Another post that won't make me popular, yet that I feel compelled to write. I can't keep my mouth shut. It's a thing. Okay - here goes.
I'm all for some gentle parenting, wherever possible. I'm all for loving and nurturing and raising small people through the least violent means possible. I am. I AM! But sometimes, when I read attachment parenting-esque articles and blogs, I feel.... what is it I feel? Oh yeah - I feel some rage. Yup. I get rage-y. Mostly I try to avoid them. But it's like reading the comments after a particularly good online article - you *know* you probably shouldn't but you do anyways. And then, yup, a little bit of rage.
It's not, for the most part, that I have a problem with what attachment parenting is. I wore a sling with my babes, I snuggled and let them sleep with me, I refused cry-it-out sleep training, and I breast fed. I don't believe in corporal punishment. I try not to yell - though often fail at this attempt. I talk to the kids about feelings and how important it is to use our words to express how we feel (even when they feel like their mama is being an arse). I don't have a problem with sharing parenting techniques and tricks. I don't have a problem with reading up to better myself as a parent and as a person. But I do have a problem with the over-zealousness with which some parenting writers express their thoughts. I *do* have a problem with the idea that parents must live only for their children. (I recently stumbled upon a blog titled something like "Does sudden change negatively impact your kids?" I didn't read it. The answer is, of course it does. We all have a hard time with sudden life shifts. That shit is hard. Does that mean we must avoid sudden change at all costs so as not to ruin our littles? Sometimes - this stuff is unavoidable. Sometimes, life throws us right round the bend. Sometimes, it blows, for grown-ups and for kids. And sometimes, the things we'd like to avoid (for ourselves and for our small fry) are unavoidable.) I probably should actually read the blog. It's probably great. But I couldn't bring myself to get past the title. (Which is my bad...)
I also have a problem with judge-y.
My recent foray into the world of attachment-y writing was by Dr. Laura Markham. She has a site on parenting, for those who are not similarly affected by such writing, and who'd like to read more. And the article I glanced at was titled: What's Wrong with Timeouts?. What indeed? The article described how time-outs are punishment, make our children "feel worse about [themselves]", create worse behaviours, and trigger their abandonment issues. Time-outs are, according to this author, akin to forcing a child to stand in a corner. "You confirm what she suspected -- she is a bad person. Not only does this lower self esteem, it creates bad behavior, because people who feel bad about themselves behave badly." So, parents who use time-outs - you are assholes. Markham refers to time-outs as a "destructive" practice that will trigger "your child's abandonment panic". Sweet baby jesus. It's true - you *are* an asshole. You really, really are. Time to start saving up for therapy now.
Markham also treats parents who use time-outs as basically akin to corporal punishment, and intimates that parents who use both practices are kinda, well, stupid: "Parents who use timeouts are often shocked to learn that there are families who never hit, never use timeouts, and rarely raise their voices to their children. But you shouldn’t need to use these methods of discipline, and if you're using them now, you'll probably be quite relieved to hear that you can wean yourself away from them."
Mkay. I don't hit my kids. Okay - that isn't entirely true. Once, after being really beat up by one of my kids during a particularly lengthy and bad episode (I won't even call it a tantrum because it was much, much more serious than that word implies), after being repeatedly slapped in the face (amoung other places), I swatted my kid on the ass. It was enough to shock them out of the three hour long episode. I felt horrible. I cried. We cried together. And then we held each other and both fell asleep from the exhaustion of the afternoon. When we woke up, we talked about it. I apologized and told my child that I fucked up. We tried to debrief what was going on for my child. In short, we did the best we could.
And I *do* use time-outs. They are for everyone's health and safety. My kids both know the bottom-line rules in our house. And if there is violence - throwing objects or physical violence - a time-out is what occurs. Perhaps this results in abandonment anxiety. Perhaps I am, in fact, leading my children to a path of ruination. (Though this may be for all kinds of reasons beyond my use of time-outs). Time-outs (which we call chill-outs) enable us all to remove from a given situation and breathe. Then, a few minutes later, we regroup and talk about it. When we are *all* much calmer. If this is a practice of violent parenting - then so be it.
Another article on the same website similarly pissed me off, with Markham pronouncing that the only healthy way to get kids to behave well is to make them want to please their parents. Now, on the one hand, I agree. I'd like my kids to do things because those are the expectations of citizens of this household, not because they fear punishment or because they are bribed to do so. But something in this is kind of gross and creepy, too. Markham posits that once we change the attitudes of our smalls, they will suddenly become type A smalls - you know - the ones with good grades and loads of friends: "Eventually, of course, kids reap the rewards of good behavior – good grades, self-esteem, approval from peers – and it begins to come naturally. It becomes part of their self image, and they automatically act to preserve that self-image. But this positive way of being always starts with their desire to please us."
Now I'm creeped out by this. I'm creeped out because first of all, good grades and approval from peers does not a healthy child make. Many, many kids struggle with school and struggle socially. This doesn't make them mal-adjusted. Moreover, while I want my kids to generally do what I ask of them, I do *not* want to train them to act out of a desire to please. Me, or anyone else. I want to teach them to act with their hearts, in the best way they can. I want them to be true to themselves, not people-pleasers. Of course, my role as a parent is to teach them appropriate behaviours, in the best and most positive ways I can. Of course it is. But I also want them to disagree with me. I want them to be able to tell me, or any other grown-up, that their ideas are bunk if that's how they feel. I want them to be able to be people, with feelings and ideas. And I'm down with that. My kidlets call me on shit sometimes. And fair enough. Sometimes, I just might be a jackass.
The point I'm trying to make here, is that I think we've all gone a little over the top in trying to keep our small people from the hurts of the world. Sometimes, we have to make sudden changes. It's hard. And we'll all come back from it as best we can. Sometimes, we need to separate ourselves and our kids from a heated situation. They might feel shitty about that. True. But sometimes, when you are dealing with intense situations and intense kidlets and intense parents - it's the lesser of all evils.
How about a parenting article that says this: Do the best you can. Love your little people. Respect them. Teach them love and respect. Use all the tools at your disposal. Talk to them. Hear their words if your expect them to hear yours.
I'd be able to hear that a whole lot better than: HEY YOU! YES, YOU! You're an idiot parent who's gonna sentence your children to a lifetime of abandonment complex and therapy. (Because you know what? Attachment parents or not, we're all likely sentencing our kids to a lifetime of therapy. Because we're people dealing with our own effed up shit while trying our best to parent. Which is a hard gig, as I am overly fond of pointing out.)
So parents - I say this. Keep on keeping on. Try your best to be loving and gentle. And when you fuck up, say you're sorry. Ask for help when you need to. Sometimes you *will* need to. And tell your kids that you love them. Often. Try to remember to tell them everyday.
And beyond that - do the best you can with what you've got.
The end.
Tuesday, April 30, 2013
Monday, April 29, 2013
whewf - the girl's getting old
The day of my birth x 38 is fast approaching. I can own it. I'm turning 38. Thirty-eight. I don't have a problem with aging, per se, which is probably good because I don't seem to have a choice in the matter. Those numbers keep on getting bigger, whether I like it or not.
I mean, there are the attendant anxieties about being an aging femme. I have a shit-ton to say about this but it is probably best left for another day. The femme-i-liscious Amber Hollibough has written some fine work on this subject, if you feel like reading about it in the meantime. For now, suffice it to say that I spend more money than I should on anti-wrinkle creams that I know probably do nothing but ameliorate my anxieties somewhat.
The part of aging that is the hardest is the whole 'where I am of it', of course. And where *am* I, exactly? Well, let's see. I own nothing. Actually, that's not true. I own a car. Which keeps breaking. I have no job. (And, after having spent many years as a stay-at-home mama, I'm fairly unemployable in a way that actually uses my previous rad work experience and actual skills). I'm a graduate student who is the same age (or older?) than many of the professors around me. This bit is weird. It's weird because it makes me constantly feel like an under-achiever. And infant trying to hang with the grown-ups. Big-time. I know it's silly. It isn't like I've been doing nothing all these past years. But the things I've been busy with are not the things that build a resume. They aren't the sort of things that generally get recognized as important. Or look good on a SSHRC application. So - I *do* rather emphatically feel funny (read: yucky) about being what I jokingly (read: not so jokingly) refer to as being the worlds' oldest graduate student.
I'm not, of course, where I thought I'd be at the age of thirty-eight. I'm not actually sure I ever thought I'd *be* as old as 38. I fancied, when I was younger, that I'd be a writer or a professor. Or you know, just generally employed. I'd be partnered (of course - 'cause that's just what grown-ups do, right?). I'd have a home. I'd be *someone*. But I'm quite certain my imaginings didn't involve pushing forty and single. Jobless. Still a student. Owning nothing. Flat fucking capital B Broke. I'm not destitute, by any frame of imagination, but certainly not what the world tends to define as "successful" either.
Of course I've done all kinds of things in my life that I am immensely proud of. I am raising these amazing little people. They are amazing. Really. Beautiful small beings with enormous hearts. Smart-as-whips. And total wee bad-asses. And I am trying my damndest to raise them in a way to shows them all the hard in the world without letting that hard squash them. It's a delicate balance and not easy. Kid-wrangling and raising is without a doubt the most difficult thing I have ever, and likely will ever, do. I know it is no small feat, even if the world would tell me otherwise. And I hang onto that. I've done some pretty great community work in my time, and some half-decent research. With an eye to more half-decent research and community work...
But in a bigger (and maybe more important) sense, I've also adventured and loved and learned and taken all kinds of risks. I'm fucking bold-assed brave. It's true. I really am. I've fucked up and learned. A whole bunch. I've worked on myself. A lot. I've tried to take great care of the people that I love. I've tried to learn to love better. To make myself stronger. I've tried to grow. I love who I am now, at nearly 38 much more than I did at 18 or 28, or even at this same time last year. I know my heart (and between you, me and the lamppost, she's prettyfreaking beautiful). Beyond that - I have absolutely nothing figured out. Nada. Zilch. Zip. I think I kinda like it that way. That's part of the fun of it. If I had it all figured out and settled, I'd likely be horrendously bored. And I don't exactly do bored well. More than this, I'm not sure having it all figured out is actually the point.
As Ferron would say (well, sing actually) I'm a girl on a road. (And if you don't know who Ferron is, then it's safe to guess you weren't raised by lesbians in the 80s and 90s).
So 38, hiya. It'll be nice to make your acquaintance soon.
Let's see what we can do together...
I mean, there are the attendant anxieties about being an aging femme. I have a shit-ton to say about this but it is probably best left for another day. The femme-i-liscious Amber Hollibough has written some fine work on this subject, if you feel like reading about it in the meantime. For now, suffice it to say that I spend more money than I should on anti-wrinkle creams that I know probably do nothing but ameliorate my anxieties somewhat.
The part of aging that is the hardest is the whole 'where I am of it', of course. And where *am* I, exactly? Well, let's see. I own nothing. Actually, that's not true. I own a car. Which keeps breaking. I have no job. (And, after having spent many years as a stay-at-home mama, I'm fairly unemployable in a way that actually uses my previous rad work experience and actual skills). I'm a graduate student who is the same age (or older?) than many of the professors around me. This bit is weird. It's weird because it makes me constantly feel like an under-achiever. And infant trying to hang with the grown-ups. Big-time. I know it's silly. It isn't like I've been doing nothing all these past years. But the things I've been busy with are not the things that build a resume. They aren't the sort of things that generally get recognized as important. Or look good on a SSHRC application. So - I *do* rather emphatically feel funny (read: yucky) about being what I jokingly (read: not so jokingly) refer to as being the worlds' oldest graduate student.
I'm not, of course, where I thought I'd be at the age of thirty-eight. I'm not actually sure I ever thought I'd *be* as old as 38. I fancied, when I was younger, that I'd be a writer or a professor. Or you know, just generally employed. I'd be partnered (of course - 'cause that's just what grown-ups do, right?). I'd have a home. I'd be *someone*. But I'm quite certain my imaginings didn't involve pushing forty and single. Jobless. Still a student. Owning nothing. Flat fucking capital B Broke. I'm not destitute, by any frame of imagination, but certainly not what the world tends to define as "successful" either.
Of course I've done all kinds of things in my life that I am immensely proud of. I am raising these amazing little people. They are amazing. Really. Beautiful small beings with enormous hearts. Smart-as-whips. And total wee bad-asses. And I am trying my damndest to raise them in a way to shows them all the hard in the world without letting that hard squash them. It's a delicate balance and not easy. Kid-wrangling and raising is without a doubt the most difficult thing I have ever, and likely will ever, do. I know it is no small feat, even if the world would tell me otherwise. And I hang onto that. I've done some pretty great community work in my time, and some half-decent research. With an eye to more half-decent research and community work...
But in a bigger (and maybe more important) sense, I've also adventured and loved and learned and taken all kinds of risks. I'm fucking bold-assed brave. It's true. I really am. I've fucked up and learned. A whole bunch. I've worked on myself. A lot. I've tried to take great care of the people that I love. I've tried to learn to love better. To make myself stronger. I've tried to grow. I love who I am now, at nearly 38 much more than I did at 18 or 28, or even at this same time last year. I know my heart (and between you, me and the lamppost, she's prettyfreaking beautiful). Beyond that - I have absolutely nothing figured out. Nada. Zilch. Zip. I think I kinda like it that way. That's part of the fun of it. If I had it all figured out and settled, I'd likely be horrendously bored. And I don't exactly do bored well. More than this, I'm not sure having it all figured out is actually the point.
As Ferron would say (well, sing actually) I'm a girl on a road. (And if you don't know who Ferron is, then it's safe to guess you weren't raised by lesbians in the 80s and 90s).
So 38, hiya. It'll be nice to make your acquaintance soon.
Let's see what we can do together...
Saturday, April 27, 2013
parenting challenging babes - a note or two...
I've read loads of little article-type thingys of late (no really, they are popping up everywhere) on things you should know about parents of kids with special needs. I say thingys, because they are mostly trite and annoying and on the saccharine side. (They just **love** their kids so much more, they are so selfless and attentive and self-denying and super-hero-y, blahdy blahdy blah). Now, I'm sure that many parents of tots with high needs are, in fact, super hero-y. I am not one of them. I"m about as far from a super-hero parent as one could get, I'd imagine. And I don't do saccharine so well. It's mostly irritating, and more than this, I find it disingenuous. And even more than all of those things put together, I find it not helpful.
Parents of kids with more intensive needs than most don't appreciate the love of their kids more than anyone else, but it may be true that they may hear those expressions less than other parents. Parents of special needs kids don't love their kids more than other parents, (or likely any less either, but the article thingys would never suggest such a mercenary thought anyways). And we shouldn't be congratulating any parent (or any person, for that matter) for being self-denying. Self-denial is a one-way trip to crazy-town, and it does neither parents nor kids any good in the long run. (It would be nice, instead of putting parents of tots with high needs on a pedestal, to instead perhaps critique the social structures that require these parents to deny themselves in order to just get by on a daily basis. Not good. And utterly preventable. Just sayin').
Parents of kids with special needs *are* probably more tired, more guilt-ridden, and definitely more isolated than other parents. The tiredness bit - well - obvious, yes? It is also the easiest of the three to deal with. Tiredness we know, can count on, can learn how it contours and shapes our world and our reactions, and then in turn, we do our best to mitigate and counterbalance these things. Sometimes the tired is from lack of sleep, and this will of course differ from person to person, but for me emotional drain is the bigger part of this equation.
Guilt, of course, ties into the emotional drain bit (must bloody everything in the world be cyclical, I ask plaintively?). I feel guilty all of the time. ALL of the time. For not doing enough. For not reacting as well as I could have, should have, want to. For passing on my crap genes full of anxiety - the sad and anxious memories that seem to live in my blood. For writing this down. For sharing it. For fucking up the semblance of stability and normalcy(whatever that means) my bubs had. For following my heart when it makes their world busier, more complicated, wonkier. For not managing to balance the very differing needs of my very different children. For all of it. Now I'm not saying that I'm a crap parent. I am in fact, emphatically *not* a crap parent (though to be sure, I have my days). I am saying that when you have a child, or children, that can really struggle with the world (sometimes or all of the time and for myriad reasons), who feels things more intensely, who reacts to change more intensely, who are - in a nutshell - more intense - the feelings of parental guilt are likewise - more intense. For all kinds of reasons that make all kinds of good sense (even though 'sense' is not a currency we always get to function in from day to day).
But really - it's the isolation that's a killer to deal with. And it comes from a variety of sources.
You feel isolated from other parents (which blows because parents tend to comprise the support network of other parent-folk) because as much as you want to commiserate about their parentings trials and tribulations, you also catch yourself swallowing responses like:
"I'm sorry, but, YOU ACTUALLY CALL THAT A FUCKING TANTRUM?!" Ahem. I have, on occassion, experienced some serious rage induced by another parent saying "Yeah - I totally know what you mean" when I know damn well they don't. Can't. It's nobody's fault (and it's meant in the spirit of commiserating in the 'yeah this shit is hard' way) but there are times when people might as well be saying, "Hey! Red and green are totally the same thing. They're both colours!"
Of course parenting is hard. It's a difficult gig, no matter what. And of course, we *want* to have empathy. But sometimes, when your experiences of parenting are so far apart, it's kind of hard to feel like you have memberships to the same club. Because in some ways, ya don't.
It's also a titch on the difficult side because when other parents don't experience the same intensity of experience as you might, folks tend to think your small person is reacting so, um, strenuously, because you must be doing something wrong. You might be a BP (Yup. A Bad Parent.) This is especially true when your child's challenges may not be as visible or immediately outwardly discernable.
AND enter the advice. Advice like - use time-outs. (Um - should I also padlock the bedroom door? Cause that's the only way that particular tactic would work). OR try earlier bedtime/later bedtime/more exercise/less tv/less sugar, gluten, food colouring/more alone time/more together time/try a firmer hand/be gentler/read non-verbal cues better/try Montessori, Waldorf, meditation, yoga/try drugs/don't try drugs/maybe it's this/maybe it's that..... and so on and so forth. Meant to be helpful. Of course, meant to be helpful. Meant with love and kindness and compassion (and sometimes a little tiny bit of 'I know how to do this better than you' cause we parents like to feel that way sometimes). But ultimately - they might as well be telling me to try standing on my head and bleating like a goat and weaving on a loom. This will be a process. Possibly lifelong. There is no magical 'thing' to do - other than what we are doing - learning what works and what doesn't and doing the best we can. (Though if I thought standing on my head and bleating like a goat while I got busy loom-weavin' would help - I'd give it a whirl).
Possibly the worst part of the isolation though, is the trying very hard not to talk about it. I know you're all ha-ha-ha'ing here, because I talk about everything, right? But the truth is, I don't. I really don't. Not even close. And I'm guessing most other parents in similar situations don't either. Why? Because you feel misunderstood. Because you feel guilty. Because you know people think it's because you're just doing it wrong. Because you know other people don't or can't understand and you seem like a big fucking whiner (BFW). (Complicating this last bit further, is that sometimes you feel like you might actually be a crazy BFW, because you have days, even weeks that are miraculously and beautifully calm and still and free and easy. But then, you always come back to it. Something triggers and the rough patch starts or something big has been happening at school without you knowing, and then you remember that you are not crazy. It is so hard to speak about it in ways that people can hear, in ways that do not make you feel you like you are bad-mouthing your own child, whom you love more than any being on this planet and for whom you would move mountains to make this planet a kinder and gentler place, in ways that do not make you sound like a BFW, and a BP to boot. And because we generally already feel like BFWers who are BPs, my guess is most parents in these sorts of situations err to the side of keeping their mouths shut.
And I guess those are the things I'd put in an article, you know, if I were to write one, about what you should know about parents who have high needs littles.
Parents of kids with more intensive needs than most don't appreciate the love of their kids more than anyone else, but it may be true that they may hear those expressions less than other parents. Parents of special needs kids don't love their kids more than other parents, (or likely any less either, but the article thingys would never suggest such a mercenary thought anyways). And we shouldn't be congratulating any parent (or any person, for that matter) for being self-denying. Self-denial is a one-way trip to crazy-town, and it does neither parents nor kids any good in the long run. (It would be nice, instead of putting parents of tots with high needs on a pedestal, to instead perhaps critique the social structures that require these parents to deny themselves in order to just get by on a daily basis. Not good. And utterly preventable. Just sayin').
Parents of kids with special needs *are* probably more tired, more guilt-ridden, and definitely more isolated than other parents. The tiredness bit - well - obvious, yes? It is also the easiest of the three to deal with. Tiredness we know, can count on, can learn how it contours and shapes our world and our reactions, and then in turn, we do our best to mitigate and counterbalance these things. Sometimes the tired is from lack of sleep, and this will of course differ from person to person, but for me emotional drain is the bigger part of this equation.
Guilt, of course, ties into the emotional drain bit (must bloody everything in the world be cyclical, I ask plaintively?). I feel guilty all of the time. ALL of the time. For not doing enough. For not reacting as well as I could have, should have, want to. For passing on my crap genes full of anxiety - the sad and anxious memories that seem to live in my blood. For writing this down. For sharing it. For fucking up the semblance of stability and normalcy(whatever that means) my bubs had. For following my heart when it makes their world busier, more complicated, wonkier. For not managing to balance the very differing needs of my very different children. For all of it. Now I'm not saying that I'm a crap parent. I am in fact, emphatically *not* a crap parent (though to be sure, I have my days). I am saying that when you have a child, or children, that can really struggle with the world (sometimes or all of the time and for myriad reasons), who feels things more intensely, who reacts to change more intensely, who are - in a nutshell - more intense - the feelings of parental guilt are likewise - more intense. For all kinds of reasons that make all kinds of good sense (even though 'sense' is not a currency we always get to function in from day to day).
But really - it's the isolation that's a killer to deal with. And it comes from a variety of sources.
You feel isolated from other parents (which blows because parents tend to comprise the support network of other parent-folk) because as much as you want to commiserate about their parentings trials and tribulations, you also catch yourself swallowing responses like:
"I'm sorry, but, YOU ACTUALLY CALL THAT A FUCKING TANTRUM?!" Ahem. I have, on occassion, experienced some serious rage induced by another parent saying "Yeah - I totally know what you mean" when I know damn well they don't. Can't. It's nobody's fault (and it's meant in the spirit of commiserating in the 'yeah this shit is hard' way) but there are times when people might as well be saying, "Hey! Red and green are totally the same thing. They're both colours!"
Of course parenting is hard. It's a difficult gig, no matter what. And of course, we *want* to have empathy. But sometimes, when your experiences of parenting are so far apart, it's kind of hard to feel like you have memberships to the same club. Because in some ways, ya don't.
It's also a titch on the difficult side because when other parents don't experience the same intensity of experience as you might, folks tend to think your small person is reacting so, um, strenuously, because you must be doing something wrong. You might be a BP (Yup. A Bad Parent.) This is especially true when your child's challenges may not be as visible or immediately outwardly discernable.
AND enter the advice. Advice like - use time-outs. (Um - should I also padlock the bedroom door? Cause that's the only way that particular tactic would work). OR try earlier bedtime/later bedtime/more exercise/less tv/less sugar, gluten, food colouring/more alone time/more together time/try a firmer hand/be gentler/read non-verbal cues better/try Montessori, Waldorf, meditation, yoga/try drugs/don't try drugs/maybe it's this/maybe it's that..... and so on and so forth. Meant to be helpful. Of course, meant to be helpful. Meant with love and kindness and compassion (and sometimes a little tiny bit of 'I know how to do this better than you' cause we parents like to feel that way sometimes). But ultimately - they might as well be telling me to try standing on my head and bleating like a goat and weaving on a loom. This will be a process. Possibly lifelong. There is no magical 'thing' to do - other than what we are doing - learning what works and what doesn't and doing the best we can. (Though if I thought standing on my head and bleating like a goat while I got busy loom-weavin' would help - I'd give it a whirl).
Possibly the worst part of the isolation though, is the trying very hard not to talk about it. I know you're all ha-ha-ha'ing here, because I talk about everything, right? But the truth is, I don't. I really don't. Not even close. And I'm guessing most other parents in similar situations don't either. Why? Because you feel misunderstood. Because you feel guilty. Because you know people think it's because you're just doing it wrong. Because you know other people don't or can't understand and you seem like a big fucking whiner (BFW). (Complicating this last bit further, is that sometimes you feel like you might actually be a crazy BFW, because you have days, even weeks that are miraculously and beautifully calm and still and free and easy. But then, you always come back to it. Something triggers and the rough patch starts or something big has been happening at school without you knowing, and then you remember that you are not crazy. It is so hard to speak about it in ways that people can hear, in ways that do not make you feel you like you are bad-mouthing your own child, whom you love more than any being on this planet and for whom you would move mountains to make this planet a kinder and gentler place, in ways that do not make you sound like a BFW, and a BP to boot. And because we generally already feel like BFWers who are BPs, my guess is most parents in these sorts of situations err to the side of keeping their mouths shut.
And I guess those are the things I'd put in an article, you know, if I were to write one, about what you should know about parents who have high needs littles.
Thursday, April 25, 2013
8 a.m. blues
It's 8 a.m.
I've been up for just under 2 hours. (A sleep in!)
Boy-o is having a tough time today.
And so far this morning -
I've been yelled at. Called stupid. Dumb. Hit in the knee with a hockey stick. Dodged two miscellaneous objects hurled through the air in the general direction of my head. And told I am hated.
Amazing how sometimes just under two hours is already almost too much day to bear.
I've been up for just under 2 hours. (A sleep in!)
Boy-o is having a tough time today.
And so far this morning -
I've been yelled at. Called stupid. Dumb. Hit in the knee with a hockey stick. Dodged two miscellaneous objects hurled through the air in the general direction of my head. And told I am hated.
Amazing how sometimes just under two hours is already almost too much day to bear.
Wednesday, April 24, 2013
Wednesday Poem + Rumination
In honour of her being here (and me not being there) today's Wednesday poem is "How To be Alone" by the lovely and talented Tanya Davis of Halifax.
I have always loved this poem. But I used to love it because I thought that she was way braver than I could ever be. And because my biggest fear in the world was being alone.
But I love it even more now, for obvious reasons.
I love the serendipity of seeing the poetry festival announcement, which reminded me of this beautiful poem and video. I love that it reminds me of the ways in which we can use romance and sex or just romance or just sex in ways that are to our own detriment - as a barrier against aloneness - and it reminds me of how much I really do not want to do that. (Not that there is anything wrong about either/both of these things for their own sake, but that when we use them as a means of distraction, and repeat patterns that ought not to be repeated, they aren't as lovely as they might otherwise be is all. And this happens all of the time... which... is a bummer). I especially love this video after a rotten by-myself sick day, which was spent in a prone, fairly comatose state, held captive by romantic comedies - god those things are horrible! (The only people who like romantic comedies are those who are still in the happy phase of a relationship, or total masochists. It likely doesn't take a genius to figure out where I fit in this scenario... Jeez - no wonder I never watch TV).
So today, I'll watch Tanya's video a few (hundred times) after I put the babies to bed, and think of my lovely friends who are out and able to see and enjoy her.(Lucky friends - whoop extra loud for me!). Yay for Tanya Davis, and for "How to be Alone." She is a breath of fresh air in a rom-com obsessed world...
And yay for my current preoccupation with living as authentically as I can, even (or especially?) if that means alone-ness, and no matter how scary said commitment is.
Play it. I promise you won't be sorry you did.
xo T
I have always loved this poem. But I used to love it because I thought that she was way braver than I could ever be. And because my biggest fear in the world was being alone.
But I love it even more now, for obvious reasons.
I love the serendipity of seeing the poetry festival announcement, which reminded me of this beautiful poem and video. I love that it reminds me of the ways in which we can use romance and sex or just romance or just sex in ways that are to our own detriment - as a barrier against aloneness - and it reminds me of how much I really do not want to do that. (Not that there is anything wrong about either/both of these things for their own sake, but that when we use them as a means of distraction, and repeat patterns that ought not to be repeated, they aren't as lovely as they might otherwise be is all. And this happens all of the time... which... is a bummer). I especially love this video after a rotten by-myself sick day, which was spent in a prone, fairly comatose state, held captive by romantic comedies - god those things are horrible! (The only people who like romantic comedies are those who are still in the happy phase of a relationship, or total masochists. It likely doesn't take a genius to figure out where I fit in this scenario... Jeez - no wonder I never watch TV).
So today, I'll watch Tanya's video a few (hundred times) after I put the babies to bed, and think of my lovely friends who are out and able to see and enjoy her.(Lucky friends - whoop extra loud for me!). Yay for Tanya Davis, and for "How to be Alone." She is a breath of fresh air in a rom-com obsessed world...
And yay for my current preoccupation with living as authentically as I can, even (or especially?) if that means alone-ness, and no matter how scary said commitment is.
Play it. I promise you won't be sorry you did.
xo T
Tuesday, April 23, 2013
Sarah Bareilles makes sick mama cry... true story
Screw you Sarah Bareilles for writing the sweet song "Brave" and making a video full of beautiful, empowered, brave girls rocking out. And screw you George Takei for posting said video on Facebook so that I would see it and watch it and cry like a baby, after having watched two back-to-back romcoms (sweet jesus - no wonder I never watch tv - that shit is BAD for your mental health people - seriously!).
You know - I'm generally a pretty stone femme (at least that's the running, and likely untrue, joke) - but I hardly ever cry, even when I really want to. (I'm actually way tougher in real life than I seem to write myself on here, btw). But apparently, the combination of being sick, watching happy-happy romcoms and a sweet video that makes me think of my fiesty, fierce, brave Girlio - that shit knocks me right out.
Repost of Brilliance from HuffPost: Why 'Can you have it all?' is this century's dumbest question (by Clementine Ford)
Why 'Can you have it all?' is this century's dumbest question
Clementine Ford, HuffPost Writer
Without a doubt, one of the most intellectually bereft concerns of modern society has been the question of whether or not women can have it all. Posed repetitively and endlessly, in mawkish op eds and hand wringing television segments, it involves middle-class and mostly white women (a demographic in which I sit firmly) attempting to tease out the threads of an entirely useless concept with the regularity of a studiously high fibre diet.
As a query, 'having it all — can even we?' is perpetuated as the most pressing and central concern of feminists today. So vital is it to the Woman Question that I was surprised it didn't come up on Q and A's special lady fest earlier this week (although that may be because the panellists were forced to address the age old quandary of whether or not the sinister motivations of feminism have resulted in men no longer being able to open doors for women — binders and lobbies, full of women just trying to get out!)
Drew Barrymore, a woman of strength and vitality who overcame childhood trauma to succeed in a culture with far fewer happy endings for girls with tales similar to hers, weighed in on the topic earlier this month in an interview for People.
It's abundantly clear that women — particularly the middle class, pretty white ones — aren't considered to have ascended to the status of accomplished human being until they shuck off that amateur mantle of 'woman' and become mothers. And it's here in this meaningless vacuum where the principal pursuits of feminism have become warped, degraded and made reprehensible in their navel-gazing glory.
A hierarchy of oppression needn't discount the validity of less threatening concerns. But the pernicious fixation on whether or not women can maintain professional careers rather than simply jobs (because the woman working out of necessity and not career ambition lacks that privilege of choice which has become the bugbear of women with greater means) while also wringing every last drop of the supposed joy that comes from rearing children is almost startling in its circular self indulgence and privilege. The question of whether or not women can 'have it all' steadfastly ignores the fact that many women can't and don't even have anything, let alone enough capital to begin staking their claim on the rest of the pie. To therefore witness the endless debate of this ridiculous question, as if it's the final frontier in the pursuit for women's liberation, is an exercise in mind-numbing stupidity and one that I'd argue actually reinforces regressive and limited stereotypes of women.
I'm not even really sure what 'having it all' is supposed to look like. Is it being enabled to have a meaningful, satisfying career and a family to go home to at the end of the day? Because that seems to take a rather limited and stultifying view of the complexities of human existence. For a supposedly feminist preoccupation, it ignores the diverse interests and realities of large proportions of women and those for whom children and/or career were either undesirable or an impossibility. According to this definition, as a child-free, unmarried woman in her early 30s, I would appear to fall rather short of having much of anything at all. But as someone rapidly coming to terms with the idea that the children I've been taught to want may not actually form part of my desires at all, I feel so much closer to having the kind of life I want without them — having 'it all' on my terms — than I surely would with them.
Similarly, I know many women of means, age and opportunity who are also child-free (I'm a feminist, after all — my phone book is filled with the numbers of witches and sorceresses) and have not suffered for it. For them, the question of 'having it all' never included the fundamental pursuit of work/life/family balance that is assumed to be innate to our gender. I also know single mothers for whom the idea of balancing career and family is less an aim than a pipedream. And speaking of single mothers, there are more women still who would view the concept of 'career' as a middle-class luxury — who are caught now in the grips of poverty due to a lack of options and a lack of government support. For these women, the daily concerns of their autonomy and dignity have rather less to do with whether or not they can continue to work as CEOs, senior account executives or small-business owners and rather more to do with whether or not they can put food on the table.
Cast your mind further to women in the developing world. The ones for whom 'choice' when it comes to family extends to which child gets to wear clothes or go to school (usually the boys), and who are denied the opportunities to control their fertility and therefore family sizes because of a lack of institutional support, medical options or funding. Or the women who travel from the Philippines to work as domestic labourers for the wealthy families who more often than not pay them a pittance, are denied labour rights and who may see the children, parents and extended families they're working tirelessly to support only once a year. Spending any more than a few seconds trifling over whether or not an uneven distribution of housework prevents women from achieving true liberation seems like an insult.
Gendered oppression shouldn't be a system of competitive comparison — being able to identify greater atrocities committed against women in certain sectors of the community or the wider world shouldn't negate other instances of oppression, even if they're less immediately threatening. And there's absolutely no doubt that women everywhere, from Karachi to Kew, are expected to shoulder the burden of the domestic load. But positioning this argument of 'having it all' as the last bastion of equality neglects to understand exactly how few women in the world have close to anything at all.
Under our current model of supposedly post-feminist society, can women have it all? No. Why not? Because a) we're not living in a post-feminist society and the systems of patriarchal oppression that have historically exploited women as resources are still very much in operation across much of the world; and b) the matter of women's liberation is still thought to be a concern for them alone, with the demands that any efforts to secure it be done not just independently of men but with the absence of impact on them entirely. The question therefore isn't 'can women have it all?' but 'how are women systemically denied equality and who's benefiting?' Gender inequality wasn't created by women and their unreasonable ambitions. It's vital that we shift the focus of women's oppression back to its beneficiaries rather than perpetuate the kinds of meaningless conversations that imagine these things are perplexing problems for women alone to solve.
Capitalism and poverty are two of the greatest contributors to the oppression of women in the world today. Focusing precious time and energy on examining whether or not a small proportion of those women are enabled to participate freely in the system that expressly shackles the rest of them seems to me to be entirely missing the point.
Monday, April 22, 2013
Poles and Sex and Kidlets, Part II
In yesterday's edition Poles and Sex and Kidlets, Part I, our heroine disclosed, yet again, her unabashed love for the sex-fiendish world of pole-dancing!!!
She admitted to letting her children pole-dance!
Ack!!!! Eeeeep!!!!
Right then. Moving along.
So yesterday, I ended off with a lead-in about kids and sex and sex and kids. This strain of thinking has been sitting with me since my pole-conversation last week with another parent who isn't sure she should get a pole, lest it turn her children weird. (Granted, there is a rather signifiant difference in world views here, as I actually will be disappointed if my children don't turn out weird. I quite enjoy weird).
After this conversation, my memory was jogged to a radio discussion about the fact that there are, in some places, pole-dance classes being offered for the kid set. At the time, I reacted with what one might surmise is the 'appropriate' horror and outrage. GASP! WHAT?! Pole-dancing children? This is clearly wrong! Why are we sexualizing children? Outrage, outrage, outrage. But my feelings about this are a bit more complex now than they were at the time.
My son, as previously mentioned, freaking rocks that pole. He would be be thrilled down to his boots if he could take a class in which he learned more spins, twirls and upside-down-i-ess. And if such a thing existed, I would be thrilled to my boots to sign him up straight-away. But of course, there's more to it than that. Though I can conceive of a pole-dancing class that would be utterly fabulous for youngsters of all ages and genders, one hazzards a guess that the classes currently being offered to kids are directed at the girl population. And one also hazzards a guess that the classes may be just as much about sex and booty shaking as my grown-up classes are. Which makes the conversation slightly more complicated. The outrage, both mine and that of other callers-in to the radio show about kid pole class, makes sense. We sexualize young girls in problemtic cultural ways, and certainly this is all kinds of bad and wrong. Bad and wrong. I'll say it one more time just for emphasis. Bad. And. Wrong. (If you're sensing a but, you're bang on, but I'm not quite ready to get there yet... hang on).
Let me also briefly address my feelings about girls clothes and boys clothes (both problematic for the same and difference reasons.) The girls t-shirts that are revoltingly sweet with messages like 'cutie-pie' and 'smile' and 'love'. And the boys shirts that say things like 'hero' and other bullshit-y things that aren't quite coming to mind at the moment. It's yuck. It's bunk. It's all that and more. And then there are the protests about sexualized girl clothes. G-string undies at La Senza Girl. Short shorts and nmiddriff tops and spaghetti straps and bikinis, etc. etc. etc. ad nauseum. I'm not particularly a fan.
But - and here's the but which will likely make me unpopular - something in the outrage at pole-class for kids and sexualized girl clothes - is also really off-putting and unsettling for me. Because the outrage seems intrinsically linked to two things - the first, that there is something inherently (sexually) deviant about pole-dancing (or short shorts, g-strings, mini-skirts etc.). And the second, that this deviance (sexual) should not be marketed to young girls (for the preservation of their desexualized childhood).
And I get that this is tricky shit. I struggle with it. I wrestle with it. I'll wrestle with it more before my babes are grown. And as I've already said, I certainly agree with some of this outrage, while balking at some of what lies beneath it. Namely, the idea that only certain kinds of girls undertake certain kinds of activities. (And note here, it ain't the 'nice' girls we're talking about). The idea that girls who dress in certain ways send particular kinds of messages (no matter their age). The idea that girls who dress in certain ways are targets of and participants in certain kinds of innapropriate sexual behaviour. The idea that activity or clothing can be, in and of itself, indicative of something beyond that activity or clothing.
To be sure - we live in a culture which accepts these ideas as true. That pole-dancers are strippers and strippers are bad. That spaghetti straps are more risque than short sleeves. That visible skin is a sign of female sexuality or more properly, sexual availability. These ideas are, of course, ridiculous. troubling. Bad and wrong. But I wonder too, if, in our indignant need to 'protect' the children from the evils of a culture of sexualization, we are also propogating these really destructive cultural normatives? When we say to our daughters "oh hell no you can't wear those spaghetti straps on this hot summer day because they aren't 'appropriate' for children" what message are we actually sending? While we are telling our daughters that the way they are being marketed to is troubling, are we also telling them that their skin is shameful? That spaghetti straps or mini-skirts or bikini tops indicate sex? And so on and so forth? Is this not also related to the recent gross trend of banning tights in schools because they are 'too distracting' to the boys??
I have a girl who only wears dresses except under much duress. She has announced on several occassions to me that she both hates pants and shirts. And she is very, very clear about what she will and will not wear. I don't imagine that this particular trend is going to go anywhere anytime soon. Like her mama, she is fashion-focussed. And like her mama, she is stubborn. Stubborn as fuck. I don't fight with her about fashion choices, (nor do I with my son, though he is far less picky). She wears spaghetti straps when it's hot outside. (She also has a princess obsession. I don't love it. In fact, I will go so far as to say I think her princess obsession is as harmful in the long run as all the sexualization bullshit. But it is her obsession to have. I try to temper it, gently, with messages of self-sufficiency and the beauty of strength). I let also let my kids play with my make-up. And paint their nails. And they both covet my heels and endless varieties of fishnet stockings. And here's the thing. I can't see myself arguing with either of them about their fashion choices in the future, any more than I do now. (I like to quip pithily to myself that perhaps if they were to experience a day of wearing undies that feel like having dental floss up your ass, it might be the first and only day they wear them, though of course *because this business is complicated* I'm hoping that *if* this happens, it is later rather than sooner).
I want, as I was discussing with a brilliant friend of mine awhile ago, my littles to feel happy and confident in and with themselves. If Girlio decides what makes her feel happy in the world is rocking tummy-tops and short-shorts, ok. Wearing tummy-tops and short-shorts do not define who she is as a person, they do not represent her level or experience of sexual activity, and they *should not* define how others treat her or assess her worth as a human being. Anymore than Boy-o wearing a dress and make-up should define how he is treated or his worth as a human being. For me here, the issue becomes less about how old they are, and more about whether they are able to understand how these things might impact their worlds. In both scenarios, I would sit them down and have a frank talk with them about the fact that we live in a world full of enormous assholes who will make all kinds of assumptions and/or judgements based on this dress. I will tell them that this is wrong and shitty, but true nevertheless. I will also tell them that they have to go with what they feel good and right about, and that when this is the case, I will always, always have their backs.
Yes. We live in a world that limits and controls some of how we express ourselves in all kinds of icky ways. But that ultimtely doesn't change the fact that we still need to express ourselves. Sometimes that self-expression ends up being out of the box, and sometimes more inside of the box, I guess.
As I said earlier (probably multiple times over) - this stuff isn't easy. I don't have all of the answers. Hell - I don't have any of the answers. Is there a part of me that feels queasy about the idea of my pre-teen rocking a g-string? Yes. Yes, there absolutely is.
But I'm also not convinced I'm queasy for all of the right reasons. And I think that those reasons are definitely something worth examining....
She admitted to letting her children pole-dance!
Ack!!!! Eeeeep!!!!
Right then. Moving along.
So yesterday, I ended off with a lead-in about kids and sex and sex and kids. This strain of thinking has been sitting with me since my pole-conversation last week with another parent who isn't sure she should get a pole, lest it turn her children weird. (Granted, there is a rather signifiant difference in world views here, as I actually will be disappointed if my children don't turn out weird. I quite enjoy weird).
After this conversation, my memory was jogged to a radio discussion about the fact that there are, in some places, pole-dance classes being offered for the kid set. At the time, I reacted with what one might surmise is the 'appropriate' horror and outrage. GASP! WHAT?! Pole-dancing children? This is clearly wrong! Why are we sexualizing children? Outrage, outrage, outrage. But my feelings about this are a bit more complex now than they were at the time.
My son, as previously mentioned, freaking rocks that pole. He would be be thrilled down to his boots if he could take a class in which he learned more spins, twirls and upside-down-i-ess. And if such a thing existed, I would be thrilled to my boots to sign him up straight-away. But of course, there's more to it than that. Though I can conceive of a pole-dancing class that would be utterly fabulous for youngsters of all ages and genders, one hazzards a guess that the classes currently being offered to kids are directed at the girl population. And one also hazzards a guess that the classes may be just as much about sex and booty shaking as my grown-up classes are. Which makes the conversation slightly more complicated. The outrage, both mine and that of other callers-in to the radio show about kid pole class, makes sense. We sexualize young girls in problemtic cultural ways, and certainly this is all kinds of bad and wrong. Bad and wrong. I'll say it one more time just for emphasis. Bad. And. Wrong. (If you're sensing a but, you're bang on, but I'm not quite ready to get there yet... hang on).
Let me also briefly address my feelings about girls clothes and boys clothes (both problematic for the same and difference reasons.) The girls t-shirts that are revoltingly sweet with messages like 'cutie-pie' and 'smile' and 'love'. And the boys shirts that say things like 'hero' and other bullshit-y things that aren't quite coming to mind at the moment. It's yuck. It's bunk. It's all that and more. And then there are the protests about sexualized girl clothes. G-string undies at La Senza Girl. Short shorts and nmiddriff tops and spaghetti straps and bikinis, etc. etc. etc. ad nauseum. I'm not particularly a fan.
But - and here's the but which will likely make me unpopular - something in the outrage at pole-class for kids and sexualized girl clothes - is also really off-putting and unsettling for me. Because the outrage seems intrinsically linked to two things - the first, that there is something inherently (sexually) deviant about pole-dancing (or short shorts, g-strings, mini-skirts etc.). And the second, that this deviance (sexual) should not be marketed to young girls (for the preservation of their desexualized childhood).
And I get that this is tricky shit. I struggle with it. I wrestle with it. I'll wrestle with it more before my babes are grown. And as I've already said, I certainly agree with some of this outrage, while balking at some of what lies beneath it. Namely, the idea that only certain kinds of girls undertake certain kinds of activities. (And note here, it ain't the 'nice' girls we're talking about). The idea that girls who dress in certain ways send particular kinds of messages (no matter their age). The idea that girls who dress in certain ways are targets of and participants in certain kinds of innapropriate sexual behaviour. The idea that activity or clothing can be, in and of itself, indicative of something beyond that activity or clothing.
To be sure - we live in a culture which accepts these ideas as true. That pole-dancers are strippers and strippers are bad. That spaghetti straps are more risque than short sleeves. That visible skin is a sign of female sexuality or more properly, sexual availability. These ideas are, of course, ridiculous. troubling. Bad and wrong. But I wonder too, if, in our indignant need to 'protect' the children from the evils of a culture of sexualization, we are also propogating these really destructive cultural normatives? When we say to our daughters "oh hell no you can't wear those spaghetti straps on this hot summer day because they aren't 'appropriate' for children" what message are we actually sending? While we are telling our daughters that the way they are being marketed to is troubling, are we also telling them that their skin is shameful? That spaghetti straps or mini-skirts or bikini tops indicate sex? And so on and so forth? Is this not also related to the recent gross trend of banning tights in schools because they are 'too distracting' to the boys??
I have a girl who only wears dresses except under much duress. She has announced on several occassions to me that she both hates pants and shirts. And she is very, very clear about what she will and will not wear. I don't imagine that this particular trend is going to go anywhere anytime soon. Like her mama, she is fashion-focussed. And like her mama, she is stubborn. Stubborn as fuck. I don't fight with her about fashion choices, (nor do I with my son, though he is far less picky). She wears spaghetti straps when it's hot outside. (She also has a princess obsession. I don't love it. In fact, I will go so far as to say I think her princess obsession is as harmful in the long run as all the sexualization bullshit. But it is her obsession to have. I try to temper it, gently, with messages of self-sufficiency and the beauty of strength). I let also let my kids play with my make-up. And paint their nails. And they both covet my heels and endless varieties of fishnet stockings. And here's the thing. I can't see myself arguing with either of them about their fashion choices in the future, any more than I do now. (I like to quip pithily to myself that perhaps if they were to experience a day of wearing undies that feel like having dental floss up your ass, it might be the first and only day they wear them, though of course *because this business is complicated* I'm hoping that *if* this happens, it is later rather than sooner).
I want, as I was discussing with a brilliant friend of mine awhile ago, my littles to feel happy and confident in and with themselves. If Girlio decides what makes her feel happy in the world is rocking tummy-tops and short-shorts, ok. Wearing tummy-tops and short-shorts do not define who she is as a person, they do not represent her level or experience of sexual activity, and they *should not* define how others treat her or assess her worth as a human being. Anymore than Boy-o wearing a dress and make-up should define how he is treated or his worth as a human being. For me here, the issue becomes less about how old they are, and more about whether they are able to understand how these things might impact their worlds. In both scenarios, I would sit them down and have a frank talk with them about the fact that we live in a world full of enormous assholes who will make all kinds of assumptions and/or judgements based on this dress. I will tell them that this is wrong and shitty, but true nevertheless. I will also tell them that they have to go with what they feel good and right about, and that when this is the case, I will always, always have their backs.
Yes. We live in a world that limits and controls some of how we express ourselves in all kinds of icky ways. But that ultimtely doesn't change the fact that we still need to express ourselves. Sometimes that self-expression ends up being out of the box, and sometimes more inside of the box, I guess.
As I said earlier (probably multiple times over) - this stuff isn't easy. I don't have all of the answers. Hell - I don't have any of the answers. Is there a part of me that feels queasy about the idea of my pre-teen rocking a g-string? Yes. Yes, there absolutely is.
But I'm also not convinced I'm queasy for all of the right reasons. And I think that those reasons are definitely something worth examining....
Sunday, April 21, 2013
Poles and Sex and Kidlets
The other night at pole class, some of the women were asking me about my pole. How much, where I put it, etc etc etc.
Then one woman, who seriously looks like she's about twelve, said "I asked my husband if I could get a pole and he was all like, "I don't know".... [and here I would note aside from the obvious creepy beginning of the sentence, who in their right mind wouldn't want their lover to do hot pole practice?!] "and then I think I sort of convinced him, but I don't know where to put it so the kids won't see it and get at it and my husband is really worried they'll turn into weird sex fiends"... [Does this mean that *she* is a weird sex fiend?. . . . AND SHIT! Am *I* a weird sex fiend?!]
To which I replied that my kids bleeping *love* my pole. And that my son is already a better pole dancer than me. Which is completely true - he is amazing and has out-of-this-world upper body strength.
To which she looked at me utterly aghast. And said nothing else.
Since getting my pole, and announcing it to the world (hey, I'm really fucking happy about my pole, what can I say?), and posting pics of my Boy-o on said pole, I've been aware that people *may* have some issues with this. Because pole-dancing is not your everyday hobby, and there are a lot of preconceived notions about what pole-dancing is like, and correspondingly, what pole-dancers are like. (In my case, some of the latter pre-conceived notions may be true, but that is besides the point at this particular juncture...).
So here's the first thing: Pole-dancing class is all about sex. It is sexy as hell, and that is a big part of why I love it. It's hot. Totally. But it's also really, really fucking challenging. Body-busting-muscle-building-break-your-ass-legs-covered-in-bruises-thighs-covered-in-pole-burn-sweat-your-face-off-not-for-the-wussy kinda hard. And that is also why I love it. The blend of those two things are completely and utterly *me* and completely and utterly happy-making. I get to combine big parts of me into one activity. I get to work out in four inch studded heels. It's a good life. (On this note, I would say that I feel pretty meh about the recent call by polers to de-sexualize pole, and make into in an Olympic sport. I mean, I feel conflicted about the Olympics to begin with, and I also think that if you take the sex out of pole, it loses something in my world. Anyhoo...).
And here's the other thing: when my kid pole-dances, it isn't at all about sex. I show them them spins I know. I don't show them the booty moves (though, they have seen me dance in general, which is pretty booty-licious). Anyways, Boy-o rocks it. He climbs, he spins, he kicks up his heels, he shakes his booty and he is totally, completely and utterly blissed out. He is happiest when in his body like that, and when I watch him rock it, I often find myself wishing I'd have gotten a pole years ago. Bloody amazing, that kid. Girlio tends, thus far, to use it as a ballet-dancing sort of prop - and here I confess that the thought of her idolizing the fat-shaming world that is ballet horrifies me a good deal more than the thought of her idolizing the 'sex fiendish' world of pole-dancing. Yes - that's right. I'd rather she strive to love her body enough to slut it up with panache and strut her stuff than strive to be light as a feather (and here I would note that -yes, the ballet is beautiful and artsy goodness. I even like some ballet. But my daughter is not body shaped now, nor will she ever be body shaped to become a prima ballerina. With or without the requisite eating disorder(s). Like her mama, she is solidly, well, solid. Ballet would mean a world of body-loathing dissapointment, and it's not something I will ever encourage in her world. Contemporary dance... that I would encourage wholeheartedly. Or pole. You know, what evs).
Which brings me to the second strain of thought-processing that was brought up when ruminating about this discussion... kids and sex. Sex and kids. Kids! Sex! (insert appropriate horror-flick soundtrack of your choice).
Which.... I will blog about tomorrow. Because this is already getting too long. Because I have been, as usual, too wordy.
... to be continued
Then one woman, who seriously looks like she's about twelve, said "I asked my husband if I could get a pole and he was all like, "I don't know".... [and here I would note aside from the obvious creepy beginning of the sentence, who in their right mind wouldn't want their lover to do hot pole practice?!] "and then I think I sort of convinced him, but I don't know where to put it so the kids won't see it and get at it and my husband is really worried they'll turn into weird sex fiends"... [Does this mean that *she* is a weird sex fiend?. . . . AND SHIT! Am *I* a weird sex fiend?!]
To which I replied that my kids bleeping *love* my pole. And that my son is already a better pole dancer than me. Which is completely true - he is amazing and has out-of-this-world upper body strength.
To which she looked at me utterly aghast. And said nothing else.
Since getting my pole, and announcing it to the world (hey, I'm really fucking happy about my pole, what can I say?), and posting pics of my Boy-o on said pole, I've been aware that people *may* have some issues with this. Because pole-dancing is not your everyday hobby, and there are a lot of preconceived notions about what pole-dancing is like, and correspondingly, what pole-dancers are like. (In my case, some of the latter pre-conceived notions may be true, but that is besides the point at this particular juncture...).
So here's the first thing: Pole-dancing class is all about sex. It is sexy as hell, and that is a big part of why I love it. It's hot. Totally. But it's also really, really fucking challenging. Body-busting-muscle-building-break-your-ass-legs-covered-in-bruises-thighs-covered-in-pole-burn-sweat-your-face-off-not-for-the-wussy kinda hard. And that is also why I love it. The blend of those two things are completely and utterly *me* and completely and utterly happy-making. I get to combine big parts of me into one activity. I get to work out in four inch studded heels. It's a good life. (On this note, I would say that I feel pretty meh about the recent call by polers to de-sexualize pole, and make into in an Olympic sport. I mean, I feel conflicted about the Olympics to begin with, and I also think that if you take the sex out of pole, it loses something in my world. Anyhoo...).
And here's the other thing: when my kid pole-dances, it isn't at all about sex. I show them them spins I know. I don't show them the booty moves (though, they have seen me dance in general, which is pretty booty-licious). Anyways, Boy-o rocks it. He climbs, he spins, he kicks up his heels, he shakes his booty and he is totally, completely and utterly blissed out. He is happiest when in his body like that, and when I watch him rock it, I often find myself wishing I'd have gotten a pole years ago. Bloody amazing, that kid. Girlio tends, thus far, to use it as a ballet-dancing sort of prop - and here I confess that the thought of her idolizing the fat-shaming world that is ballet horrifies me a good deal more than the thought of her idolizing the 'sex fiendish' world of pole-dancing. Yes - that's right. I'd rather she strive to love her body enough to slut it up with panache and strut her stuff than strive to be light as a feather (and here I would note that -yes, the ballet is beautiful and artsy goodness. I even like some ballet. But my daughter is not body shaped now, nor will she ever be body shaped to become a prima ballerina. With or without the requisite eating disorder(s). Like her mama, she is solidly, well, solid. Ballet would mean a world of body-loathing dissapointment, and it's not something I will ever encourage in her world. Contemporary dance... that I would encourage wholeheartedly. Or pole. You know, what evs).
Which brings me to the second strain of thought-processing that was brought up when ruminating about this discussion... kids and sex. Sex and kids. Kids! Sex! (insert appropriate horror-flick soundtrack of your choice).
Which.... I will blog about tomorrow. Because this is already getting too long. Because I have been, as usual, too wordy.
... to be continued
Wednesday, April 17, 2013
What makes bravery? (aka fuck blog-xiety, I'm writing anyways)
When you live life as Piglet from Winnie The Pooh, sometimes everything is scary. Not just a little scary. A lotta scary. Shit scary. And on the bad days, immobilizing. (I'd so much rather be a different WTP character. Oh well, you get what you get! And it could be worse, right? I could be Eeyore. Or Rabbit (shudder) NOBODY wants to be Rabbit. Because he's a smug, smug little jerk).
At the beginning of this term, I dropped a class because I literally couldn't make myself go. I wanted to. I really really wanted to. But there were too too many people in this super crowded room and the two times I did go, I spent the entire three hours feeling like I couldn't breathe. So instead, I shot myself in the foot and took a course I wasn't particularly interested in, and, as it turns out, wasn't particularly good at either. I felt *horrible* about it. Because usually, I do a pretty damn good job of managing life in the anxiety lane. Usually I do a pretty good of doing the things that are shit scary to me. But this term, oh man, this term kicked my ass. Kicked my ass with wholly irrational thoughts that I believed to be wildly and irrevocably true. Because that's what anxiety does. It takes your worst thoughts and fears, the ones that you hold deep down and don't dare tell anyone about, and it amplifies them and then it engulfs you.
I spent a few days convinced that everyone in the world despised me. (And though to be sure, I am sure there are a few, the whole world might be a mild exaggeration. But that's anxiety for you. The irrational becomes the very, very real).
I spent a few nights awake with the stabbing feeling in my chest, unable to stop the whirring of my brain, that flitted between agonizing over assignments and stupid things I've said/done and wondering how I'm going to afford this new free life of mine and about my kids, sure that I am ruining them forever. Thank goodness, these days and nights pass. And things even out again. Thank fucking goodness.
(Now, as a wee aside, I *do* think that anxiety makes sense in this world - because if you aren't scared of (and saddened by) this messed up world, then you probably aren't paying very good attention. That said, some of us have been bestowed with a bit more anxiety-making tendencies than others.)
Anyways, reflecting back on those crap-assed days over the past little bit, I got to thinking a lot about the idea of bravery. How brave am I, really? What makes bravery? How do we hold onto it, in these really slippery and uncertain and frankly scary times?
And so I made a list. Of the things I feel are really, really brave. Some of them I can do. Some of them I want to be able to do. All of them are brave.
1. Getting out of bed every single morning and trying to look for some good in your life, and in the world. Seriously. Harder than it sounds.
2. Listening to someone tell you how you've hurt them with an open heart and mind. This is so brave. So very brave. Because it requires really trying to understand your less savoury parts. We all have them. But we'd all rather believe we don't.
3. Admitting you fucked up. Trying to do better next time.
4. Admitting the parts of you that aren't pretty, while holding onto the parts that are. See #2. Some pretty tricky shit.
5. Doing something you've never done before. (Like, say, going to pole dance class with teensy weensy 20 year olds... It still freaks me out. And I'm still doing it.)
6. Believing that feeling ugly doesn't make you ugly. Mmmmm. Hard, hard, hard. But also brave.
7. Saying no to a child who's about to blow their stack. In public. (This is bravery to the enth degree friends, oh yes it is! And rarely ends well.)
8. Trusting someone with your secrets. (Oh, man!).
9. Trusting that your secrets aren't as bad as you believe. (Oh man! Oh man!)
10. Going with your gut and your heart when logic tells you otherwise. This is my favourite. Possibly because I frequently do it. But I steadfastly believe it's brave.
11. Risking real openness and vulnerability even when you know you might get squashed. (Yes.)
12. Admitting defeat. Yep. Sometimes I think this is the bravest thing possible.
13. Refusing to admit defeat. (Oh bravery, you are one tricky bastard).
14. Asking for help. (Oh god - I really suck at this one. Like, super suck. But I wonder sometimes, if admitting that you can't do it all on your own is a sign of strength rather than weakness?)
15. Honesty. This is the bravest, I think. Because it means first taking stock of that really hard stuff inside yourself - being honest and real with yourself about the good and bad and ugly- and then sharing that with someone else. WHEWF! Brave, brave, brave.
16. Skydiving. Okay - I don't get it. Not at all. But I think allowing yourself to plummet through the air with a parachute that may, or may not work, is very brave. Possibly also stupid. But very brave. Though, for the record, you will *never* catch me doing it. (But I have told my sky-dive-crazy child that I will sign a consent for him if he is still obsessed with the idea in his late teens. This will require all kinds of mad mama bravery on my part.
So yeah. Those are some of the things that I currently think are brave.
What is bravery to you? (I really want to know!)
At the beginning of this term, I dropped a class because I literally couldn't make myself go. I wanted to. I really really wanted to. But there were too too many people in this super crowded room and the two times I did go, I spent the entire three hours feeling like I couldn't breathe. So instead, I shot myself in the foot and took a course I wasn't particularly interested in, and, as it turns out, wasn't particularly good at either. I felt *horrible* about it. Because usually, I do a pretty damn good job of managing life in the anxiety lane. Usually I do a pretty good of doing the things that are shit scary to me. But this term, oh man, this term kicked my ass. Kicked my ass with wholly irrational thoughts that I believed to be wildly and irrevocably true. Because that's what anxiety does. It takes your worst thoughts and fears, the ones that you hold deep down and don't dare tell anyone about, and it amplifies them and then it engulfs you.
I spent a few days convinced that everyone in the world despised me. (And though to be sure, I am sure there are a few, the whole world might be a mild exaggeration. But that's anxiety for you. The irrational becomes the very, very real).
I spent a few nights awake with the stabbing feeling in my chest, unable to stop the whirring of my brain, that flitted between agonizing over assignments and stupid things I've said/done and wondering how I'm going to afford this new free life of mine and about my kids, sure that I am ruining them forever. Thank goodness, these days and nights pass. And things even out again. Thank fucking goodness.
(Now, as a wee aside, I *do* think that anxiety makes sense in this world - because if you aren't scared of (and saddened by) this messed up world, then you probably aren't paying very good attention. That said, some of us have been bestowed with a bit more anxiety-making tendencies than others.)
Anyways, reflecting back on those crap-assed days over the past little bit, I got to thinking a lot about the idea of bravery. How brave am I, really? What makes bravery? How do we hold onto it, in these really slippery and uncertain and frankly scary times?
And so I made a list. Of the things I feel are really, really brave. Some of them I can do. Some of them I want to be able to do. All of them are brave.
1. Getting out of bed every single morning and trying to look for some good in your life, and in the world. Seriously. Harder than it sounds.
2. Listening to someone tell you how you've hurt them with an open heart and mind. This is so brave. So very brave. Because it requires really trying to understand your less savoury parts. We all have them. But we'd all rather believe we don't.
3. Admitting you fucked up. Trying to do better next time.
4. Admitting the parts of you that aren't pretty, while holding onto the parts that are. See #2. Some pretty tricky shit.
5. Doing something you've never done before. (Like, say, going to pole dance class with teensy weensy 20 year olds... It still freaks me out. And I'm still doing it.)
6. Believing that feeling ugly doesn't make you ugly. Mmmmm. Hard, hard, hard. But also brave.
7. Saying no to a child who's about to blow their stack. In public. (This is bravery to the enth degree friends, oh yes it is! And rarely ends well.)
8. Trusting someone with your secrets. (Oh, man!).
9. Trusting that your secrets aren't as bad as you believe. (Oh man! Oh man!)
10. Going with your gut and your heart when logic tells you otherwise. This is my favourite. Possibly because I frequently do it. But I steadfastly believe it's brave.
11. Risking real openness and vulnerability even when you know you might get squashed. (Yes.)
12. Admitting defeat. Yep. Sometimes I think this is the bravest thing possible.
13. Refusing to admit defeat. (Oh bravery, you are one tricky bastard).
14. Asking for help. (Oh god - I really suck at this one. Like, super suck. But I wonder sometimes, if admitting that you can't do it all on your own is a sign of strength rather than weakness?)
15. Honesty. This is the bravest, I think. Because it means first taking stock of that really hard stuff inside yourself - being honest and real with yourself about the good and bad and ugly- and then sharing that with someone else. WHEWF! Brave, brave, brave.
16. Skydiving. Okay - I don't get it. Not at all. But I think allowing yourself to plummet through the air with a parachute that may, or may not work, is very brave. Possibly also stupid. But very brave. Though, for the record, you will *never* catch me doing it. (But I have told my sky-dive-crazy child that I will sign a consent for him if he is still obsessed with the idea in his late teens. This will require all kinds of mad mama bravery on my part.
So yeah. Those are some of the things that I currently think are brave.
What is bravery to you? (I really want to know!)
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