind my own business when I heard a kind of squealing noise.
“I found them!”
I did not acknowledge. I know myself.
“Do you want to see?”
“I’m OK,” I said.
“No, come see,” she said. Then, said stranger proceeded to grab my arm (I also don’t like to be touched) and pull me over towards the corner of the giant tank where the otters live. “Do you see them?”
“They’re all sleeping on top of each other,” she said. “It’s a pile-up.”
Friends, it was a pile-up alright. It was a pile of rocks.
But, I don’t like to engage with strangers, let alone argue with them, so instead, I stood there while a stranger held onto my arm and pretended to marvel at the rocks/otters.
“Neato.”
Later, when we went inside the monkey house (which I’m sure has a more scientific name, but I just learned the difference between tortoises and turtles, so clearly I’m behind on all matters animal kingdom), I encountered a middle-aged couple pawing each other in front of the lemurs. While myself and the children – please don’t forget about the children – watched those delightful little imps run around and swing from ropes, Ronnie, as I’m calling her, grabbed Ron’s crotch and whispered things in his ear more appropriate for HBO late night than daytime at the zoo.
(I’m guessing that they really wanted to do it like they do it on the Discovery Channel. Also, in honor of Ronnie and Ron, I will no longer say “go at it like bunnies,” but instead refer to those that want to get it on like visitors to the monkey house. Clearly, I’m not getting as much from primates as some people do.)
Then there are the unaccompanied minors. Please don’t get me started on the unaccompanied minors. I know it makes me sound old, but on this particular day, their clothes were so tight and their comments were so dumb.
I believe it was while four such youngsters were attempting to trap a peacock that I said, “We must move on now, and to somewhere they won’t follow.”
While I’d like to be my best self for my kid, and I’d like to think that motherhood has reorganized my priorities, helped me let go of the small stuff, show more compassion and on and on and on, it seems I’m still me – petty complaints and misanthropic tendencies and all. Is it better to just own it or try and be better? I’d like to say I’ll try and be better, but then someone steals a parking space I’d clearly stalked and claimed with my blinker, and well, we’re right back where we started.
I think I’d rather admit to most of my 20s than see that sweet face fall the first time he hears me yell at an aggressive telemarketer.
Because right now, my son looks at me like I’m awesome, and I don’t ever want it to be any other way. He thinks my singing, dancing, tickling ways are delightful. He has no idea that I’m tone deaf – let alone the rest of it.
When he looks at me with so much love, well, I, too, which I wasn’t the person who complained about “That Guy” at the pharmacy who always says that it will be 10-15 more minutes no matter how many hours in advance I called.
I wish I could stare at a pile of rocks with genuine wonder. It seems like more fun than cynicism.
Maybe it’s enough to try. Let’s hope so, because that’s all I’ve got.
* Photo of actual otter, not rock. Photo by hotblack.
How To Entertain Yourself While Pregnant
So, here’s how long ago I initially planned to write this post. My original intro: In light of the recent snowstorms and Valentine’s Day, I thought I would prepare a helpful list for those sure to find themselves in the family way over the next few weeks.
Sorry to let you down, ladies. Those of you impregnated during the snowstorms and Valentine’s Day festivities are probably giving birth in November, so I’m way behind. Regardless, I wrote this, and now maybe I can help those of you overly affected by Facebook photos of cute kids heading back to school and Carter’s ads.
What no one tells you is how boring pregnancy can be. First and foremost, no alcohol is pretty limiting. Then, you throw in the fact that you’re the person at the restaurant asking whether or not there’s raw egg in the salad dressing, if the cheese is pasteurized and if they could heat your turkey sandwich to 140 degrees, and you’re just not a to of fun to go out and about with.
Next, factor in that you’ll spend almost three months in what I call “quarantine” because you don’t know what to say when your friends ask you why you’re not drinking (I was pretty sure people around me would assume rehab), so your social skills disintegrate. (In real life no one wants to know all of my feelings about Taylor Armstrong from The Real Housewives of Beverly Hills? What?!?!)
Last but not least, please consider the fact that you’ll spend most of your pregnant time trying to figure out what the hell is going on with your body. So, you’ve got a lot of new knowledge about the placenta that no one else cares about. (And, they want to hear about that even less than Taylor.)
It’s very easy to find yourself sipping Sprite, alone, next to a maybe-pasteurized-maybe-not cheese plate at a cocktail party while everyone else gets a good buzz on.
If you’re like me, you’ll also be unable to watch, read about or discuss anything that involves babies, children, sick people, puppies, exotic pets, the elderly, kids going to college, mothers, fathers, changing seasons, mean people, or small goats without crying (heavily and loudly, regardless of time or place). This will reduce your range of conversation topics by about 98%, leaving you to entertain your friends with tidbits about donuts and paint colors.
It isn’t pretty.
I read the entire Rizzoli and Isles series while pregnant. I don’t know why. (And I cried during the one about kidnapped pregnant ladies. I'm still ashamed.) No one wanted to hear about that either (except my father, who, God love him, had thoughts about the casting choices TNT made, but it’s entirely possible he was feigning his level of interest just because he loves me).
So, from my perspective, there’s not a lot to do. But, you can do these things that I came up with during the seven or so months I felt like there wasn’t much for me to do other than, you know, grow a human and all:
1. Pretend you don’t know you’re pregnant.
If someone says “Congratulations,” feign shock.
Tell them you knew you’d put on some weight, but still…Seem to be working out some math in your head. “It has been awhile since I got my monthly visitor.” (Yes, I also like to use antiquated terms in my play to up the awkward. Feel free to substitute “Aunt Flo.”)
2. When your friends are talking about where to go after 9:00 p.m., and you’re tired but know you won’t sleep, suggest the nastiest club in town. Then mention that you were there X months ago and need to look for someone.
(X clearly equals the number of months that you have been pregnant.)
3. Actually go to said club and try out the infamous Amy Poehler/Josh Brolin SNL skit. (Hide your belly while you make eyes at someone across the room and then, “Surprise!”)
This was one of my favorite pregnant lady fantasies.
4. Around Spring Break or anytime during the summer, visit your nearest Target or department store. Find the college girls trying on tiny bikinis for trips to Cancun. Without prompting, point to the tiny bikinis and say, “That and a lot of tequila shooters is how I got here.” [Reference bump.]
Consider it a public service.
5. Pose for stock photos.
I learned a lot putting together this post. If you want to download free photos of pregnant ladies from the Internet, you're in luck! I think we call that a win for the fetishists.
Good luck ladies!
On My Son And Dating
Note to you, dear reader: While I wrote this awhile ago, I never posted it, and I wanted to revisit the subject in light of Ohio State’s new sexual consent policy and Rush Limbaugh’s comments.
Seeing as my son is only fifteen-months-old, the SO and I haven’t exactly had a lot of conversations about how we’ll handle all of those important coming of age discussions – the birds and the bees, puberty, at what age it’s OK to date, etc. However, not surprisingly, I already have a lot of opinions on the subject.
About seven years ago when I was working in Nashville, a press release for the Date Safe Project arrived at my desk. Since I was the Lifestyles editor, this info fell under my Relationships sub-category, and was just one promotional material I received in a slew of weekly notices. (Previously, my submissions pile had included tips for online dating, how widowers could “get back out there” and one particularly uncomfortable piece on controlling rage within marriage.)
All I saw was, “Can I kiss you?” and I quickly dismissed the release. (And probably thought “tool” while I was at it.)
Then, as I am prone to do, I got bored. I was tired of writing Top 7 lists, and the Date Safe Project DVD was still on the corner of my desk. Figuring that I could at least kill an hour watching a video and call it “work,” I popped the disk in.
It was a pretty uncomplicated video that featured Date Safe Project founder Mike Domitrz talking to a group of school kids and their parents. Domitrz’s basic premise is that either partner should ask for permission before engaging in any sexual activity.
And he means any sexual activity, including kissing.
For some reason, I again thought this idea was kind of ludicrous. I don’t know if it was the effort – like taking an hour to get dressed for a party was worth my time, but talking about sex wasn’t – or the simple fact that I’d never thought about it, but I couldn’t really get on board.
Then Domitrz made one of his key points: If you don’t ask to kiss a female, she has one of two options – accept the kiss or push her date away. Either way, a female’s only options are physical.
That’s when I started thinking. Why do we expect women to have to push men away as part of our “normal”? Is that really the best way?
Buoyed on by the DVD, I called the number on the press release and arranged an interview with Domitrz.
We talked about dating. We talked about getting physical. We talked about what to do when you’re the parent setting the standard for your kids. (Yes, he recommends that you ask to kiss your spouse even if you’ve never done it before.)
One of my favorite comments from Domitrz is in the video. It’s something along the lines of, “People want to know, ‘do I have to ask right one and or left one’? It doesn’t have to be that particular. It’s about asking your date if she or he is comfortable going to the next level. “ For Domitrz, it’s about making sure everyone is on the same page.
So, regardless of what you might think about the Date Safe Project – or my recollections of it seven years later – here’s what I got from all this: explicit consent should be part of any romantic relationship from the get-go. Women (and men) have a voice that should be respected. Boundaries need to be clear. And if someone is too drunk to verbally consent, it’s a no-brainer that fooling around doesn’t even begin.
At this point, when I talk about my dating theories, I usually get one of two reactions from my friends:
1. “Asking for a kiss? What happens to being spontaneous?”
Now, I don’t know about you, but I haven’t had too many spontaneous kisses in my life. Usually a lot of talking, making sure we were at the same party and hair flipping has gone into my makeout sessions.
I forget who says that fooling around happens when you run out of things to say to one another, but there’s a lot of that, too. Sometimes, I just couldn’t come up with one more comment on politics or The Challenge.
If the kisses were spontaneous, it often involved a lot of alcohol or wasn’t something I was prepared for. (With this latter point, therein lies the problem. Why should I have to shove someone off of me to avoid a kiss? And conversely, why should a nice guy have to get shoved just because he read the signals wrong?)
I have most always known when someone was going to kiss me, and it never took away from the moment.
2. “That kills all the romance!”
All I know is that if I want someone to kiss me – and I’ve put in the witty remarks, accidental brush-ups and mascara to make it happen – nothing can ruin that moment. The sudden act of asking about a kiss would not be a mood-killer for me. Bad breath? Slobbering? Slipping in a homophobic joke before making a move? These would ruin the romance. A simple question? No.
It’s fascinating to me that in an age when we talk about rape culture, gray rape, Stubenville and the like, we’re pretty quick to dismiss garnering consent as “unromantic” and even “unnecessary.”
I don’t think a little more communication hurt anyone, especially with the variables of libido, alcohol and still-developing brains in the mix.
So, it’s entirely possible that I’ll be the weird mom who suggests her kid ask before he kisses someone. And asks before he goes to second base. And checks in again before considering any of those other bases, etc.
I know one thing: I would much rather be the weird mom who talks to her kid about asking for kisses than the one explaining why it’s not OK to post half-naked pictures of drunk classmates on Facebook.
I also know there's a high probability that he won't follow my advice, what with being an adolescent male and all, but I think I'm OK with that, too. Because maybe, just maybe, if I make a big enough deal about consent, I'll at least have gotten most of the point across.
What do you think? What do you plan to tell your kids about dating?
Image courtesy of Marzie.
The Truth About Your Name
It was very easy to name my children when I was single and all of my children where yet-to-be-conceived.
If you’re female, I think you’ll know what I’m talking about.
“I’m going to have two boys and a girl, and they’re going to be named Bailey, L.B. and Isabel.”
Even when people asked about my fictional children’s hypothetical father, I had an answer. “He can have the middle name.”
So, you can imagine my surprise when, actually pregnant, I told the SO my idea for our baby boy’s name, and he said, “no.”
Sixteen years of planning, and it all came crashing down with one “no.”
After my disappointment/confrontation with reality, the SO and I began the baby naming hunt/game in earnest. For me, I think this process is best described by a woman I met at a baby shower: “I pick names and my husband shoots them down.”
I read a baby book.
I read a baby book with 10,000 names in it.
I highlighted my favorite names and created a working list.
I shared my working list with the SO via a Google doc that we could both edit.
The SO chose to yell things out as we drove or shopped at Target. (He didn’t seem to get the memo about my baby book or Google doc.)
It went something like this:
“Rock!”
“What? Am I going to hit a rock? Is there something in the road?”
“No, what do you think about Rock for the baby?”
“As a cheap toy?” I said. “A nursery theme?”
“As a name.”
“No.”
LeTron, Shogun and Lightning all came to my attention this way.
For the record, I am not someone who could own a cool, alt baby name. Some people fit with an Apple. I do not.
A hip baby name would only cause me deep shame and judgment every time I checked in at the pediatrician’s office or had something monogrammed.
“What would you like on the towels again?”
“Toaster.”
“Toaster?”
“You know, like the Instagram filter.”
And the idea of standing in front of all the other mothers with my non-cloth-diaper-wearing son while the nurse called out “Lysol” or “Legume” is too much for me.
For awhile, I was convinced my child would be named Samurai because the SO and I couldn’t agree on anything, and, at least, as a friend pointed out, I could shorten “Samurai” to “Sam.”
I vividly remember being very pregnant, driving around and crying thinking about the years ahead spent introducing Samurai to his teachers and coaches. (All of whom would be very disapproving.)
So, when, four days before I went into labor, the SO suggested “Benjamin,” I jumped on it.
Before that moment, Benjamin had not been in my top 5 or even my top 25. But, by then, I would have gone with anything to avoid a Samurai or LeTron (LeTronica for a girl).
This is also why I really think the SO played me for the long con. A note to the men out there: if you want to win the baby name game, just hold out any and all non-absurd names until your partner is in labor. Darth, Leppard and Gandolf sound a lot more appealing when you think your alternatives are Drapery and Hopscotch.
And while Benjamin might not have been in the top 25 names during my pregnancy or the first 33 years of my life, it quickly rose in the ranks as my favorite name once it was attached to my favorite little person.
I fell in love with the name as I fell in love with my baby, and now, I can’t imagine wanting a Bailey or L.B. instead.
This is also why you don’t tell people your baby names. Nobody loves Esther or Grayson in theory, but everyone loves it once it’s attached to 10 pounds of cuddly, squirmy baby.
So, getting back to my title, the truth is that your name might not have been your parent’s first choice at first, but it probably is now.
“We always like the name ‘Benjamin,’” is a far better story than, “I used to curse your father and cry thinking you’d be called ‘Samurai.’”
Photo by mwookie.
On Organic Baby Food
Me: The baby just threw up.
The SO: Do you think he’s sick?
Me: No, I think he didn’t like his dinner. There was lots of gagging before he threw up.
The SO: Really? What did you give him?
Me: Sweet potato, mango and millet.
The SO: So the baby doesn’t like millet? I’m shocked.
Why HIMYM Should Not End With The Mother's Death
On Why "How I Met Your Mother" Should Not End With The Mother’s Death
Like most fans of HIMYM, I’m pretty emotional about the upcoming series finale. Obviously, a show I began watching in my 20s about people in their 20s trying to figure out their lives is going to have a pretty strong hold. In 2005, when HIMYM debuted, I was 25 going on 26, I had just finished graduate school and I was anxious to see how the next phase of my life – career, relationship, family – would play itself out. I was a Ted Moseby who wanted to be a Lily, only I didn’t have the same assurance of an older-me narrator to guarantee that it was all going to work out. Nine years later, I’m married, and I have an adorable nine-month-old and a mortgage. I will miss this show and these characters because I feel like they’ve been there with me on the journey.
As a long-time fan, I also have to express my great distress over the pesky Internet rumor that HIMYM will end with us learning that the mother has died and Ted is about to marry Robin.
I am a devoted Robney shipper, but that actually has nothing to do with why I’m so opposed to this ending. I don’t like this ending because it doesn’t fit with all that HIMYM is about and has been about for the past nine seasons.
The thing about searching for “the one” is that you have no idea what you’re looking for until you find it. Until you’ve found “it,” it’s all just supposition and guess work. While this statement might sound as empty as “it is what it is,” you can’t know until you know. And no matter how much you want something, you can’t make yourself get there before you’re there. It happens when it happens. At its heart, HIMYM is a love story, and the most amazing part of all our individual love stories is that we have no idea what moment is going to change our lives forever. Everything else only gains significance in hindsight.
The whole arc of HIMYM – as evidenced most clearly in the title – is leading us to that one moment for Ted. Which moment in these nine years will be the defining one that shapes everything that comes next? We see all of the close calls – dating her roommate, being so near the yellow umbrella, walking into her class – and all the women who might be “it.” But, of all those thousands of moments, it’s meeting the wedding singer.
None of us can know what that moment will be in our own lives until we’re in it. I met my husband at a practice for a local improve comedy group on a Sunday afternoon when I had a terrible hangover and hadn’t washed my hair. We all have, or are waiting for, our life-changing moment, and I think it’s that part of Ted’s journey that touches us and makes the show so appealing.
Until I met my husband, I thought at least six different people were my soul mates and made a lot of questionable decisions – including one possibly ill-advised transoceanic flight – to that end. I have my own Victoria, Stella, etc. (And I won’t even get into the not-quite-soul-mate-level people that I also spent a lot of time with and made yet more questionable decisions because of.) For a good six years, I was sure that I would eventually end up with one particular person. For me, that person is my Robin – the one you’re sure you want and that you can come up with so many reasons that you two should be together.
But, you won’t end up together.
Because he or she isn’t the one. And you can’t know that you’re chasing shadows until you find the real thing.
I think that in the best-told story, Robin remains the one Ted is sure he wants before he finds the one that’s really meant for him.
HIMYM addresses topics and themes that pertain to singledom/life in your 20s and early 30s in a way that is heartfelt, honest and usually very funny. Some examples? When Ted discovers that he’s inadvertently recreated his parents’ relationship. When Ted realizes he has feelings for someone that is married. When Ted has to face the idea that being an architect might not be in the cards.
This isn’t about “getting the girl” in the unrealistic romantic comedy sense of star-crossed lovers in a will they or won’t they pull. This is a story about finding the one. And obviously, especially for those poor kids trapped listening to this story, there’s a lot that comes before finding the one. And nothing about the people you love before finding the one negates how great and wonderful it is once you find it.
Ted can love Robin with his whole heart and still be meant to find a better and more satisfying relationship with the mother. Those two coexist in the real world all the time. We all love people that aren’t the one. But, the person we build a life with still gets to trump all.
The real love story on HIMYM is just beginning, and the better more honest story is in what becomes of Ted after he moves past Robin and opens himself up to the possibility of a better love. (Enter the mother …)
Because how do most of our real life love stories go? Do you spend years pining away for someone only to have the person realize one day, years after you’ve met, that yes, you two are meant to be together and now a great relationship begins?
No. When you meet the one, it works. And it usually works right off the bat. That’s the beauty of the one. And it’s the very same thing you can’t force or make happen or twist and bend into submission. It happens when it happens. Until then, we’re all just waiting and searching and hoping.
HIMYM needs to end exactly the way it told us it was going to end nine years ago – with Ted Moseby meeting the love of his life and the mother of his children. Any other ending – dead mother and Robin reunion included – is disingenuous to the story telling and the truth of the human experience.
Image originally posted to Flickr by Francis Orante under the Creative Commons Attribution-Share Alike 2.0 Generic license.
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To Read: Let's Pretend This Never Happened
I was actually at a Blogher conference in New York the firsttime I heard mention of “The Bloggess.”
“I was recently retweeted by The Bloggess,” one attendee said,“and she’s huge.” Then, a reverential hush fell over the room in honor of boththe name mentioned and the accomplishment. The discussion was about connectingwith other bloggers and marketing, but I was much more fascinated by themention of this Bloggess. The name was obviously awesome, and speaking of her had rendered a room full of bloggers speechless – not exactly an easyfeat.
Of course, I wasn’t going to admit to my ignorance at thetime. After all, I was at a blogging conference and, clearly, one of the bignames in the game had just come up. If anything, I was supposed to be with itand knowledgeable of my industry (or so my Twitter feed would have youbelieve), but obviously, I was out of the loop on one very important point.
What I gathered from the crowd, apart from the fact that itwas a very big deal to be mentioned by the Bloggess (not something that I’m atall contesting, Maria Shriver favorited one of my tweets and it made 2012), wasthat the Bloggess was a big fan of “the f-word.” And that was good enough forme.
Getting to the real point here, I loved Let’s Pretend ThisNever Happened by the Bloggess, also known as Jenny Lawson.
I’d love to tell you more about this book, but I also feellike if I call out specifics I’ll be the jerk who says punch lines to otherpeople’s jokes or that person in the Facebook feek who keeps posting about deaths onDownton Abbey/The Walking Dead without any seeming comprehension of what aspoiler is or that most people these days use a little something called DVRrather than watching shows in real time.
This book is simply too funny, and I want you to discoverall of that funniness for yourself. Let’s Pretend This Never Happened is a bookthat is all about voice, and for that reason, you’ll want to read these storiesfor yourself.
Entering Jenny Lawson’s world is a hysterical treat. So, doyourself a favor and don’t be one of the last people to catch on here. (Trustme, it’s not a fun place to be.)
As I believe Jenny Lawson might say now, you’re welcome.
This is a paid review for BlogHer Book Club but the opinions expressed are my own.