Weaving Threads Together ~ by Jay

I had an "aha!" moment when I reaq Miracle Mom's comments on my last two posts.

Raising feminist men and using my wedding silver thoughtfully have something in common: an awareness of privilege.

Feminist women are always aware of male privilege. We see it in the lopsided percentage of men on the OpEd pages of newspapers, the coverage of Hillary Clinton's campaign, the way people respond to the novelty of men doing housework, our own experiences of the world. But men, even progressive well-meaning, men don't always see it.

Sam and I are both trained facilitators. A few years ago we had this conversation after a Board meeting that Sam chaired:

Sort of interesting that the women didn't really speak up until the end of the meeting.

What do you mean?

Well, the conversation was all male until I interrupted someone, and then a couple of other women spoke, but it was hard to get in there.

Wow. I didn't notice that. I don't attend to gender unless I'm facilitating a session at work.

Remember when I told you about male privilege? There's an example.

I always "attend to gender". I have no choice. My personal comfort, professional success and even my safety require it. Sam - a generous, kind, feminist man who is a skilled facilitator - wasn't being deliberately misogynist or particularly unskilled when he ran that meeting, but he was blinded by his privilege.

When I showed off my wedding silver to our grad-student guests, and when I assumed that all my friends felt equally welcome at our university, I was blinded by my privilege. Miracle Mom is right: I do expect to be treated with civility by service workers, and I do expect that my child will have what she needs to be healthy and well-cared for. Those are assumptions of my upper-class-ness, and they are also evidence of my privilege.

To raise feminist sons and daughters, we need to help them see male privilege for what it is. Male privilege is a consequence of the patriarchy. Male privilege is part of the oppression of women, just as white privilege is a part of institutionalized racism. Yes, we need to teach our sons to express and act on their empathy, but we also need to teach them to reflect on the role of caregiver and why that role is overwhelmingly filled by women. Our sons need to know how to clean a toilet, and also notice that it's not usually men who do the scrubbing. Action, reflection, understanding, and (we will pray) change.

Wedding Silver ~ by Jay

Kyran has a lovely post about marriage on Notes to Self. I particularly like this image

I don't have real wedding silver to shine up for dinner. Ours was not that kind of wedding. Our guests were a ragtag band of gypsies from the bar where I worked at the time, and our families aren't the silver-bestowing kind. But I'd like to think if we had, the pieces would look well-used by now: tiny scratches, a dent here and there from being dropped on occasion (or flung), perhaps a missing piece we've learned to do without. It would bear the mark of wear and tear, the patina of something precious, durable and worn.

I hope my marriage does have that sort of patina. I think it does, although I doubt the scratches or missing pieces are visible to anyone else. I love the analogy, but that's not why I'm writing this. I was really struck by the phrase "our families are not the silver-bestowing kind".

My family is the silver-bestowing kind. My mother and grandmother collected English and American sterling and both had a full set of sterling flatware given when they were married. My mother started collecting extra pieces of her sterling for me when I was an infant, and was crushed to find out I didn't actually like her pattern all that much. There was a bit of a fuss when my grandmother gave me hers instead (and Mom is still happily using her own stuff, which will probably go to my brother and sister-in-law at some point). Sam and I started married life with 12 place settings of sterling and several small open stock pieces. I grew up surrounded by silver, and it was deeply pleasing to have my own collection to arrange and polish and use whenever I wanted.

My enjoyment came to an puzzled end when we invited some of Sam's graduate-school friends to our apartment for dessert and coffee. We'd been married nine months and living together for about two weeks. It was the first time we entertained. The couple lived downstairs in the same building and I anticipated a lot of of socializing back and forth - but that never happened. We had a nice evening, and that was that. They never invited us over and they were decidedly cool to me when we met at department events. I figured they just didn't like me, until a year or so later when I heard through the grapevine that they were afraid to invite us over. They were also newly married, but their dishes were mismatched Corelle hand-me-downs and their flatware was discount-store stainless. After our silver-and-china evening, they figured I would look down on them.

That was the my first real encounter with class differences. Sure, I went to college with people from very different backgrounds, but we were all living in dorms and eating pizza and I was insensitive enough not to notice how much some of my friends were struggling. I've never paid much attention to clothes and no one I knew had a car. I'd always been a social outcast to some degree until I got to college, when I finally found a group of like-minded friends. I had my moments of feeling isolated and left-out but that wasn't new. I assumed everyone felt the same way, and was entirely blind to my privilege: as a legacy admission to a fancy-pants school, and a third-generation Fancy Pants student, I felt fundamentally at home in a way many of my friends never did. I didn't know that at the time. In truth, I didn't really know it until a few years ago, when I started listening more closely to what my friends were telling me about their experiences.

I continue to learn about class, and my own privilege still blinds me much of the time. I'm working on it. I still own that silver (more of it, actually, since my mother has been generous) and I still enjoy using it. I don't know if there was anything I could have done differently all those years ago. I wouldn't have minded eating off Corelle with stainless forks. I really needed friends then, and it still hurts to think of the missed opportunity. I try to remember that every time I find myself making assumptions about people based on what they own. The patina Kyran references is the one that counts; it's about the relationship, not the silver.

Raising Feminist Men ~ by Jay

You know when you haven't heard something before and all of a sudden it's everywhere? That's how it is for me right now with the phrase "raising feminist men". Right now like every blog I read repeats it either in the posts or the comments, most recently Renee at Feministe.

Of course I agree with the commenters who say that parents can't entirely win out over socialized gender roles - I'm the one with the eight-year-old who wants makeup. Kids will do what they can to win approval from their peers and to avoid censure, even if that means giving up something the really like to do. It's a challenge for me, mom of one girl, to think about raising boys to be feminist. Ties in pretty closely with the discussion about equal-share parenting, too. Since I don't have a clear idea on my own but I do have a feminist man sitting right here, I asked him.

Sam says "Just expect them to take care of themselves. Teach them how to do whatever needs doing - laundry, dishes, ironing, cooking - and make it clear that everyone who lives in the house is responsible for making sure the work gets done. Don't do it for them if they can do it themselves, and don't act like they're doing anything special when they do it. Question the messages they get about 'what boys do' and 'what girls do'." I add "Hang around with other families who share the same assumptions and behaviors".

There's the equal-share thing again. Is that the same as raising feminist men? Seems to me it's a long way there. Yes, it's important to teach kids to see and question the unspoken messages they receive from mass culture, and to help them develop the skills to resist peer pressure if they can. As they move through their days, our children will carry with them an understanding of how the world works that is formed by their life at home. The more that life includes modeling respect and equality, the more likely they are to expect respect and equality themselves, and act on those values.

We'll all struggle on as we parent against the cultural tide. We'll fight stereotyping where we can and stand against peer pressure, and we'll also make sure we teach our boys how to clean the toilet. It's all for a good cause.

Take Me Out to the Ball Game ~ by Jay

Allen inherited Mom's athletic ability. I didn't inherit anyone's.

Yes, you did. You inherited mine.

Dad and I never played catch in the back yard. I never owned a glove, and I never saw him pick up a ball, even to throw it to the dog. My father sat and relaxed in a white button-down shirt, gray flannel pants and a tie. Dad didn't jog or play tennis and, amazingly enough for a doctor, he never owned a set of golf clubs. He told me once that he tried out for football in high school, and an hour later he was the sportswriter on the school paper.

Instead of hitting fungoes for me, Dad showed me how to read a box score and calculate the standings. He would have been happy to explain the blue line in hockey and the 3-point shot in basketball, but the only sport I really cared about was baseball. Baseball was the radio playing at night as we drove home. It was Phil Rizzuto shouting "Holy Cow!" and talking about Yogi, at least until Phil left in the 7th inning to get across the bridge. Baseball was history and stories and personalities - and Yankees baseball in the 1970s had PERSONALITIES. Billy, Reggie, the Boss, the fights, the firings, the World Series against the Cincinnati Reds, the feud with Yogi, the death of Thurman Munson, the one-game playoff against Boston in 1978 on the radio in my dorm room and picking up the phone to hear my father saying "Bucky Dent!"

Baseball was the vacation we took to Boston when I was 12, and my mother and brother not feeling well one afternoon, and Dad taking me to my first game.

Wow, we're going to a Red Sox game!

No, we're going to a Yankee game. It may be in Fenway Park, but it's still a Yankee game.

My shy, soft-spoken father, who ate french fries with a knife and fork, sat in the bleachers that day crunching peanuts and yelling "Bonds, you BUM!" at the top of his lungs. He was still wearing flannel pants, a white button-down shirt and tie, of course. That day I learned to keep score and Dad told me about the World Series game he attended when he was six years old. It would have been perfect if the Yankees had won the game.

Tomorrow would have been Dad's 75th birthday. If he were alive we'd be having a party, and he would be wishing he could just stay home and watch the Yankees play the Mets. No, he'd be wishing he could stay home and watch the Yankees beat the Mets. Twice.

Phil Rizzuto's Holy Cow, Baseball Hall of Fame
Cooperstown, New York

Conversations With my Daughter ~ by Jay

Are you watching baseball? Who's playing?

The Red Sox and the White Sox.

Oh, then I know who we're rooting for. We're rooting against the Red Sox, right, Mom?

Right.

A Present for My Daughter ~ by Jay

Found at (of all places) the local A.C. Moore outlet.
I didn't even know they made Derek Jeter Uno.

(also available in David Ortiz, Ichiro, Hideki Matsui and Albert Pujols editions)

Hmmm ~ by Jay

I knew I wasn't going to be Wonder Woman when they asked if I ever wore a push-up bra.

Your results:
You are Spider-Man

Spider-Man 75% Superman 75% Iron Man 60% Robin 57% Green Lantern 50% Batman 50% Hulk 45% Wonder Woman 40% Supergirl 40% The Flash 40% Catwoman 35%

You are intelligent, witty, a bit geeky and have great power and responsibility.

Click here to take the Superhero Personality Test

Life Goes On ~ by Jay

My daughter is playing the piano and singing a nonsense song she made up, so excited that she has to do something. We're off to the baseball game - Big City major league this time - and she's got her (pink, color-co-ordinated) team outfit on, her cap on her head and her glove by the door.

Sam and I have tickets to a concert tonight, a night out we've been anticipating for months. I'd been planning a leisurely evening - the babysitter arrives early, we go out for a nice dinner first - and instead we'll be rushing home from the game and eating leftover Chinese food, but I'm still looking forward to it.

And yet...I am grieving the death of our friend, too. Don't let anyone tell you that virtual communities aren't real. The loss is real, and in some ways harder to manage because I can't make a casserole or go the funeral. I knew her kids and her husband through her, and while I feel connected to them, they won't be part of my life any more.

I have no words of my own that are equal to the moment.

Dirge Without Music
Edna St. Vincent Millay

I am not resigned to the shutting away of loving hearts in the hard ground.
So it is, and so it will be, for so it has been, time out of mind:
Into the darkness they go, the wise and the lovely. Crowned
With lilies and with laurel they go; but I am not resigned.

Lovers and thinkers, into the earth with you.
Be one with the dull, the indiscriminate dust.
A fragment of what you felt, of what you knew,
A formula, a phrase remains, --- but the best is lost.

The answers quick & keen, the honest look, the laughter, the love,
They are gone. They have gone to feed the roses. Elegant and curled
Is the blossom. Fragrant is the blossom. I know. But I do not approve.
More precious was the light in your eyes than all the roses in the world.

Down, down, down into the darkness of the grave
Gently they go, the beautiful, the tender, the kind;
Quietly they go, the intelligent, the witty, the brave.
I know. But I do not approve. And I am not resigned.

Here We Go Again ~ by Jay

We went to Big City on Wednesday to go the ballet. There was a bit of rushing around as we left because I almost forgot the tickets; when I came back out to the car and glanced at my daughter, I realized she was wearing makeup. She had applied pink lip gloss and pale blue eyeshadow.

She's eight. In September, she'll start third grade.

Where did she get the makeup? Birthday party goody bags; she was allowed to keep it in her room for playing dress-up. "But Mommy, you said I could wear it when I got dressed up".

Mommy suspected she knew what "dress-up" meant, but I ignored the lie (trying to follow my own advice) and explained again. And told her that the play makeup wold now have to live in my bathroom along with the real makeup we bought for her to wear for dance recitals.

I'm starting to think she takes dance class mostly so she can wear makeup twice a year.

"So how old do I have to be when I can wear makeup, anyway"?

I sure hope "in middle school" was the right answer, because that's what came out of my mouth. She'll be 11 when she starts sixth grade, which still seems a bit young to me, but by that time she'll be able to wear makeup in school whether I give her permission or not since she'll have a locker to hide it in and time between classes to duck into the bathroom and put it on. I don't want to give her an incentive to go behind my back, not if I can avoid it.

She didn't argue with me, or even pout all that much. I didn't yell at her. I even tried to get her to tell me what she liked about makeup, but no dice. She voluntarily, if glumly, handed over the makeup when we got home.

This morning she put on nail polish before she went to camp.

Share and Share Alike ~ by Jay

There's been a lot of talk about Lisa Belkin's cover story on shared parenting in the New York Times Magazine. I liked the article a lot - I was particularly pleased that she emphasized the role of societal expectations and social programming. It's not biological destiny that leads women to take on most of of the housework and childcare; it's a lifetime of conditioning.

Belkin points out that women have to be willing to truly cede domestic responsibility to men, as much as men have to be willing to take it. I didn't see an exploration of why women are unwilling to give up their domestic primacy. Women have been systematically deprived of power in all other areas of life, and it only makes sense that they would cling to it in the one place where it is freely available.

I wasn't surprised at the distribution of household duties Belkin cited, but I was amazed at the sheer amount of time people spent. 31 hours a week on housework? Really? I read that section to Sam and said "we don't spend anywhere near that amount of time". And he started adding it up: at least fifteen hours a week dealing with food shopping, preparation and cleanup; two to three hours a week on laundry; five hours a week doing general tidying; an hour a week (on average) dealing with the bills and finances; five hours a week dealing with the dogs (feeding, taking them out, scooping poop) and all of sudden we're up near 30 - and we don't do any of our own heavy cleaning (mopping, dusting, vacuuming) or change our sheets because we have cleaners come in weekly. Shows you what I know.

Belkin's article suggests that equal-share parenting requires regimentation. That hasn't been our experience, but then we never sat down and deliberately devised an equal-share household. It's just what we do. That's what my mother-in-law taught her sons. Since we both expect work will be shared equally, we've never needed a color-coded chart to make sure it happens. What is necessary is conversation and negotiation and listening to each other. One of the commenters at BitchPhD asks "Do straight couples have these conversations?" They do if they have any sense. Unquestioned assumptions are the land mines of relationships; they're likely to blow up in your face.

I don't think "shared" means "precisely the same". Sam does most of the laundry; I pay the bills; he takes care of the fish; I make the playdate arrangements; we both do pick-up and drop-off and bedtimes and cooking and stories and supervising piano practice. We went to the first parent-teacher conference together and he went to the second one alone.

A marriage like this is not just the luck of the draw. It's the result of hard work and careful choices. But it's not impossible.

Conversations With my Daughter ~ by Jay

I love Daddy. He's been my daddy since I was born. No, wait, that's not right. He wasn't my daddy until you came to get me.

We were your parents before you were born. Remember we told you that we met your birthmother when she was pregnant with you? He was your daddy then, and we loved you even before you were born.

But my real parents were still my parents before I was born.

Daddy and I are your real parents.

My birth mother and birth father aren't my real parents?

We're all your real parents. We have different places in your lives, but we're all real.

Conversations With My Father, 2002 ~ by Jay

It's final. We have to take Jesse back to his birthmother tomorrow morning.

Oh, honey, I wish I had magic.

Conversations With my Daughter ~ by Jay

What if you couldn't taste anything but ice cream? What if you ate pickles or beets or carrots and everything tasted like ice cream?

Wow, that would be fun. But I think it would get boring after a while.

What if everything was a different flavor? Like you could have one pickle that's vanilla, and one pickle that's mint chip, and one pickle that tastes like chocolate ice cream. And THEN you could take the pickle that tastes like chocolate ice cream and you could put SPRINKLES on it. Yummy!

Conversations With My Father, 2004 ~ by Jay

Your mother wants me to talk to you about last night. She's afraid you're upset.

Well, Dad, I heard you fall. I know you didn't want me to help you, but I couldn't help hearing. It worries me.

She wants me to tell you I'm all right.

Dad, I know you're not all right.

I'm not having any pain.

OK.

So I'm all right.

Look, Dad, it's your birthday, and I didn't want to have this conversation this weekend. But you're not all right. You're much worse. I can see how much trouble you have getting around, and you're still dragging yourself up and down the stairs. It's worrying Allen and me, and it's hard on Mom. I'm sure this isn't the first time you've fallen.

It's not as bad as you think.

Dad, this is me you're talking to. People sometimes pay me to make these assessments. I know just how bad it is.

So you have an opinion about what I should do.

Yes. Allen and I have talked about it, and we'd like to help you and Mom find someplace to live that's all on one level.

No.

Can you tell me why?

It's my decision.

I understand that. And I know how much you love this house. But I'd really like to understand why.

Because it's not time yet.

Not time yet?

I have it in my head that when I have to move out of this house, that will mean I can't work any more. And I'm not ready for that.

Those are two separate things. The hospital is completely accessible. There's no reason why you can't keep working. It's the stairs here that are the problem.

OK, you've said your piece, and I hear you. I understand how you feel. But we're not leaving this house.

Conversations With My Father, 1985 ~ by Jay

Jay, I need to know your birth date for a form.

You're my father. You should know what day I was born.

Cut it out. I don't have much time.

I'm not going to tell you. You should remember.

I know it was the day they made Lexington Avenue a one-way street.

Great! Go ahead and write that on the form. See what happens.

Huh? ~ by Jay

You're Les Miserables!

by Victor Hugo

One of the best known people in your community, you have become
something of a phenomenon. People have sung about you, danced in your honor, created all
manner of art in your name. And yet your story is one of failure and despair, with a few
brief exceptions. A hopeless romantic, you'll never stop hoping that more good will come
from your failings than is ever possible. Beware detectives and prison guards bearing
vendettas.


Take the Book Quiz
at the Blue Pyramid.

Conversations With My Father, 1990 ~ by Jay

Dad, you all drank another bottle of that Chateau d'Yquem last night, and I still haven't had any.

You weren't here.

Why didn't you wait for me? There are only a few bottles left in that case. When will I get to taste it?

When you do something to deserve it.

Dad, you've been saying that for ten years. In that time, I've graduated from college, graduated from medical school, gotten married, finished residency, and passed my boards. What exactly do I need to do to deserve it?

Red-headed twin grandchildren.

Letters from my Father, 1986 ~ by Jay

Dear Jay,

This will replace the stethoscope you "borrowed" from me three years ago. Now that you're a real doctor, you deserve your own.

Just remember that it's what's between the earpieces that counts.

love,

Dad.

Conversations With My Father, 1973-1978 ~ by Jay

Dad, I got a 95 on my math test.

What happened to the other five points?

_____

Dad, I got an A- in English.

What, they weren't giving out A's?

_____

Dad, I got 100 on my calculus midterm.

Was it out of 105?

Conversations With My Father, 1982 ~ by Jay

I'm sorry. I failed my anatomy midterm. I called the registrar's office and I found out if I withdraw by the end of the week, you can get most of the tuition money back.

No.

Look, I just can't do this. It's not worth it. I'm really sorry, but I can't.

Sweetheart, this is your decision. I don't care if you finish medical school or not. If you really don't want to do it, it's fine with me if you stop. But don't quit just because you think you can't do it. I know you can do it. Finish the semester, pass your courses - prove to yourself that you can - and then if you really don't want to finish, you can drop out. The hell with the money. You're more important than money. You need to make your own decision, not feel like you're running away.

Conversations With My Father, 1984 ~ by Jay

Dad, I want to invite your mother to our wedding.

Well, that's up to you. Why do you want to do that?

I don't know. It just seems like it's been long enough. I mean, it's been nearly 20 years since you've seen her.

That was her choice, honey.

Mom says it was your decision not to see her any more.

No, I never said that. She's welcome in my home any time, as long as she treats my wife with the respect and affection she deserves. No one, not even my mother, is entitled to behave the way she did toward your mother.

So you think it was her fault.

Yes. I have nothing to feel guilty about or apologize for, and neither does your mother. I did the right thing.

I don't know. I still feel funny leaving her out of my wedding.

Jay, my mother made her own choices. This is up to you. You have two grandparents who love you, and who have always been good to all of us, and they can't wait to dance at your wedding. It would be shame to have them overshadowed by someone else, someone who chose not to be involved in your life.

So you don't want me to invite her.

It's your wedding, and it's up to you. But you didn't cause this, and it's not your job to fix it.

Doesn't this bother you?

Only one thing bothers me. I'm sorry she never got to know you and your brother, because you're extraordinary people, and that's a terrible loss for her.

Conversations With My Father, 1976 ~ by Jay

I think I'll apply for a six-year combined degree program. I can start medical school classes in my third year and be done two years early.

No, you won't.

Dad, you said I could go to college anywhere I wanted to.

That's not college. You are going to college for four years.

But I know I'm going to medical school. And Allen is four years younger than I am; you'll end up paying tuition for eight years straight, more if he goes to grad school. This way I know I'll get into medical school and it will be a lot cheaper.

I know how old your brother is, and I know what college costs. I'll take care of the money. And you won't have any trouble getting into med school. You're not entering a six-year program.

Da-ad. Why not?

Because I want you to enjoy yourself and have a real college experience. College is not vocational school. It's a chance to stretch your mind and learn how to think. If you do the six-year program, you'll study biology and chemistry and that's it. No English classes, no art classes, no history or economics or creative writing. You enjoy all your classes, and you should have a broader background than just science. You'll have plenty of time to study medicine afterwards, and you'll be better off in the end.

Things I Could Do Without ~ by Jay

Tonight was the Last Day of School celebration at the local minor league baseball game. We have mascots, of course. What's baseball without a mascot these days? We have not one but two mascots: a boy and a girl of the same, um, species.

Tonight when they came out on the field before the game, they had the female mascot "taken hostage" by a fan of the opposing team, and the male mascot had to "rescue" her as the announcer exhorted the fans to cheer him on.

For some reason, I didn't find this entertaining. I'm just grateful my daughter was so busy looking for her friends and begging for ice cream that she didn't even notice.

Why Is It... ~ by Jay

....that after 20 years in practice without hearing a single person complain about their coccyx, I've now had two such complaints in a week?

Things I Am Grateful For ~ by Jay

Friendly moms in our neighborhood who work evening shift and are happy to have our daughter over for a playdate when the JCC is closed and the babysitter is sick and it's a half-day of school.

Air conditioning.

The public library, and the person who orders books for them and shares my taste in mysteries.

Audible.com

Crossword puzzles available on line, for free, and AcrossLite software.

A kid who can swim independently, leaving Mommy in the shade with a book.

That girdles are no longer expected attire, and that I don't have to wear pantyhose in the summer.

Crocs.

It's Just Us ~ by Jay

Most days I don't worry about my kid being an only child. Most days. Last weekend I sat with the son and daughter-in-law of a hospice patient. After some conversation, I said "are there any other family members we should call? Do you have any siblings?" The son smiled, waved his hand to indicate his chair and his mother's bed, and said "No, it's just us".

I know in my rational brain that having a sibling is no guarantee of help in difficult times. Sisters and brothers don't always get along; sometimes it's better to be alone than to have someone else claiming your time and attention and making demands on you in your grief. My relationship with my brother is not what I would wish; never has been and I don't know if it ever will be. My daughter may be better off on her own.

Some of my worry is reflected grief over our adoption losses. We didn't intend to raise an only child. That's not unique to adoptive parents, of course. I don't believe only children are automatically spoiled brats or miniature adults, and I know our daughter is learning to share and to consider others even though all the toys in the house belong to her. But I can't quite banish the worry entirely; I can only try to let go of it and hope she will nurture her relationship with her cousins and continue to build strong friendships, so that even without a sibling, she will not be alone.

Please Explain... ~ by Jay

...the need for a GPS-equipped golf cart. Don't you just drive the little cart along the little path from one hole to another? Why do you need GPS?

Conversations with Patients ~ by Jay

Patient age 16, here to establish care after moving from another state.

Have you been sexually active - had intercourse?

{Looks down at her hands} Yeah, once. About two years ago. Not again.

What did you use for protection?

{Still no eye contact} I think he used a condom.

Was it your choice to have sex?

No.

Were you raped?

No.

Sounds like a difficult experience. Have you ever talked to anyone about it?

No. I wasn't raped, I just - well, I just felt like I had to. It's complicated. You won't tell my parents, will you?

Not if you don't want me to. Was it someone you know? Someone older?

No. I'll never see him again. Ever.

Who Knew ~by MPJ

Apparently, one really doesn't have to do much to succeed as a 1930's male. But I am a lamer man than Jay.

85 As a 1930s husband, I am Very Superior Take the test!

Again, I Am Not Surprised ~ by Jay

139 As a 1930s husband, I am Very Superior Take the test!

Even though I monopolize the radio on Sundays for baseball broadcasts, read the newspaper at the table, and snore.

Ha! Me Too! by MPJ

I thought for sure that, since I'm a stay-at-home mom, I'd be a better 1930's wife than Jay. I'm pleased to announce that I must be really awful by 1930's standards in enough other ways to allow me to tie with Jay as a failure.

19 As a 1930s wife, I am Very Poor (Failure) Take the test!

This Pleases Me ~ by Jay

19 As a 1930s wife, I am Very Poor (Failure) Take the test!

Hmm, I Think I've Got It ~ by Jay

Again I'm blogging about not blogging. Yeah, I've written a few things recently in response to stuff that irritates me, but I don't feel connected to my writing in the way I have in the past. And when I sit down and reflect on what I really want to write about, I feel anxious and upset.

Well, as I always say, diagnosis is my life. So when did this start? I go back and look at my lists of posts and I see that it started around Memorial Day weekend, when we went to visit my mother. I had some ideas and drafts for posts before we left and I haven't been able to write about any of them since.

What happened Memorial Day weekend? I saw my cousins for the first time since my father's funeral; I ate dinner sitting in my father's chair at the table; I sorted through the medical books my mother wants to get rid of.

Oh.

So I think I need to write about my father. I don't know how long this will take, and I don't know where I will end up when it's done. I don't really want to do it, but if I don't it will block everything else. Bear with me, and I'll figure it out.

Letter of the Day ~ by Jay

A friend of mine is receiving the mail forwarded from her late mother-in-law's address.

Today she received an envelope proclaiming "SHIRLEY! HERE'S THE SECOND CHANCE YOU'VE BEEN WAITING FOR!".

They can do that now?

An Inconvenient Truth ~ by Jay

I just read a bouncy and enthusiastic email from the Education Director of our (very small) religious school. She's proposing "Hebrew Boot Camp" for my daughter's class: one week at the end of the summer where they will have two hours of intense Hebrew instruction every day.

She asks that we let her know if it's "impossible" (because we'll be out of town) or merely "inconvenient".

Well, that leaves me in a lovely position. Sam has the most challenging two weeks of his work year at the same time as the weeks she suggests, so his schedule is less flexible than usual and he'll be very stressed; I will be working full-time and adjusting to a new schedule with more hospice work while half my practice partners are on vacation, so I'm on call at least one of those weeks; our daughter will be in day camp, running around in the sun and not drinking enough water or eating her whole lunch, coming home hot, hungry, thirsty and cranky. So I guess that makes it "inconvenient", which means if I say "no", I'm depriving her of an important learning experience because I'm "unwilling to change my schedule" (quoting from the Email).

I do want my daughter to learn to read Hebrew. I'm sure we could find another parent in the group to pick her up, and even send her with an additional snack. But I'm not at all sure that's a priority for us over the last two weeks of the summer. If I have time, I'd rather have her come home and hang out at the community pool and do some school shopping and go get ice cream cones. She'll hold it together in Hebrew class - she'll behave and sit still and be quiet - but it will add to the fatigue and stress she feels, so we'll have less time together as a family and it will be far less pleasant. That's more than "merely inconvenient", it's just wrong. And that's the truth.

Overheard ~ by Jay

At the elementary school's Spring Carnival, near the prize table:

Oh, you should get the fuzzy dice and give them to dad. He always wanted a pair of fuzzy dice.

What for?

He wanted to hang them in his Camaro.

What's a Camaro?

{Dad steps in} It's the car you drive until your first kid is born.

Our Bodies, Our Problem ~ by Jay

Amazingly enough, women are now in charge of the future of the planet. After millenia of being systematically deprived of power over our own lives, let alone the fate of nations, we are now the sole reason civilization will rise or fall. Who knew?

Jill takes on the "white women aren't doing their duty" trope here. Wow, it's sure a relief to know there's a simple answer to that whole mess in the Balkans. Here I was trying to understand centuries of tribal conflict and the overlay of the cold war and the economic earthquake after the fall of the Soviet Union, and it turns out that the whole thing happened because the Serbian women didn't have enough babies, but the Albanian women were doing their duty. The original article and the comments there are trembling with fear of the Fertile Unwashed Masses. And it's up to women to fix it.

And then there's Robert Engleman, author of More: Population, Nature and What Women Want. I have to admit that I haven't read the book, and overall I agree with his thesis that when women have control over our fertility, our economic status rises and our families are healthier. And I fully support his work to improve access to birth control for all women in all countries.

OTOH, any book by a man that sports the subhead "what women want" makes me a bit uncomfortable. And there's this on his FAQ page:

Women have always been the agents of population change, not only as the bearers of children but as the much more involved sex in assuring they are born safely and survive to adulthood.

Now there's a responsibility. 6 billion people in the world too much for you? Blame the women.

Seems to me the real drivers of population growth are more complicated than that. Industrialization, technological change, urbanization, separation of large parts of the population from the way the food is made, increased lifespan, and probably a few other things I haven't thought about are all playing a role. And it isn't clear to me that we really are "overpopulated", either; if we had a sane agricultural policy, better food distribution, decent environmental policy and real international cooperation we might well be able to feed everyone and slow the process of climate change at the same time. We haven't even tried, not really.

That doesn't mean I oppose improving women's lives. Women should be full citizens of the world, with all the rights assumed by men, and women everywhere should have the ability to choose not only to use birth control - or not - but to have sex - or not. There I agree with Edelman. But I see that as a good in and of itself. Women should have autonomy and access to contraception because that's the right thing to do. Why is it only worth Edelman's attention when it benefits the environment?

And how do we know, really know, what size families women would choose if they were economically secure? If they had health care and food and family support? Some would choose to have four or eight or eleven children, and if we're really about what women want we have to be OK with that. We can't stop shaming women who use birth control just to start shaming women who choose to have children.

Linking family planning to climate change strikes me as a bad idea from both ends. Autonomy for women and fertility control are important, full stop. We can certainly look at the impact of population on climate change and environmental damage, but we also need to look at what we know is broken in our industrial, consumerist lifestyle. We need to increase our funding for education, contraception and women's health and we need to increase CAFE standards and look for real alternative fuels, as well as overhaul our farming policy and food aid networks. We need to do all of it. And it's not just up to the women.

It's OK, Mommy ~ by Jay

We were at Claire's house, Friday night, and it had been a pretty remarkable afternoon and evening. The kid got to play Nintendo DS for over an hour straight in the car, was reunited with "my best friend I have to travel to see" for about 15 minutes and then had pancakes for dinner and got to stay up and play for over an hour past her bedtime.

She'd packed for herself and I'd checked her clothes closely enough to put in the pajamas and socks she forgot - but that's all I checked. So when it finally came time to tuck her into bed, I realized we had landed without any of her familiars. No Bear. No Baby. None of the six or seven little stuffed animals. And - oh, dear - no Blankie.

Poor tired child had held it together for the whole long, sugar-filled day, but at this she just disintegrated and launched herself at me, sobbing. I wasn't far behind. I felt guilty and anxious, and after a few minutes I was crying too - and she raised her damp face to me, patted my shoulder and choked out, "It's OK, Mommy. It's OK."

This did not make me feel better.

I tucked her in with a borrowed blankie and a borrowed bear, but she really didn't want someone else's stuff, so off I went to Target where I procured one very soft and fleecy pink polka-dot blankie and one Classic Pooh bear, extra-cuddly. Both were greeted with a smile and a hug, and she subsided into bed at last.

Now she sleeps with both blankies (as well as the six stuffed animals, the new bear, and the baby doll). She's fine. I'm not. I can forgive myself for leaving the blankie at home, but I'm having a hard time letting go of that "it's OK, Mommy". I don't want my daughter to feel that she has to put her own emotional needs aside and tend to mine instead. I want to comfort her, to enclose her and give her a place to put her fear and grief. I don't want to add mine to her burden. I've been the kid in that scenario; I still am the kid in that scenario. I can't go to my mother with my sadness because I know how much it upsets her, and I can't produce the endless reassurance she requires.

Note to self: always remember the blanket, and let the kid be the kid and not the parent.

I Am Not Qualified to Read This Book ~ by Jay

On the second page, a sentence starts "One need not be a radical social constructionist....."

Good thing the next book we're reading for book club is Skinny Dip by Carl Hiaasen. If - and I stress if - I finish Mass Hysteria, I'll need something very, very fluffy to follow it up.

Thanks, Orange, for recommending this. I think.