What is wrong with playgroups?

and why are so many people so quick to categorically diss other parents on the playground?

It seems to have become fashionable to talk about how much one loathes other parents and their children, almost as fashionable as it is to talk about how much one loathes being a parent to one’s own children. I am seriously losing my sense of humor about it. It is like some strange form of cannibalism.

I live in a city and I have no family nearby. I know it is important to be social, for myself and for my child. That’s about the extent of it. So I found them online. Yes, my son and I *gasp* “belong” to a playgroup.

Sometimes I wish I lived in a neighborhood with more kids. I often wish we lived in a friendlier society in general. Social spontaneity is certainly ideal, it’s just not realistic. I will admit, I had to psych myself up to go to my first meetup. Get this - I was concerned that the people at that first meetup were going to be like the cariacatures depicted in many a painfully hip blog and messageboard posting. I believed the hype! I was apprehensive, but I did know that if it didn’t go well, it would likely be due to my social anxiety rather than a reflection of the people there.

Fortunately, there was a meetup at the coffee shop across the street a few months back. I figured that if I felt truly uncomfortable, no harm done. We would just cross the street again and return home. It turned out to be great. So great that it has actually turned into a few spontaneous walks, play meetups and dinners. Once, when I reallyreallyreally didn’t want to go to a playgroup, when I couldn’t figure out how to get out the freaking door between napping and pumping and all that, when I couldn’t seem to stop crying and I was embarrassed by my swollen and tear-streaky face, I went anyway. Even though I so wanted to be alone, the fresh air and just being around other people saved the day for me and Bean.

I recently had breakfast with another mom and baby I met at that first meetup, and I had to psych myself up for that, too.  I am glad I did. The conversation waned a bit at times, and unless I actively engaged her otherwise, it was solely baby-centered. That got on my nerves a little, and we clearly have different ways of approaching parenting, but it was no more awkward than any other first date I’ve ever had. Am I really supposed to expect that our words will tumble over one another’s, that we will reach for the last roll in the bread basket at the same time, brush hands and giggle together; that we will finish each other’s sentences and still be there talking with our magically serene Ann Geddes babies until the staff is sweeping up the joint? Didn’t happen. Does that mean I am supposed to categorize and diss her now, because I co-sleep and breastfeed in public and am currently unemployed, while she has the opposite of each happening in her life? How about the fact that she ordered all sweet stuff while I ordered savory, and I was concerned about giving Bean the restaurant’s tap water while she let her kiddo slurp away? Should we divide ourselves according to these preferences as well?

Do some of us so miss the drama and fretful entanglements of past dating relationships that we recreate them with parents we meet?

Even after a few months of going (when we can get out the door on time), I do still have to psych myself up to go to playgroups. Once *gasp* I even hosted. And oh my fucking stars, we had a fun. Imagine that! Babies. Like. Each. Other. Parents. Can. Suspend. Judgement.

So yeah, yours truly, the daughter and heir of a shyness that is criminally vulgar, is here to say that everybody needs to relax with the parenttyping. Granted, Chicago is a particularly cool city, filled with particularly cool people, so maybe that is why I do not find myself contending with neighborhood nazis that are label-y, milestone-y, Baby Einstein dogmatists. Still, I am actually wondering how many of those people really exist outside of the interweb and the desire to write paid ad-attracting posts. It’s like I said (somewhere in) here, some parents seem to have never left the bully-or-be-bullied, I-will-reject-you-before-you-reject-me constraints of their grade school commons. I know the coolest kids were the ones who could make others feel the most uncool, but we are all growed up now.

Who knows, though. Maybe some parent groups really are bitingly exclusive. Maybe some really are blatantly label conscious and rudely competitive. Or maybe they just have some people in them who are insecure about their new role as parents, and are overcompensating by laying on the inflated opinions a bit thick. Maybe they are just trying to relate to others in a misguided fashion.

So far I have found it pretty easy to deflect anything that strikes me as way out there. I am in no way socially graceful, I am just not threatened by insecure behavior. If anything, the label whores and histrionic opinionators probably need to receive some kindness to help them relax. They’ve probably read to many parenting books and are all freaked out. If you do encounter one who expounds some wacky parenting shit to you, offer them a cocktail or juicebox, nod and say, “I can respect that” and either change the subject or talk to someone else. Abracadabra.

Do I sound annoyingly well-adjusted and self-actualized? I’m not. I just don’t see the point in ripping on each other, even under the guise of humor. Learning to be a parent is hard enough. So let’s all just share some banana puffs and calm the fuck down.

I am not naughty and I am not yummy

But I am bad and delicious.

This great post got me thinking, what is up with books and articles by authors that profess to sell MILFdom? Why do they use childlike terms to try and do so? Being a MILF is a state of mind. It will not come from high heels and stripteasing, unless those things make YOU feel good about yourself. You all know that I will rock some badass outfits and I do know my way around a pole, but I am not into sex as performance art for the sole benefit of my partner. I gave that up in my early twenties and I hope you did, too. 

If stilettos hurt like hell and you feel more like a polecat than a pole dancer, than do whatever it is you need to do to make YOU feel good.  Fuck those books and articles. They are the baby industry’s equivalent to Cosmo’s “30 ways to please your man tonight” schtick (you already know how to please a man, everybody does. It does not take thirty ways. More like two or three. If you forgot how, watch Clerks again. Dante sums it up succinctly while painting his girlfriend’s nails.)

God forbid something like breastfeeding, or the residual roundness of your belly post-pregnancy, should make you feel empowered and therefore hotter than you ever felt before you birthed your precious bambino. It does for me. Do you know how strong I had to be to walk around this city with my baby within me, getting off and on the bus, navigating crowds, and using the ohsomany flights of stairs by the el tracks because of always-broken escalators? Do you know how strong I am to do it now with a baby attached to the outside of me? Huz does. I make sure he knows. Yes, my body has changed. Before, it was coquettish and sly. Now it says look out, here I come, and I am a veritable wet dream of capability and sensuality I never knew possible before I did things so physical as pregnancy and labor and breastfeeding.

And like I said, the childlike word choices in these books and articles? No, thank you. The word “yummy” is a something a kid uses to describe things like candy or pancakes. I am delicious 99.9% of the time, but I most certainly do not taste like candy or pancakes. “Naughty” brings to mind an image of a misbehaving toddler from England.  When I am being bad, I am decidedly not acting like misbehaving toddler from England, I promise you. I suppose the childish word choices are supposed to play into that “spank me I am a bad little girl” fantasy so many people have, which is a great fantasy, but it sure as hell doesn’t encompass the range of our sexuality, especially now. I am a GROWN WOMAN, I am a MOTHER, I am a WIFE. Striving to be yummy or naughty is limiting as hell at best, and degrading at worst. We fucking gave birth. We are gorgeous animals!

So here’s a tip from me, because I love you alot and you know that and we are tight now. If you struggle to find yourself sexually after having a baby (and it is not because of the un-godly fatigue or your partner not helping you worth a fuck) it just may be that you are looking to the wrong role models. Just be you, baby. I mean it. Say this word with me: fecundity. The word alone is hot. Say it out loud, say it alot: I am fecund, I am fecund, I am fecund.

I am fecund, I am round like an OOOOOOOOO, I am voluptuous, I am zaftig; I am a dripping mango, I am a hothouse flower, I am (insert your erotic imagery of choice here) and I am so fucking strong. Take a bite of this.

A letter from a patriot

Cindy Sheehan tells the Democratic Party to stick it, and I say bravo. People like her, her family, her child, are what Memorial Day is about for me. I’m posting this a day late, but nevertheless, I want to give it some time and attention here.

No less than three

Allow me to explain no-less-than-three-no-more-than-five rule, which was briefly mentioned in my prior post. I realized that it may have struck you as, well, a wtf item. First, let me say that I am not the creator of this wisdom. No, the person who bestowed it upon me in a time of crisis was none other than the coolest mom I have ever met, Jamie, who has a son with an autism spectrum disorder that I was fortunate enough to work with and as a result, hang with her for a time.

One day I was freaking out over being torn between two loves, namely, Jim and Ben *le sigh* (I wasn’t brave enough to devote myself to crushing on chicks yet). Jamie listened to me as I listed the virtues and demerits of each one over a cup of way too weak coffee. When I was done, she coolly said, “I just do not know what you are freaking out about.”

Here’s me: I don’t know who I want more! I like them both! I hate them both! *teeth gnashing, heavy sighing, and the like*

Here’s Jamie: Yeah, that is the problem, there are two of them.

Me: Um, yeah, I know, that is the problem.

Her: Yep. You need at least three.

Me: ???????

Her: When I was your age, it was always no less than three, no more than five. If you have less than three, it’s no good. Two end up tearing you apart and fighting over each other, and one, well one is just no good, period. That is for when you are older. On the other hand, if you have more than five, you never have any time to yourself, and you must have some time to yourself.

Me: Like I should sleep with all of them?

Her: No! I mean, you can if you want to but that would be a lot of work. No, you can pick one or two to sleep with, but really you are just looking for different qualities to enjoy that you could never find all in one person, and it also keeps you from getting too heavy and freaking out about any of them. I’m telling you, when I was your age, it was no less than three, no more than five.

Best. Advice. For a twenty-something woman. Ever.

Interchangeably, over the next 4 years, there was:

An inflated yet decent and broke writer; a huge Mexican who loved to go to punk shows with me, look menacing, and drive my mother crazy. There was a more talented and even broker musician fella who had skills that should’ve required him to wear a warning label. There was that wealthy musician. There was a gorgeous yet vapid surfer guy, to well, you know, look at and “have coffee” with.  There was the great dancer, possibly a closet homosexual, who loved to dress up and go to the most fun places we could find on a whim, and also loved to go shopping with me. There was the childhood friend/ex-con (God rest his soul). There was my truest but platonic-at-the-time love, the one whom I called my best friend, although we went on the most romantic dates evah (and still do). There were others here and there, you know, to keep the numbers right, but these are the ones I remember best.

Because I wasn’t analyzing them, none of their faults mattered, and none of mine did either. I could just enjoy them for who they were, as they were, because I was not inspecting them against a checklist of wants/needs/etc. They all knew I had what I called my suitors, aka harem, and although it caused some miffed responses when I was indisposed, they all accepted it as well as men can. If anything, it seemed to spur them on. Have I mentioned that I am no great beauty? I’m not. And although I only slept with (such a funny little phrase) the occasional fella in my gaggle over the years, I had poetry and songs written for me, I was flown here and there for visits, and I had one hell of a good time. Every women should come home from an annoying day at work to the pleasure of listening to a ridiculous number of messages asking what she is doing on a Friday night. Every woman should have the pleasure of answering the messages she feels like returning with her tongue only slightly in cheek, saying, ”I am not sure, I may do xyz, unless you have something better to offer me.” Good for the blood. Keeps it pumping. And nothing keeps the pressure off the two of you trying to have a “great” time and impress one another with witticisms and whatnot like the sentence, “Sure I’ll go get something to eat with you, but I can only stay out until 10, I have plans after that.”

Of course, this approach is not for everyone, but if you are unattached, it should be. I highly recommend it.

The Battle for America

If you have 4 minutes and 10 seconds to spare, I highly recommend this pod on Current. Let us take its message to heart, and work together toward a government of the people, by the people, for the people.

Lately I have been thinking that having a child, with profound hope for our future as citizens of this country and of this world, is the bravest and must subversive thing I have ever done.

Yeah so I’ve got like 10 posts started

and I have no immediate plans to finish a single one. I don’t think I can. I am ridiculously happy these days.

Don’t get me wrong, I was happy enough before, but now that the non-stop rocking/pacing/shushing/painfulbreastfeeding/thriceadaypumping/ nosleep/can’tgoanywherewithoutscreaming days seem to be past us (ack! can I write that out loud like that or did I just totally jinx myself?) I am in a whole other realm here, people. I do have my peeps in my interweb motherhood tribe to thank for a whole lot of the peace that has settled over me, too, so thank you, peeps! Mwuah! I truly am feeling rather f’ing jazzed. Bean is simply the coolest thing I have ever seen and we are having the best time. Well, at least I am.  He seems pretty f’ing jazzed though, too, if I can take the liberty of speaking for him.

Winter is long gone and he is finally over his stroller-related discontent, so if you spot a ridiculously happy woman walking around in downtown Chicago with one of the cutest babies you have ever seen in your life (humor me) and a huge grin on her face, give a wave. That’s me.

Love,

B.

P.S. I’ll be back.

I am working on a post of my own

as I can find the time (my days with Bean are so much fun now, some said it would happen around 6 months but I either ignored or disbelieved them in my haze) but until then, here’s another thing by someone else (wish I knew who) that I just really like alot and want to share. It’s a little hokey but it gets across some very important points about NCLB (I told you I am an educator right?).

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If you don’t understand why educators resent the NO CHILD LEFT BEHIND ACT, this may help.

My dentist is great! He sends me reminders so I don’t forget checkups. He uses the latest techniques based on research. He never hurts me, and I’ve got all my teeth, so when I ran into him the other day, I was eager to see if he’d heard about the new state program. I knew he’d think it was great. “Did you hear about the new state program to measure effectiveness of dentists with their young patients?” I asked.

“No,” he said. He didn’t seem too thrilled. “How will they do that?”

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

“That’s terrible,” he said.

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

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

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

“Well, it’s so obvious,” he said. “Don’t you see that dentists don’t all work with the same clientele; so much depends on things we can’t control? For example, I work in a rural area with a high percentage of patients from deprived homes, while some of my colleagues work in upper middle class neighborhoods. Many of the parents I work with don’t bring their children to see me until there is some kind of problem and I don’t get to do much preventive work.” “Also,” he continued, “many of the parents I serve let their kids eat way too much candy from an early age, unlike more educated parents who understand the relationship between sugar and decay. To top it all off,” he added, “so many of my clients have well water which is untreated and has no fluoride in it. Do you have any idea how much difference early use of fluoride can make?”

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

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

“Don’t’ get touchy,” I said.

“Touchy?” he said. His face had turned red and from the way he was clenching and unclenching his jaws, I was afraid he was going to damage his teeth. “Try furious. In a system like this, I will end up being rated average, below average, or worse. My more educated patients who see these ratings may believe this so-called rating actually is a measure of my ability and proficiency as a dentist. They may leave me, and I’ll be left with only the most needy patients. And my cavity average score will get even worse. On top of that, how will I attract good dental hygienists and other excellent dentists to my practice if it is labeled below average?!”

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

“What’s the DOC?” he asked.

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

“Spare me,” he said, “I can’t believe this. Reasonable people won’t buy it,” he added hopefully.

The program sounded reasonable to me, so I asked,” How else would you measure good dentistry?”

“Come watch me work,” he said. “Observe my processes.”

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

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

“Now, now,” I said, “don’t despair. The state will help you some.”

“How?” he said.

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

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

“There you go again,” I said. “You aren’t acting professionally at all.”

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

I just shook my head sadly, but he had brightened.

“I’m going to write my representatives and senator,” he said. “I’ll use the school analogy; surely they will see the point.” He walked off with that look of hope mixed with fear and suppressed anger that I see in the mirror so often lately.

There’s is some really beautiful advice being shared

over at Ask Moxie under the Moxie Manifesto post. If you are a mom or dad, or want to someday be a mom or dad, or hell, if you ever had a mom or dad and want to share or learn from what people are so kindly posting, here’s the link. Godspeed.

U.S. gov blocking some soldier web communications

  

I wonder what the motive behind the block is? *eyes rolling so far back in my head I think they might be stuck*

Angry Beaver

This is me:

Forget the Bitch in the House, I am the Vagina Dentata.     

I am angry. I am angry. I am angry.

I am angry that the vast majority of women in our world are abused, systematically oppressed and/or marginalized, instead of valued for their countless strengths and contributions.

I am angry that rape is a commonly used and commonly ignored war tactic against women and children.

I am angry that a man gets the pleasure of a fair day’s pay for a fair day’s work, and at the end of it, he is expected to relax while “a woman’s work is never done” or fairly compensated.

I am angry that choosing to have a child means that I become unemployable rather than given alternative work options while I birth and nurture a new life and a new citizen.

I am angry that our society collectively rolls its eyes at its “mommies”, ignores our contributions and strips away our identity as people with trite labels.

I am angry that the only power a woman is allowed to have in the eyes of men, and many women for that matter, is sexual or else it treated as an overt threat and dealt with accordingly.

I am angry that I am afraid to have a daughter because the cultures of the world are so openly hostile to women.

Good thing I had a son, huh? Heh. Now I have to make sure my anger doesn’t make him feel like he needs to apologize simply for being male. I know what it feels like to grow up feeling like you have to apologize for existing, just for taking up space and air. So I started today by taking down my dishtowels that say “Men are like linoleum. Lay them right and you can walk on them for 20 years.” I know, I know, they are so hostile, but funny as hell. Of course Bean can’t read, it’s just a vibe that will cease to be amusing real quick if he ever asks me what it means. I don’t want to teach him that mommy hates men. It’s not true (well, not entirely, anyway) but to a kid, that is how it could seem if I don’t soon parse the words in my personal feminist lexicon.

I will be teaching him to open doors for women, to pull out chairs, and to offer a hand to women exiting cars or carrying packages, and to pay for everything on dates. Of course women can open their own fucking doors and pull out their own chairs and manage and pay for their own shizz, so why will I teach him to do that? Because the women who fought against those pleasantries got it all wrong. It’s not that we can’t do those things, ala the weaker sex (we accomplish magnificent feats of time, energy and money as a matter of course). It is because as a male, he will never fully comprehend the suffering of the women of the world, or even of the women in his life, so those gestures are small ways to show respect and gratitude. It’s not equal pay for equal work, but it’s something.

I am looking forward to watching him become a conscious man. Before you think that I am going to be homeschooling him in women’s studies or intentionally emasculating (what does that word really mean, anyway? I know the definition, but why does that word exist?) him in any way, simmer down. My only goals in raising the Bean are for him to feel loved, to know that he is good, and to treat others well. If I can do all that, I will feel successful. If I can teach him to live in a way that is decent and free, maybe I will stop being so angry.

Naah. I’ll prolly still be pissed off. But I will be happy with him.