Identity, Living, motherhood, parenting

Pop IS a Weasel

Whatever our proclivities in music, whether we like it or not, pop music is infectious. It’s catchy, has a funky beat to it, and makes us want to move our bodies – most of the time. Pop is, after all, an abbreviated form of popular.

I, however, shunned this mainstream music sometime around tenth grade, when Kurt Cobain and Eddie Vedder burst on the scene with their unapologetically noisy and angsty music. Bubble gum and lip gloss and boyfriends? Ugh. Gritty guitar and grunge and pissed-off people? Yes!

I scoffed at the perfectly polished, canned rhythms and the lifestyle it seemed to eschew. I slapped a bumper sticker for the local ‘modern rock’ radio station on my car and changed the channel for, oh, about 25 years.

And then my children discovered how the controls on the radio worked. They discovered the bouncy, syncopated beats. They called out from their belted backseat bastions for the bastions of popular culture.

NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Who me?

It was only a matter of time, really. I remember belting out every single word to Laura Branigan’s “Gloria” as a kindergartener. They only want what feels good and sounds good, with none of the prejudicies of high art vs. low, sophistication vs. simplicity.

However, it is in ~~being forced to~~ listening to these songs and music that I’ve made an important cultural discovery. There’s a whole lot of people walking around completely clueless of their personal worth.

Listen to One Direction’s “What Makes You Beautiful” (I’d post the link but that totally crosses the line of my personal philosophy. Sorry – you’ll have to find it on your own). “You’re insecure” is the first line of the song. You don’t know you’re beautiful? Looking at the ground when someone looks at her? The entire song is these young men pointing out to the female subject that everything about her is what makes her beautiful.

Bruno Mars’ “Treasure”: a song worth it just for his Jackson 5/Early Michael Jackson-esque singing, but that also has a theme of not knowing one’s worth. Despite being wonderful and flawless, the subject “walk[s] around here like you wanna be someone else”. He tells her, “you should be smiling. A girl like you should never look so blue.”

So what is it about our society that we need pop artists to tell us we should be content with who we are; that we should be happy? What is so lacking that even the airwaves rush in to fill the void?

To me, it’s a disturbing trend. Someone, something has failed in our current system of being if there is a trend like this among music. I’m not saying it’s bad to build people up; I’m wondering why there are so many walking around already beaten down.

Were we not loved as children? Were we not told of our innate worth through hugs and hand-holding and ‘I love you’s? Have we suffered a spiritual crisis that has let us forget that we are ‘fearfully and wonderfully made’? As a special deacon used to tell me, “God made me and He don’t make no junk.” We all have our worth. We are all someone’s treasure – even if no one else’s on earth, at least our own, and certainly to God. Our very existence is enough to make us beautiful.

Looking closely at these songs has also tipped me off to one other disturbing nuance: the fact that, in both songs, males are telling females their worth. As a woman and mother of three girls, it scares me that the lyrics could be construed as a lesson to value oneself through the lens of male approval. There is something very special about finding a partner who will value you and point out beneficial qualities you may have missed in yourself. But to look solely to an outside – especially sexual – source for self-worth is dangerous. The fact that pop music is so infectious and seemingly feel-good could slide such messages right under the radar without young people even realizing their transmission.

And here I was scared that my kids liked pop over some other style of music. It runs much deeper than that. Now I really have a reason to go listen to angsty music. But, if I haven’t ruined the carefree nature of pop music, I could go listen to that for a pick-me-up. Whatever it is, we all have to move our feet in time to the rhythm and pick each other up if we fall.

* Disclaimer: I must acknowledge that my grunge/alternative music is not so uplifting and self-affirming either. It was born, in fact, of a self-loathing and misery. And among its measures are certainly misogynistic ideas and mistreatment. But pop certainly presents its off-color ideas in a much more appealing package. Plus, ‘modern rock’ is not in heavy rotation like Top 40.

** Weasel image from nursery-rhymes.org

Children, Identity, motherhood

Skating Away . . .

Putting a woman who has given birth three times, the last time nearly splitting her in two, on roller skates probably isn’t the best idea. But that’s what I did this past weekend at my friend’s daughter’s birthday party.

My eight year-old was fine once she remembered what she’d tentatively learned at other parties, but my four and six year-olds needed assistance and my there was no way my husband was getting out there. The last time he skated was the ice variety and let’s say the ice nearly melted from the heat of pain-induced oaths he uttered. Plus, I enjoy skating. I loved it as a girl, forcing the wheels over the pebbly asphalt of my street, gliding along the multi-layered laquer of roller rinks. There was a freedom and euphoria in the way the wind pushed my hair back and the music thumped as I floated along. I thought I was the cat’s pajamas when I mastered cross-overs.

But that was when I was young and nimble; limber and loose.

The other day I used muscles I hadn’t used since childbirth – or at least since the physical therapy following childbirth to put me back together. Keeping my feet from drifting too far apart, I had to pull those adductor muscles to attention and, oh, that got my attention. I managed to haul my foot over for one cross-over before I felt the other one start to slide out. The thought of my pelvis in the aftermath if I ended up in a split on the floor was enough to dissuade me from trying any more. My groin muscles were already pulling; I didn’t want to strain any of their neighbors.

But, when one of my girls took a break, or refused to take my hand, I would speed up, feeling the familiar rush of air. My godson, brother of the birthday girl, took a shine to the disco ball at the center of the rink and kept gravitating toward it whether he had skates on or not. When his father went out to be sure he stayed in the center, out of the melee of circling skaters, an impromptu dance party popped up. His brother and sister, my girls, and husband sans skates, joined us and grooved to Daft Punk disco-style. It still had the same effect as my favorite Michael Jackson song way back when. skates

I don’t know if it’s the act of skating itself or the associations it engenders, but it’s a whole lot of fun. There’s no way I could last as long as I used to when I could feel myself rolling around the rink even after I’d taken off my skates. And I’m sure my body wouldn’t forgive me either if I tried. But as the birthday girl asked me as she rolled by, “How’s your skating going? Is it going good?”, I can say, “Yes, yes it is.”

Identity, Legacy, motherhood

How Did They (Do We) Do It?

I often wonder how mothers of our mothers did it. In the age of keeping up appearances and, in the generation before that, of simply surviving.

There were no therapists, no LICSWs, no yoga retreats and meditation circles. There was no opportunity for a facial and hot stone massage. There was no medication to make the pain go away – except for those self-prescribed.

There was alcohol sipped in secret. There was valium – and laudanum in the early days. There might be lashing out at the children when the husband or society did the same to them. Catholics might find solace in confession – if the guilt of their perceived shortcomings and ungrateful attitude didn’t keep them away.

I wonder how many women thought they were flawed because they didn’t love the life handed to them. That they were failures because they didn’t find rearing children and keeping house easy.

But that’s not even the point.

Mothers today still flounder with the many resources available to them.

How the hell did women of previous generations keep it together?

Was it the lack of a pervasive media that kept us from hearing about children murdered by their own mother’s hand? Did bubbling anger dissipate through more readily accepted floggings? Were extended family and neighbors more readily available and willing to step in and pick up slack?

Did women suffer in silence?

I wonder how many women devolved into mental illness from the stress of responsibility, relentless duty, stifled desires. I wonder how many Academy Award worthy actresses were forged in the face of an uninterested audience.

And what do we do for them now? How do we celebrate the uncelebrated?

By feeling guilty as hell that we don’t like this comparatively golden portion we’ve been dealt?

Or by saturating the dry earth of hopelessness with resources for women struggling with themselves, with motherhood, with life?

Part of me yearns for the ironclad persona of the women and mothers of my thrice-removed family. But another more unwilling part realizes that armor came at a merciless price. Not only are these women I cannot question because of space and time, but because they would never answer. Perhaps one small admittance would open the chink that would crumble the entire suit. They would never take that chance. Nor would society let them. They did what they had to because there was no other choice. Their own mothers had it hard and so, then, would they.

I wonder if in this age of modern convenience we have too much time on our hands to ponder our existence. However, I’d like to think, even amidst the stirring of lye and slaying of chickens, our female forebears wondered the same things. They probably wouldn’t have lived so fiercely if they hadn’t.

How do we live fiercely in their honor while fighting for what we all need?

anxiety, Identity, motherhood

Desperate Measures

My feet sweat in my sneakers.

image from Marie Claire

My t-shirt pulled under my arms.

My hair rubbed at my neck.

I tucked, pulled, squished, shrugged.

I could not get comfortable.

I wanted to rent my garments from my body and my hair from its roots.

I burned out the last of the caffeine scrubbing in the shower and fidgeted into bed with a foggy plan forming.

I dropped my last daughter off at preschool after a harried rush to the others’ bus stop.

And waited in line with the other little old ladies in front of the walk-in salon.

I chopped my hair.

I spent the remainder of the morning scouring sale racks for totally new togs.

I squandered the entire morning, returning to the preschool just in time for their singing debut in front of the senior luncheon.

The teachers, the secretary, my neighbors – all did double takes.

How brave you are, they said.

How different you look, they said.

How great it looks, they exclaimed.

I felt like it was an act of desperation. The only grip on unpredictability I can grasp right now. To leave as one thing and come back as another. To blow off all responsibilities and should-dos for one morning in exchange for a few no-need-fors.

My daughter didn’t flinch.

It looks beautiful, Mommy, she said.

I don’t know if that spells success or failure for my desperate mission.

Identity, Living, motherhood, parenting

Contemplative Meandering

It is 8:52 AM and I am alone in my house. I rush in with the usual sense of urgency, keys jangling, purse pulling on my arm, slouching the jacket off my shoulders and – what?

The light in the living room still has that early morning hush, shadows mixed with brilliant swathes of light. But it’s not just the light that’s hushed. The house is actually quiet. No talk radio emanating from the alarm clock radio my husband usually leaves on. No little voice accompanied by the thud of rubber-soled shoes in the middle of the floor.

The silence is deafening.

For the first time in, I don’t know, forever, I have two hours and 57 minutes to myself.

I could hand wash those clothes I’ve left languishing. I could peel the shower curtain liner from its moldy seal on the bathtub and scrub it. I could transfer summer to fall in my daughter’s clothes drawers without interruption.

Yes, those would all be worthy endeavors. Useful. Productive. Jobs easier done without little people becking and calling.

But for the first time I am alone in my house for longer than five minutes, is that what I should do with my time? It might be what I want to do, or feel I should do from some deep-seated guilt (Where does that come from anyway? Heloise’s shadow people?), but I know it’s not what I need to do. I need to decompress, to learn how to shut off these urgings when I actually do have time to myself. It’s such a foreign concept, my mind and soul freeze up at the suggestion.

And while I do write even on days my lovelies are around, it’s always with one ear to the ground. And one hand in the snack bin doling out goodies. And half my attention elsewhere. Either that, or I’m writing in such a small window that it is with a laser-like focus, barring out the kind of contemplative meanderings that we all need to do now and again.

So I’m contemplatively meandering.

That is a damn good goal in and of itself. That could sum up an entire bucket list in two succinct words.

But aside from writing, I do not know how to do that. I can feel the needle and thread pulling my hands. I hear the chipmunk squeaking in the woodpile. Even the mold growing and multiplying.

I may not achieve the ultimate level of transcendence today, but there is the desire. That is worth something, right?

Children, Identity, motherhood, parenting

On Her Way

My daughter has reached the age at which I formed a consciousness.

We all have snippets of early childhood, maybe even earlier; bits and pieces of memory. Sitting on grandfather’s lap to create a painting. Banging on the ledge above the backseat because you couldn’t sit quietly in mass. How much is real memory, spotty because of time elapsed, and how much is fabricated from photographs and family story? And when does the real narrative begin?

I remember all of third grade.

I remember playing at friends’ houses, sleepovers, sitting under a desk goofing with a classmate. That is the year I think of as starting true friendships and forming my own separate identity (though I didn’t know it at the time). That is the year my eldest daughter has just begun.

Four days into school and she asked for her first ‘play date’, though I’m sure that term has fallen out of fashion with her set. She and her friend had already arranged it on their bus ride home one afternoon; it was just up to the adults to assent once they’d filled us in. She’d had her first sleepover at this girl’s house last year (her one and only thus far save relatives’ houses and no – I wasn’t ready for that), played there once this summer, and gone to the beach with her once. This was the friend’s first time at our home.

I later realized that I adopted the always-appreciated (on my part) mode of parental supervision my mother employed whenever I had friends over growing up. There, but not. Seen, but not noticed. Moving through, not hovering. Accessible, but not in your face. My mom always joined the conversation when drawn in – and usually made some fun comment – but never horned in. She always made sure we were safe and having fun, but in such a way that made us still feel like we were on our own. Similar to my mode of relating to young children, which I think I also adopted from my mother: let them come to you when they’re comfortable; don’t force yourself on them.

As my daughter and her friend’s conversation floated in from the adjacent room and later the porch window, I heard the exchanges and tenor of my own third grade days; the way kids talk when there are no adults around, the free and easy language and grown-up cadences because they are the big kahunas with no one else around. My daughter introduced her friend to her way of life on her own turf; her likes and dislikes, her favorite activities and special belongings. Her friend got to see how she interacts with her sisters and me and my husband. She welcomed her into her home, her nest, a secret club of sorts – a level of friendship that can’t be reached at school.

A level of friendship that can’t be reached, I don’t think, until this age, this magic number where our little kids morph even more into distinct little beings.

My daughter and her friend played so nicely. They were polite. My daughter didn’t even goad her friend to join her in tormenting her little sisters. But I sense the shift. One more step in her leaving the home, one more layer of my baby shed.

I know – not because I’ve mothered a child this age before, but because I’ve been this age before. I remember it as formative, solid memories in my experience.

She’s on her way.

Identity, Living, Mental Health

Don’t Tell Me the Color of My Kettle

If we all had a blog,

If we all were totally honest with ourselves,

we’d see that we’re all fucked up.

If we all thought too much like I do

we’d all find things wrong with ourselves

foibles

traumas

quirks

ticks

conditions

disorders

addictions

manias

shortcomings

holes

voids

Desire = lack = psychological need

Anger = displacement = unresolved issue

Bravado = shield = vulnerability

Depression = apathy = absence of joy

The reasons are endless,

The outcomes innumerable,

If we enact a thorough examination of psyche.

anxiety, Identity

Back to Nightmares

I taught for seven years seven years ago.

I still have back-to-school nightmares.

It’s the first day of school. My new charges have entered the room, sitting wherever they want, class begins and they won’t stop talking. I try all the little tricks in my arsenal. Waiting silently in the front of the room, a glaring sentinel. Looking at the clock. Greeting them in my let’s-get-to-business tone. Finally resorting to screaming at the top of my lungs while the party continues and I go red in the face.

What kind of year will this be if I can’t make them quiet down in the first minutes?

Now, I have this dream randomly whenever I’m experiencing a stressful time or approaching any event or new beginning with anxiety. Seven years out and this is still my psyche’s go-to when it needs an exemplar of anxiety.

Last night, though, it changed. I’m sure I had some flavor of the back-to-school dream because I’m anticipating my daughters’ return to school next week (any nerves they might have with the unknown of a new year and my own worries about the onslaught of morning rushes, homework duty, adhering to schedules). And the start of my baby’s preschool, which I suddenly was wracked with guilt for last night (i.e. Shouldn’t I just keep her home with me?). But it was different. Decidedly so.

I’d gone to a school event with a colleague with whom I still keep in touch regularly. Groups of kids ranged around a large space, seated at tables with staff interspersed. They seemed to be grouped by their team designations. The main event was food. It was some sort of eating contest, as in who could eat the fastest or the most or something like that. I bounced from table to table with no real spot to land. At one point, I found myself in front of a turkey dinner, but quickly abandoned that when I found not one, but four consecutive strands of hair in it. I asked if I got extra points for eating the hair. Yes, this is the point at which I got increasingly snarky.

My former colleagues kibitzed together or mixed with their students in a way I could not as I no longer belonged to that club. I didn’t know the students; I didn’t know the ins and outs of their day or of the school building at large. I was no longer privy to the culture of the school and tenor of its staff.

I ended up extremely cranky and ornery, off to the side by myself under a tree. Yes, the setting had morphed outside. And the game had changed. Apparently now it was some sort of role-playing game. And I got to watch as my husband mock-proposed to another woman.

My psyche just threw me under the bus! It went for the insecure jugular of losing connections, people I care for and who care for me. My close ties. My sense of belonging and acceptance.

It was no mistake that my subconscious served up this dream on the eve of another school year. As my career and profession, teaching was (and still is) a large part of my identity. At a time when structure is supposed to ramp up, I float listless. Yes, mothering is a vocation. But my charges are headed off to something other than them and me while I sit at home.

I need to find something new on the menu – other than hairy turkey dinner.

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Children, Identity, parenting

Pierced by a Princess

I was so excited when I saw the commercial. It drew me in. I was enthralled. It turned the idea of a princess on its head. Girls were galloping on horses – in britches, not flowing gowns. They were shooting arrows. Swimming laps. They were real.

They weren’t prissy. They weren’t waiting for a handsome male to save them. They weren’t sitting in repose filing their nails or coifing their hair. They weren’t doing the stereotypical things that mainstream media deems as femininely appropriate.

In other words, they weren’t filling the mold cast by Disney and its multi-million dollar princess industry. The commercial flew in the face of all that Disney defines as princess. And I was tickled pink. Finally, another voice in the conversation of young female identity. I was psyched that my daughters were being bombarded with this media message, albeit a small bullet amidst the other bombs.

Then I realized the smooth transitions between live shots of the young female archer and clips of Merida plucking her bow; a snippet of the young woman’s dialogue stitched up with the princess’ Scottish brogue. A sharp arrow pierced my heart.

There was no way Disney would loan their highly lucrative Brave empire to a media campaign designed to encourage girls to courageous authenticity. To eschew animated perfection. To forgo licensed merchandise for practical attire and tools.

Wherever there’s a princess, Disney isn’t far behind.

They know there are people like me – women, mothers, fathers, grandfathers – who abhor the exploitation of young girls into this gateway of unrealistic expectations of beauty, behavior, being. They exploited that need in me for another option for girls.

And while this commercial is, in many ways, the antithesis of the whole royal empire they’ve created, if such a message comes from them, they’ll seem sympathetic. They understand. They aren’t the evil mongerers of petticoats and pink. They want girls to achieve their full potential even if that means they’ll muddy their knees on the soccer field and go to university for engineering. Oh, they support the young females of the world in whatever they may do. And if they happen to find inspiration in the snippets of computer-generated heroines seamlessly interspersed with real girls, there’s merchandise for that. There are DVDs these young ladies can watch for further inspiration. Movie premieres and theme parks they can visit dressed in appropriate thematic garb for research and encouragement.

Well done, Disney. You almost had me. Which means you most likely hooked every girl in America and beyond that you hadn’t yet.

It’s a brave new world indeed.

* Related article: Great read on Brave’s creator’s misgivings on Disney’s treatment

Identity, Writing

Three Liebs to the Sun

When you write about depressing stuff most of the time it’s hard to fathom anyone accusing you of doing a service to humankind. But two fellow bloggers have not only done that, but awarded me for it!

Shannon from Mommy Has Issues has gifted me with a Liebster Award. Count ’em – 1, 2, 3! Thank you so much.

Cate at Infinite Sadness . . . or Hope? nominated me for another Sunshine Award. I know at times I’m one hot mess like the sun, but didn’t know I had that much light to spread! Thank you kindly.

Both of these writers obliterate the idea of perfection before it can even get its feet under it. Bravo! Shannon does so for motherhood. Cate does so for mental health. And both do it smashingly for surviving this wild ride known as life.

As I’m a repeat offender with these awards, I will complete only the ‘interview’ portion of the process.

Inquiries from Mommy Has Issues:

If I could haunt someone who would it be and why? I can think of someone I’d love to torment, but I really don’t like this person and don’t think I’d want to spend so much of my afterlife with her!
If I could go back in time, what era would I visit? The 50s for sure. I would follow Jack Kerouac around like a little lost puppy dog.
What 3 things would you take on a deserted island (excluding husband and children)? A stack of books (yes, that counts as ONE of the things and yes, I’m cheating), a Swiss Army knife, and I know I should say a honking bottle of water, but probably some sort of chocolate/peanut butter combination. (By the way, I’m glad husband and children were excluded so it doesn’t look bad when I leave them out)
What is my favorite color? Purple. And it warms my cockles that my kindergartner has chosen this for hers as well.
Wine or beer? I have to choose? That really is unfair. Depends on what I’m eating. Salty = beer. Robust = red wine. Cheese/seafood = white. Just call me the Michelangelo of imbibing.
If I were to write a memoir, what title would I give it? In the spirit of a second-grader, I can’t tell you for fear you’ll steal it. It’s in the works.
If I were a Superhero, what power would I have? Definitely flying.
If I could ask my future self one question, what would it be? Tempting. But you know what? In surprise to myself and probably all of you reading, nothing. I’m gonna see where it takes me. Wow. Did I just have a moment?
Do I want to go where everyone knows my name? Is this a trick question? I grew up about 60 miles from where Cheers took place. We still all yell if we meet someone named Norm. But me – no, I prefer anonymity – unless of course you know a solicitous editor.
Do I like birds? Heck, yes. Want to be one. Any one – EXCEPT mockingbirds. Me and mockingbirds, we don’t play well together.
Who is my guilty pleasure music artist? I can hear my friend, Chris, laughing at me right now. The Black Eyed Peas. So out of my realm. But it’s got a funky beat and I can dance to it 😉 (And Shannon, NIN and Nirvana are not guilty pleasures!)

Many thanks, Mommy, for your nomination! I am honored. I love reading your posts of truth and triumph – and often, hilarity!

Questions from Cate:

Favorite color: purple
Favorite animal: Red-breasted robin
Favorite number: Three. I know, ironic, right?
Favorite non-alcoholic drink: green tea with pomegranate juice and seltzer. Makes me feel fancy.
Favorite alcoholic drink: Again, with the choosing. Right now, some sort of ale.
Facebook or Twitter: Facebook.
My passions: obsessing – ha. Writing. Reading. Enjoying nature. Searching. Photography. Creative endeavors (vague, I know. Think where home decor, collage, scrapbooking . . . intersect).
Giving or Receiving Gifts: Giving. Though free stuff is always good.

Cate, I have so enjoyed reading your thoughtful and thought-provoking writing on your blog. Thank you for doing it and thank you for sharing. And thanks for thinking of me . . . 🙂

The blogosphere is often a lot more hospitable than the actual one in which we live. Thanks to Shannon and Cate for making it so!

Chopping Potatoes

and other metaphors for motherhood

Category Archives: Identity