I may harm myself before the election gets here. Truly the only thing worse than being a working mother in Stepford is being a Democrat in Stepford. So needless to say, since I am both, sharp objects seem to be calling my name. I was doing pretty well this election cycle … right up until the Republican Party nominated a Stepford Wife for Vice President. Sitting at my desk reading the announcement, all I could think was “Uh oh. Here we go.” So, the last two weeks having pretty much been a living Hell. I’m trying to get my groove back, so I’ve decided to share the eight most ridiculous things said to my face by people I know regarding politics this year:
1) From my mother: “I think we can at least agree that Cindy McCain has the most beautiful clothes.”
I responded, “Yes, mom, billionaires tend to dress well.”
2) From my husband who apparently never wants sex from me again: “That’s John McCain’s wife? She’s hot.”
Umkay … and you are attracted to me because … ?
3) Again, from my mother, the most ironic sentence ever uttered in the history of mankind: “Kristi, Obama is such a racist and if I have to look at Michelle’s lips for four years I’ll vomit in the trash can.”
Upside? I’m living proof racism is not a genetic disorder.
4) From my husband: “Kristi, I think you’re overlooking why Sarah Palin might be appealing to some people.”
WTF? I only live in a community where every woman thinks they are her. The remainder of this conversation did not go well.
5) From my mother: “Let me tell you one thing, my little Sarah came out a swingin’!”
Your little Sarah? What followed, I will admit, was nothing short of a screaming throw down over Palin.
6) From a friend’s mother over Easter Brunch: “I think its pretty clear Barack Obama is the Anti-Christ.”
After receiving my blank stare, which is my standard “OMG that is so ridiculous I can’t find words” response, she followed up with “Oprah has started her own religion.”
Good to know.
7) From a coworker: “Did you see Hannity and Combs last night?”
I followed that question with the obligatory blank stare and “Uhhh, no. What channel is that? Oh, Fox. No, I missed it.” I then proceeded to the restroom and talked myself out of jumping from my tenth floor office window.
8) From a friend’s child: “My daddy says Obama is a thief and he is going to steal all our money.”
This is child abuse.
Here is how I’m keeping myself sane until Halloween. I’ve ordered a hot pink “I AM Sarah Palin” tee shirt off the web and am planning to wear it with a bee hive hairdo, pumps, a pig nose, glasses, and red lipstick while handing out candy to my neighbor’s children on Halloween. I doubt anyone will notice. Of course, there is also the possibility that I will get no trick-or-treaters at all due to the Obama 2008 sign in the front yard.
Wednesday, 17 September 2008
Friday, 12 September 2008
Pigs, Pit Bulls, and Palin
We don’t wear no mini skirts,
We just wear our soccer shirts.
We don’t play with Barbie dolls,
We just play with Soccer balls.
And so begins my eight-year-old daughter’s soccer team chant. It’s a little different from the “Firecracker, Firecracker, Boom, Boom, Boom” hip-shaking cheer I was doing at her age and that’s just fine with me. Another difference between my daughter and me is the fact that I never heard the term “sexism” as a child. However, two days ago she asked me what it was and I did my best to explain it to her. She, of course, heard this term on the news this week. I had actually expected the question to come from my eleven-year-old son since he is now at the age where even the slightest inference of sex makes his ears perk up. Alas, it was my daughter and I felt prepared and qualified enough to discuss the topic with her. After all, I’m college educated and a professional working woman. What I felt utterly unprepared for was explaining to her exactly how sexism applies to Sarah Palin. She hasn’t asked about Sarah Palin yet, so I left that part of the discussion for another day. The conversation did get me thinking and whenever that happens, writing usually follows.
So, lots of accusations about Sarah Palin being the victim of sexism have been tossed out for us, the American voters, to chew on this week. I’ve paused more than once to really think about this. I admit, I’ve had more than a little difficulty wrapping my mind around what exactly it is that is going on here. After careful and thoughtful analysis, I’ve determined that the reason I’m having a hard time with this is that I don’t have a word in my vocabulary that describes what I’m observing. It’s definitely not sexism. The American Heritage Dictionary defines sexism as “The belief that one sex (usually the male) is naturally superior to the other and should dominate most important areas of political, economic, and social life.” Nope, she’s definitely not suffering from sexism. Actually, it seems to me that she is suffering (Read: benefiting) from a perverted twisting of sexism that I don’t have a name for.
Here are my observations and questions related to this:
1) Is it actually sexism to choose a woman for a job just because she’s a woman? If the answer to this is yes, then I have to conclude that Tim Pawlenty is actually the one who has been the victim of sexism and not Sarah Palin. Palin it seems has been the beneficiary rather than the victim.
2) When Palin went on national television and described herself as a hockey mom and then further went on to say the only difference between a hockey mom and a pit bull is lipstick, is that sexism? I mean certainly no one would ever say the only difference between a hockey dad and a pit bull is lipstick.
3) Is using the phrase “lipstick on a pig” sexism? If the answer is yes, is it the “pig” part or the “lipstick” part that is sexism? If it is the “pig” part, I’m going to have to stop using the phrase “happy as a pig in the sunshine.” If it is the “lipstick” part, Palin needs to stop telling her pit bull joke. Oh wait, maybe it is the combination of pigs and lipstick that makes this remark sexist? If the answer to that is yes, what on God’s green earth does any of that have to do with the economy, health care, the war, or taxes?
Here’s the point. Sarah Palin can’t have it both ways. She can’t put on the “Mantle of Motherhood” in her national political debut and then expect no one to ask questions about how she mothers and governs at the same time. She can’t be the “Pit bull” of the Republican Party and expect no criticism to come back her way. She can’t disclose the name, rank, unit, and deployment date of her son, as admirable as that may be, and expect no one to ask about her pregnant daughter. She can’t just say she’s qualified to be Vice President. She must open herself up to the media like McCain, Obama, and Biden have done. And come to think about it, like Cindy McCain and Michelle Obama have also done. And if the media asks her tough questions, here’s a news flash: they are doing their jobs, not attacking her because she is a woman or a conservative. Sarah, if you can’t run with the big dogs, you need to get back on the porch with the Barbies, I mean, puppies. Surely the pit bull hockey mom, rifle shooting, moose-stew eating Sarah Palin isn’t going to turn out to be whiner. After all, as she should know by now, there is no place for whining in hockey, motherhood, or politics.
We just wear our soccer shirts.
We don’t play with Barbie dolls,
We just play with Soccer balls.
And so begins my eight-year-old daughter’s soccer team chant. It’s a little different from the “Firecracker, Firecracker, Boom, Boom, Boom” hip-shaking cheer I was doing at her age and that’s just fine with me. Another difference between my daughter and me is the fact that I never heard the term “sexism” as a child. However, two days ago she asked me what it was and I did my best to explain it to her. She, of course, heard this term on the news this week. I had actually expected the question to come from my eleven-year-old son since he is now at the age where even the slightest inference of sex makes his ears perk up. Alas, it was my daughter and I felt prepared and qualified enough to discuss the topic with her. After all, I’m college educated and a professional working woman. What I felt utterly unprepared for was explaining to her exactly how sexism applies to Sarah Palin. She hasn’t asked about Sarah Palin yet, so I left that part of the discussion for another day. The conversation did get me thinking and whenever that happens, writing usually follows.
So, lots of accusations about Sarah Palin being the victim of sexism have been tossed out for us, the American voters, to chew on this week. I’ve paused more than once to really think about this. I admit, I’ve had more than a little difficulty wrapping my mind around what exactly it is that is going on here. After careful and thoughtful analysis, I’ve determined that the reason I’m having a hard time with this is that I don’t have a word in my vocabulary that describes what I’m observing. It’s definitely not sexism. The American Heritage Dictionary defines sexism as “The belief that one sex (usually the male) is naturally superior to the other and should dominate most important areas of political, economic, and social life.” Nope, she’s definitely not suffering from sexism. Actually, it seems to me that she is suffering (Read: benefiting) from a perverted twisting of sexism that I don’t have a name for.
Here are my observations and questions related to this:
1) Is it actually sexism to choose a woman for a job just because she’s a woman? If the answer to this is yes, then I have to conclude that Tim Pawlenty is actually the one who has been the victim of sexism and not Sarah Palin. Palin it seems has been the beneficiary rather than the victim.
2) When Palin went on national television and described herself as a hockey mom and then further went on to say the only difference between a hockey mom and a pit bull is lipstick, is that sexism? I mean certainly no one would ever say the only difference between a hockey dad and a pit bull is lipstick.
3) Is using the phrase “lipstick on a pig” sexism? If the answer is yes, is it the “pig” part or the “lipstick” part that is sexism? If it is the “pig” part, I’m going to have to stop using the phrase “happy as a pig in the sunshine.” If it is the “lipstick” part, Palin needs to stop telling her pit bull joke. Oh wait, maybe it is the combination of pigs and lipstick that makes this remark sexist? If the answer to that is yes, what on God’s green earth does any of that have to do with the economy, health care, the war, or taxes?
Here’s the point. Sarah Palin can’t have it both ways. She can’t put on the “Mantle of Motherhood” in her national political debut and then expect no one to ask questions about how she mothers and governs at the same time. She can’t be the “Pit bull” of the Republican Party and expect no criticism to come back her way. She can’t disclose the name, rank, unit, and deployment date of her son, as admirable as that may be, and expect no one to ask about her pregnant daughter. She can’t just say she’s qualified to be Vice President. She must open herself up to the media like McCain, Obama, and Biden have done. And come to think about it, like Cindy McCain and Michelle Obama have also done. And if the media asks her tough questions, here’s a news flash: they are doing their jobs, not attacking her because she is a woman or a conservative. Sarah, if you can’t run with the big dogs, you need to get back on the porch with the Barbies, I mean, puppies. Surely the pit bull hockey mom, rifle shooting, moose-stew eating Sarah Palin isn’t going to turn out to be whiner. After all, as she should know by now, there is no place for whining in hockey, motherhood, or politics.
Tuesday, 9 September 2008
Oh Sarah, No
So, as expected, the Stepford Wives have gone wild. No doubt while watching Sarah Palin’s acceptance speech last week they all saw themselves ... and felt so good about it. Here was a woman, in her forties, looking great after five kids, hair in an updo, high heels on, giving the crowd and the nation a finely crafted speech. She spoke about family values, a successful twenty-year marriage, and lots and lots of personal accomplishments, which all began in that staple of American Moms—the PTA.
The Stepford Wives LOVE her, their husbands love her, and they are all convinced that this one woman is going to save them from Barack Obama, who plans to take all their husbands’ hard earned money. I expected this; really I did. I mean, I see the similarities between Sarah Palin and the Stepford Wives. Substitute soccer for hockey and maybe four kids for five and on the surface, which is as far as any self-respecting Stepford Wife will ever scratch, Sarah Palin’s acceptance speech must have been like looking in a mirror for them.
Except for that one little fact about her that they are all missing—she works. She works a lot. She is the Governor of Alaska and now is running for Vice President of the United States. She went back to work three days after giving birth this last spring. Have they missed this? What happened to their blanket judgments about working moms? What happened to “I feel so sorry for her because she has to work,” or “Can you believe she put that baby in daycare when he was six weeks old?” I’ll tell you. The Stepford Wives and the right wing of the Republican Party are willing to overlook this one slight “unconservative” fact about Sarah Palin because she is the chosen one to save them.
Okay, now here’s my beef. I don’t give a Texas hoot if Sarah Palin works, how many kids she has, or who is raising them. I’m a working mom, I choose to work, and I juggle it all pretty damn well. I’m no Governor, but I reign over my little piece of Stepford pretty well. I care about working moms, women shattering the glass ceiling, women having options so they can work and raise a family at the same time. I care about women getting equal pay for equal work. All that stuff. However, I also would never want an opportunity given to me solely because I am a woman. I would want to earn it, be qualified for it, and ready to take it on.
When I look at Sarah Palin, this is what I see: I see a women who, if she had been a man, would not be on the Republican ticket right now. This type of pandering to women bothers as much as if a woman had NOT been chosen strictly because of the fact that she was female. This type of pandering doesn’t help women—working or not working. I believe it actually hurts us. Let’s shatter the glass ceiling, sure. But let’s do it with a woman who is qualified and wasn’t chosen to just get our votes. We’re smarter than this. I pray we know it. I pray we show it. Yes, John McCain, I’ll stand up and fight. I’ll stand up and fight for Barack Obama and real change for real women.
The Stepford Wives LOVE her, their husbands love her, and they are all convinced that this one woman is going to save them from Barack Obama, who plans to take all their husbands’ hard earned money. I expected this; really I did. I mean, I see the similarities between Sarah Palin and the Stepford Wives. Substitute soccer for hockey and maybe four kids for five and on the surface, which is as far as any self-respecting Stepford Wife will ever scratch, Sarah Palin’s acceptance speech must have been like looking in a mirror for them.
Except for that one little fact about her that they are all missing—she works. She works a lot. She is the Governor of Alaska and now is running for Vice President of the United States. She went back to work three days after giving birth this last spring. Have they missed this? What happened to their blanket judgments about working moms? What happened to “I feel so sorry for her because she has to work,” or “Can you believe she put that baby in daycare when he was six weeks old?” I’ll tell you. The Stepford Wives and the right wing of the Republican Party are willing to overlook this one slight “unconservative” fact about Sarah Palin because she is the chosen one to save them.
Okay, now here’s my beef. I don’t give a Texas hoot if Sarah Palin works, how many kids she has, or who is raising them. I’m a working mom, I choose to work, and I juggle it all pretty damn well. I’m no Governor, but I reign over my little piece of Stepford pretty well. I care about working moms, women shattering the glass ceiling, women having options so they can work and raise a family at the same time. I care about women getting equal pay for equal work. All that stuff. However, I also would never want an opportunity given to me solely because I am a woman. I would want to earn it, be qualified for it, and ready to take it on.
When I look at Sarah Palin, this is what I see: I see a women who, if she had been a man, would not be on the Republican ticket right now. This type of pandering to women bothers as much as if a woman had NOT been chosen strictly because of the fact that she was female. This type of pandering doesn’t help women—working or not working. I believe it actually hurts us. Let’s shatter the glass ceiling, sure. But let’s do it with a woman who is qualified and wasn’t chosen to just get our votes. We’re smarter than this. I pray we know it. I pray we show it. Yes, John McCain, I’ll stand up and fight. I’ll stand up and fight for Barack Obama and real change for real women.
Wednesday, 3 September 2008
I'll See Your Black Man and Raise You a Palin
Last Friday morning I received a rare instant message from my husband.
Him: “Palin.”
Me: “Yes. I heard.”
Him, never having heard of her before that morning (he doesn’t listen to NPR): “Thoughts?”
Hmmm … So much to say via an instant message. I need some time to really mull this over.
Me: “Their base will go wild. I’m disturbed by the implications.”
Okay … after twenty years of marriage he knows to leave it alone if I’m “disturbed” by anything the Republicans do. Over the last eight years, he has learned this lesson all too well.
Him, ducking for cover: “Bye.”
And so began my examination of Sarah Palin and my complicated feelings about her being chosen for the number two spot on the Republican ticket. First, I looked at our similarities. Sarah is a Hockey Mom and I’m a Soccer Mom. Sarah is forty-four and I’m forty-one. Sarah holds a bachelor’s degree in communications while I hold one in business management. Sarah married her high school sweetheart and I married my college sweetheart. Both husbands, in their forties, have goatees. Sarah is the mother of five children and I am the mother of three children. Sarah and I are working mothers. I should love her, right? Hold, please.
Now, let’s examine our differences. Sarah is a Pro-Life Evangelical Christian whose current occupation is Governor of Alaska. I’m a Pro-Choice United Methodist who readily confesses I have more questions than answers regarding everything from the existence of a personified devil to how exactly God got Jesus into Mary’s virgin womb.
I’m currently employed as a legal assistant and although I’m no Governor, I do follow politics very closely. Sarah is a Republican and I’m a Democrat. When Sarah became pregnant for the fifth time, she was made aware through prenatal testing that her son would have Down Syndrome. She gave birth in April at the age of forty-four. I became pregnant for the first time at twenty-seven years of age and through prenatal testing became aware that my son would have Down Syndrome. I chose not to deliver my son. Actually, that’s not quite accurate. I chose to deliver him at twenty-one weeks and he was stillborn. Sarah will now raise a child with Down Syndrome along with her four other healthy children. I’m now raising two healthy children against the backdrop of the choice I made for my first son thirteen years ago.
John McCain apparently believes Sarah is qualified to be the Commander-In-Chief should he die while in office. John McCain has never heard of Kristi Stevens. Sarah says she can mother and be second in command to the most powerful man on the planet. I’m just hoping I can make it to soccer practice by six, pick up milk on the way home, and get both kids in bed by 8:30 p.m. so that I can watch Sarah’s nationally televised speech.
So now you know the lens through which I view Sarah Palin. Admittedly, it is a skeptical one. I have many more questions about her than I have answers. I have no idea why John McCain chose her other than what I believe to be obvious: she is extremely conservative which appeals to the Republican base, she is a Washington outsider apparently untainted by the current President, and she is a woman which McCain must think balances out the diversity of the Democratic ticket.
I have no idea how she dealt with the news that her fifth child would have Down Syndrome. Did she, like me, grieve for the life that might have been? Did she weep for the struggles that she knew would come? Did she wrestle with knowing she was choosing to bring a child into the world with a disability? I have to believe that she did... that any mother would. I have to believe that the process she went through upon hearing the news was much like my own. She came to a different conclusion for her family and for her son than I. And for that, you will never hear any judgment from me. I’ve walked those shoes. For four agonizing days I read, absorbed, was counseled, and I prayed. I looked and re-looked at a level two-sonogram tape of my son’s heart, stomach, and kidneys. Then I made my choice for my family and for my son. And I’ve lived every single day for the last thirteen years with that choice coloring my life. I would not change it and I’m at peace with it. It is not the road I would have chosen, but one that I awoke to find myself walking. And one step at time I’ve walked it ever since. Would I receive judgment from Sarah Palin if she knew my story? I don’t know the answer to that yet. I do believe I am about to find out.
I’ll be voting for Barack Obama and Joe Biden in November. I’ll be doing so because I believe in a middle class that isn’t overly burdened by taxes and has a fair shot at getting a job that pays a living wage. I’ll be voting for the right to health care for all our citizens. I’ll be voting for a woman’s right to choose. I’ll be voting in the hope that the country I love will soon not be at war. I will be voting in the hope that neither of my children will ever see war firsthand.
Between now and then I will watch the campaign closely. I will watch Sarah Palin very closely. If she becomes our next Vice President, my prayer for her is that she will learn well the tough lessons, which she is now being taught. I pray she will be able to mother and govern. I pray her youngest will do well and thrive. I pray her oldest daughter delivers a healthy baby and has a long, happy marriage. I pray her oldest son comes home safely from Iraq. And I will particularly pray that Sarah Palin will understand that her religious beliefs are not necessarily those of the people she governs … that freedom of religion also means freedom from religion.
Him: “Palin.”
Me: “Yes. I heard.”
Him, never having heard of her before that morning (he doesn’t listen to NPR): “Thoughts?”
Hmmm … So much to say via an instant message. I need some time to really mull this over.
Me: “Their base will go wild. I’m disturbed by the implications.”
Okay … after twenty years of marriage he knows to leave it alone if I’m “disturbed” by anything the Republicans do. Over the last eight years, he has learned this lesson all too well.
Him, ducking for cover: “Bye.”
And so began my examination of Sarah Palin and my complicated feelings about her being chosen for the number two spot on the Republican ticket. First, I looked at our similarities. Sarah is a Hockey Mom and I’m a Soccer Mom. Sarah is forty-four and I’m forty-one. Sarah holds a bachelor’s degree in communications while I hold one in business management. Sarah married her high school sweetheart and I married my college sweetheart. Both husbands, in their forties, have goatees. Sarah is the mother of five children and I am the mother of three children. Sarah and I are working mothers. I should love her, right? Hold, please.
Now, let’s examine our differences. Sarah is a Pro-Life Evangelical Christian whose current occupation is Governor of Alaska. I’m a Pro-Choice United Methodist who readily confesses I have more questions than answers regarding everything from the existence of a personified devil to how exactly God got Jesus into Mary’s virgin womb.
I’m currently employed as a legal assistant and although I’m no Governor, I do follow politics very closely. Sarah is a Republican and I’m a Democrat. When Sarah became pregnant for the fifth time, she was made aware through prenatal testing that her son would have Down Syndrome. She gave birth in April at the age of forty-four. I became pregnant for the first time at twenty-seven years of age and through prenatal testing became aware that my son would have Down Syndrome. I chose not to deliver my son. Actually, that’s not quite accurate. I chose to deliver him at twenty-one weeks and he was stillborn. Sarah will now raise a child with Down Syndrome along with her four other healthy children. I’m now raising two healthy children against the backdrop of the choice I made for my first son thirteen years ago.
John McCain apparently believes Sarah is qualified to be the Commander-In-Chief should he die while in office. John McCain has never heard of Kristi Stevens. Sarah says she can mother and be second in command to the most powerful man on the planet. I’m just hoping I can make it to soccer practice by six, pick up milk on the way home, and get both kids in bed by 8:30 p.m. so that I can watch Sarah’s nationally televised speech.
So now you know the lens through which I view Sarah Palin. Admittedly, it is a skeptical one. I have many more questions about her than I have answers. I have no idea why John McCain chose her other than what I believe to be obvious: she is extremely conservative which appeals to the Republican base, she is a Washington outsider apparently untainted by the current President, and she is a woman which McCain must think balances out the diversity of the Democratic ticket.
I have no idea how she dealt with the news that her fifth child would have Down Syndrome. Did she, like me, grieve for the life that might have been? Did she weep for the struggles that she knew would come? Did she wrestle with knowing she was choosing to bring a child into the world with a disability? I have to believe that she did... that any mother would. I have to believe that the process she went through upon hearing the news was much like my own. She came to a different conclusion for her family and for her son than I. And for that, you will never hear any judgment from me. I’ve walked those shoes. For four agonizing days I read, absorbed, was counseled, and I prayed. I looked and re-looked at a level two-sonogram tape of my son’s heart, stomach, and kidneys. Then I made my choice for my family and for my son. And I’ve lived every single day for the last thirteen years with that choice coloring my life. I would not change it and I’m at peace with it. It is not the road I would have chosen, but one that I awoke to find myself walking. And one step at time I’ve walked it ever since. Would I receive judgment from Sarah Palin if she knew my story? I don’t know the answer to that yet. I do believe I am about to find out.
I’ll be voting for Barack Obama and Joe Biden in November. I’ll be doing so because I believe in a middle class that isn’t overly burdened by taxes and has a fair shot at getting a job that pays a living wage. I’ll be voting for the right to health care for all our citizens. I’ll be voting for a woman’s right to choose. I’ll be voting in the hope that the country I love will soon not be at war. I will be voting in the hope that neither of my children will ever see war firsthand.
Between now and then I will watch the campaign closely. I will watch Sarah Palin very closely. If she becomes our next Vice President, my prayer for her is that she will learn well the tough lessons, which she is now being taught. I pray she will be able to mother and govern. I pray her youngest will do well and thrive. I pray her oldest daughter delivers a healthy baby and has a long, happy marriage. I pray her oldest son comes home safely from Iraq. And I will particularly pray that Sarah Palin will understand that her religious beliefs are not necessarily those of the people she governs … that freedom of religion also means freedom from religion.
Thursday, 7 August 2008
Lexus Lady
One of the most aggravatingly wonderful things about being a mother is that you have the opportunity to eat every word you’ve ever spoken ... or thought ... or typed. I’m not kidding. Every single word. I can still vividly remember sitting in the backseat of my mother’s 1976 navy blue Ford El Camino with the white vinyl top saying, “I will NEVER spank my children when I’m a Mom!” Now, I’ve stuck to that thirty-year-old pledge in spirit and for the most part, in practice. However, the day in August 2000 when it was one hundred and twelve degrees in Dallas and probably one hundred and twenty in the Wal-Mart parking lot, I made an exception.
You see, I was eight months pregnant and my three-year-old son would not sit back into his car seat so I could buckle the three point harness. Well, you can imagine the scene—I’ve got my shopping cart full of everything under the sun and my abnormally large and pregnant rear end stuck out the sliding door of the minivan while trying to simultaneously wrestle and reason with a very tired and hungry three-year-old. And it happened. I snapped like a piece of elastic in some old panties and spanked my child. Yes, I did. I’m very fortunate that there were no surveillance cameras in the vicinity, lest both my son and my unborn daughter would have been immediately confiscated by CPS. I’m not sure which one of us was more surprised about the spanking. After all, my son had only recently had the following conversation with my mother:
Her, trying to get him to do something that now escapes me, but I am sure was of the utmost urgency: “Do you need BB to give you a spanking??”
Okay, as if a) any child would answer “yes” to this question, and b) my mom would dare to lay a finger on my child for fear I would beat her to death.
Him with a very puzzled look on his small face: “What’s a spanking?”
Her, narrowing her eyes at me: “Let me tell you something. You are going to be very sorry if don’t get control of your children early. I can’t believe he doesn’t even know what a spanking is.”
Me: “Yes, mom. I’m sure Ted Bundy was never spanked as a child either.”
Anyway, after the spanking ended I was left panting, sweating, and staring wide-eyed at an equally wide-eyed three-year-old. We just looked at each other. I was thinking “Holy crap. I think I just spanked my child.” I’m not sure what he was thinking, but I was able to immediately buckle him in his car seat and unload the grocery cart into the back of the van. I then climbed into the driver’s seat, air conditioning blowing on high, put the van in reverse, and promptly backed smack into a Lexus that was coming down the aisle behind me.
Now this lady, and I use that term loosely, was not happy. I could see her in my rear-view mirror and she was using words I can lip read. So, I took a deep breath and literally crawled down out of the van and dragged my pregnant belly back to see the damage. It was not good. My van, fine. Her Lexus, smashed. As I came around the back of the van, she was looking at the front-end damage to her car and I now could hear the words coming out of her mouth. That is until the second she turned around and saw me. My hair was soaking wet with sweat and plastered to my head. All my makeup had melted off, with the exception of my mascara, which was now underneath my eyes, and I was still out of breath from the round I had just had with the three-year-old.
She literally said, “OH MY GOD. You are pregnant!”
Umkay, old lady ... is that an insult or are you somehow offended by pregnant women? Either way, I’m liking you less by the second.
Then the most remarkable thing happened. She mumbled, “Never mind,” got back into her Lexus, and drove away, leaving me standing on the hot asphalt wondering, “What the hell was that?”
I am still to this day not exactly sure what happened with the Lexus Lady. All I know is that I never heard from her or her insurance company, and I’m pretty confident she ate every word she spoke about me on her ride to the body shop.
You see, I was eight months pregnant and my three-year-old son would not sit back into his car seat so I could buckle the three point harness. Well, you can imagine the scene—I’ve got my shopping cart full of everything under the sun and my abnormally large and pregnant rear end stuck out the sliding door of the minivan while trying to simultaneously wrestle and reason with a very tired and hungry three-year-old. And it happened. I snapped like a piece of elastic in some old panties and spanked my child. Yes, I did. I’m very fortunate that there were no surveillance cameras in the vicinity, lest both my son and my unborn daughter would have been immediately confiscated by CPS. I’m not sure which one of us was more surprised about the spanking. After all, my son had only recently had the following conversation with my mother:
Her, trying to get him to do something that now escapes me, but I am sure was of the utmost urgency: “Do you need BB to give you a spanking??”
Okay, as if a) any child would answer “yes” to this question, and b) my mom would dare to lay a finger on my child for fear I would beat her to death.
Him with a very puzzled look on his small face: “What’s a spanking?”
Her, narrowing her eyes at me: “Let me tell you something. You are going to be very sorry if don’t get control of your children early. I can’t believe he doesn’t even know what a spanking is.”
Me: “Yes, mom. I’m sure Ted Bundy was never spanked as a child either.”
Anyway, after the spanking ended I was left panting, sweating, and staring wide-eyed at an equally wide-eyed three-year-old. We just looked at each other. I was thinking “Holy crap. I think I just spanked my child.” I’m not sure what he was thinking, but I was able to immediately buckle him in his car seat and unload the grocery cart into the back of the van. I then climbed into the driver’s seat, air conditioning blowing on high, put the van in reverse, and promptly backed smack into a Lexus that was coming down the aisle behind me.
Now this lady, and I use that term loosely, was not happy. I could see her in my rear-view mirror and she was using words I can lip read. So, I took a deep breath and literally crawled down out of the van and dragged my pregnant belly back to see the damage. It was not good. My van, fine. Her Lexus, smashed. As I came around the back of the van, she was looking at the front-end damage to her car and I now could hear the words coming out of her mouth. That is until the second she turned around and saw me. My hair was soaking wet with sweat and plastered to my head. All my makeup had melted off, with the exception of my mascara, which was now underneath my eyes, and I was still out of breath from the round I had just had with the three-year-old.
She literally said, “OH MY GOD. You are pregnant!”
Umkay, old lady ... is that an insult or are you somehow offended by pregnant women? Either way, I’m liking you less by the second.
Then the most remarkable thing happened. She mumbled, “Never mind,” got back into her Lexus, and drove away, leaving me standing on the hot asphalt wondering, “What the hell was that?”
I am still to this day not exactly sure what happened with the Lexus Lady. All I know is that I never heard from her or her insurance company, and I’m pretty confident she ate every word she spoke about me on her ride to the body shop.
Thursday, 19 June 2008
Back on the Market in Stepford
Well, I just found out that a recently refurbished Stepford Wife is about to hit the market. A few months ago, I heard about her second breast augmentation, tummy tuck, full body lipo, and new Mercedes. I had assumed these improvements were her scheduled forty-five-year maintenance and done for the enjoyment of her Stepford Husband. It seems now, however, that this work was done because she was about to be put back on the market and everyone in Stepford knows you can’t get anything for a forty-five-year-old Stepford Wife unless she’s been properly maintained.
The other Stepford Wives are now busily discussing her options amongst themselves. Because this particular Stepford marriage lasted longer than ten years and she hasn’t worked outside the home in quite awhile, she will surely get some sort of spousal support on top on the $2100 per month in child support she’ll receive for her three children. Because Texas is a community property state, the couple’s assets will be divided down the middle and distributed once all the debts are satisfied. Sadly, the one million dollar home will probably have to be sold. However, there are places in Stepford, less desirable neighborhoods such as my own, where a Stepford Ex-wife can survive on her half of the marital assets and spousal/child support until she’s put back into to service again.
This morning, while instant messaging regarding the soon-to-be Stepford Ex-wife’s options, it occurred to me that while I feel really good about how I look, the fact remains that I’m not exactly in marketable condition. I’m much more like a well taken care of used car. I don’t have any obvious body damage from past collisions, my paint job still looks pretty good, and the interior is nice and clean. However, once you get under the hood, well, let’s just say I could use some engine work. Under the facade of my size eight clothing lie Spanx and a Miracle Bra that camouflage the hail damage on my rear-end and my flat A-cup boobs. So as to not be too hard on myself, I feel I need to mention that my tummy does not need to be tucked. I have been graced with a flat stomach and a small waist, so I try to emphasize that as much as possible without highlighting what is above and beneath. I’m concerned that at forty-one, this feature of my figure may soon begin to change. It is my understanding that as my estrogen levels drop with age, my mid-section will begin to thicken.
This displeases me greatly and I pray I’ll be able to fight off this assault with core training and yoga. So far, so good. I’ve made peace with my rear end. I could make it smaller and less lumpy, but I have decided I’m not willing to invest the time needed in knee-crunching aerobics to make that happen. I’m working on making peace with my breasts. There is no exercise available to alter their current state and augmentation is financially out of the question, so I’m left with the Miracle Bra, which is really not a miracle at all. It’s much more like a slight of hand than any real magic.
As I’m pondering these uniquely Stepford issues, it occurs to me that one of the reasons I’m okay with how I look is that I never plan to be on the market again. It’s not that I think my marriage could never end in divorce or that my husband could never die. It’s just that I can say with all certainty that if my husband spontaneously combusted at lunch today, I would never go back on the market. The thought of a man other than my husband seeing me completely naked is not one that I’m willing to entertain. Further, I do not want to see what is under the hood of any other forty-plus year old man ... ever. I’m not afraid of this as much as I am just uninterested. There are so many things in my life that I still want to do. So many areas of myself that I feel are unexplored. In the script I’ve written for myself, it’s just a given that if I ever find myself without my husband, I won’t go looking for another. Instead, I will go looking for other parts of me. I tell my husband all the time that I think I’m about one-third done with this life. And he responds the same every time: “You think so, Kristi? You think you’re going to live to be one hundred and twenty? Really? Really?” And I say, “Yep. Really. Yes, I do. I still have a lot to say.” And I’m sure as he looks at me and smiles, he is thinking, “Yes. God, help us all. Yes you do.”
The other Stepford Wives are now busily discussing her options amongst themselves. Because this particular Stepford marriage lasted longer than ten years and she hasn’t worked outside the home in quite awhile, she will surely get some sort of spousal support on top on the $2100 per month in child support she’ll receive for her three children. Because Texas is a community property state, the couple’s assets will be divided down the middle and distributed once all the debts are satisfied. Sadly, the one million dollar home will probably have to be sold. However, there are places in Stepford, less desirable neighborhoods such as my own, where a Stepford Ex-wife can survive on her half of the marital assets and spousal/child support until she’s put back into to service again.
This morning, while instant messaging regarding the soon-to-be Stepford Ex-wife’s options, it occurred to me that while I feel really good about how I look, the fact remains that I’m not exactly in marketable condition. I’m much more like a well taken care of used car. I don’t have any obvious body damage from past collisions, my paint job still looks pretty good, and the interior is nice and clean. However, once you get under the hood, well, let’s just say I could use some engine work. Under the facade of my size eight clothing lie Spanx and a Miracle Bra that camouflage the hail damage on my rear-end and my flat A-cup boobs. So as to not be too hard on myself, I feel I need to mention that my tummy does not need to be tucked. I have been graced with a flat stomach and a small waist, so I try to emphasize that as much as possible without highlighting what is above and beneath. I’m concerned that at forty-one, this feature of my figure may soon begin to change. It is my understanding that as my estrogen levels drop with age, my mid-section will begin to thicken.
This displeases me greatly and I pray I’ll be able to fight off this assault with core training and yoga. So far, so good. I’ve made peace with my rear end. I could make it smaller and less lumpy, but I have decided I’m not willing to invest the time needed in knee-crunching aerobics to make that happen. I’m working on making peace with my breasts. There is no exercise available to alter their current state and augmentation is financially out of the question, so I’m left with the Miracle Bra, which is really not a miracle at all. It’s much more like a slight of hand than any real magic.
As I’m pondering these uniquely Stepford issues, it occurs to me that one of the reasons I’m okay with how I look is that I never plan to be on the market again. It’s not that I think my marriage could never end in divorce or that my husband could never die. It’s just that I can say with all certainty that if my husband spontaneously combusted at lunch today, I would never go back on the market. The thought of a man other than my husband seeing me completely naked is not one that I’m willing to entertain. Further, I do not want to see what is under the hood of any other forty-plus year old man ... ever. I’m not afraid of this as much as I am just uninterested. There are so many things in my life that I still want to do. So many areas of myself that I feel are unexplored. In the script I’ve written for myself, it’s just a given that if I ever find myself without my husband, I won’t go looking for another. Instead, I will go looking for other parts of me. I tell my husband all the time that I think I’m about one-third done with this life. And he responds the same every time: “You think so, Kristi? You think you’re going to live to be one hundred and twenty? Really? Really?” And I say, “Yep. Really. Yes, I do. I still have a lot to say.” And I’m sure as he looks at me and smiles, he is thinking, “Yes. God, help us all. Yes you do.”
Thursday, 12 June 2008
The Guilt Cliff in Stepford
It’s the first week of summer camp for my soon to be second and fifth graders. And my mommy guilt is in overdrive. It happens every summer. The first couple weeks of camp are always an adjustment—the schedule, the location, what friends are going to be there, are the counselors nice, do I have to eat the food in the cafeteria, can I swim with a shirt, why do I have to share a locker with boy, why are Gameboys only allowed on Friday’s, and the list goes on and on and on.
As my children adjust a bit more each day, the Stepford Wife in my head repeats her mantra “... if you didn’t work they could be home having a leisurely summer like their Stepford friends.” And I tell this bitch, who continually refuses to mind her own Stepford business, “SHUT UP!” But in true Stepford fashion, she refuses and it becomes a matter of just waiting it out. Eventually my children adjust, dare I say even begin to have a fabulously fun summer, while their friends have begun to be bored at home and have grown sick of spending twenty-four-seven with their Stepford moms. Yes, this is truly the time of year I have the hardest time living in Stepford. It’s the time of year when I’m almost swept away by the tsunami of “you’re a bad mommy because you work” messages that permeate the very air I breathe.
More than just about anything in my life, I want my children to be happy. But damn it, more than that, I want them to know HOW to be happy. And I know from my own life, that learning how to be happy is HARD. Learning how to be happy is not fun and as a matter of fact, sometimes it down right sucks. However, learning how to be happy sure beats the alternative. I can say for sure, that I am happy. This has not always been true and I don’t like everything about my life, but I choose happiness each day. And that is how is it has to be. And that is how it has to be for my children too.
Will they rise to this challenge when they are adults? I don’t know. I pray they do. I pray that by constantly restraining my instinct to shield my children from every uncomfortable situation, that they will learn that their happiness is a choice and not a matter of their circumstances. I pray that even though we live in the sanitized world of Stepford, they will learn that all the material things they are blessed with and those that they are not, do not and cannot make them happy. I pray that by talking to them about politics, war, poverty, and the inevitability of death that they will see so much more to life than cell phones, Ipods, and Wii’s. I pray that by working they will see me as more than their indentured caretaker and provider of all their heart’s desires. I pray they see a work ethic and develop one of their own. I pray they see how hard my husband and I work at being married and that marriage is not a perpetual honeymoon, but a deep commitment to another person you may not always like, but hopefully always love.
Whenever I’m tempted to slip into helicopter-mommy mode, I ask myself exactly what I’m trying to accomplish with my children. I’ve asked myself these questions every hour on the hour this week trying to talk myself off the guilt cliff to which I’m clinging. Am I trying to create the “perfect” childhood where my children never have to struggle, feel uncomfortable, sad or upset? Do I never want them to have to do something they they don’t want to do? Or do I want my children to learn as many of the hard lessons of life while they are still under my protective gaze and I have the ability to intervene and counsel and give advice? Do I want my children to face their first set backs in life AFTER they are adults ,when the consequences are so much larger and the safety net is gone? Do I want my children to be self-righteously indignant the first time they get a boss who couldn’t care less if they want to work, arrive on time and have a good attitude?
I know by the end of the week I’ll have at least one leg swung on top the guilt cliff and by the end of the month no part of me will any long be hanging over the edge. I also know my children will have settled into their new routine, enjoyed some really cool field trips, and made some new friends. Their still small bodies will be tanned and their brown hair will be highlighted gold. They will have played approximately twenty soccer games, swam in an indoor pool ten times, and eaten four ice cream cones that came off an old fashioned truck. I think its going to be an okay summer in Stepford after all.
As my children adjust a bit more each day, the Stepford Wife in my head repeats her mantra “... if you didn’t work they could be home having a leisurely summer like their Stepford friends.” And I tell this bitch, who continually refuses to mind her own Stepford business, “SHUT UP!” But in true Stepford fashion, she refuses and it becomes a matter of just waiting it out. Eventually my children adjust, dare I say even begin to have a fabulously fun summer, while their friends have begun to be bored at home and have grown sick of spending twenty-four-seven with their Stepford moms. Yes, this is truly the time of year I have the hardest time living in Stepford. It’s the time of year when I’m almost swept away by the tsunami of “you’re a bad mommy because you work” messages that permeate the very air I breathe.
More than just about anything in my life, I want my children to be happy. But damn it, more than that, I want them to know HOW to be happy. And I know from my own life, that learning how to be happy is HARD. Learning how to be happy is not fun and as a matter of fact, sometimes it down right sucks. However, learning how to be happy sure beats the alternative. I can say for sure, that I am happy. This has not always been true and I don’t like everything about my life, but I choose happiness each day. And that is how is it has to be. And that is how it has to be for my children too.
Will they rise to this challenge when they are adults? I don’t know. I pray they do. I pray that by constantly restraining my instinct to shield my children from every uncomfortable situation, that they will learn that their happiness is a choice and not a matter of their circumstances. I pray that even though we live in the sanitized world of Stepford, they will learn that all the material things they are blessed with and those that they are not, do not and cannot make them happy. I pray that by talking to them about politics, war, poverty, and the inevitability of death that they will see so much more to life than cell phones, Ipods, and Wii’s. I pray that by working they will see me as more than their indentured caretaker and provider of all their heart’s desires. I pray they see a work ethic and develop one of their own. I pray they see how hard my husband and I work at being married and that marriage is not a perpetual honeymoon, but a deep commitment to another person you may not always like, but hopefully always love.
Whenever I’m tempted to slip into helicopter-mommy mode, I ask myself exactly what I’m trying to accomplish with my children. I’ve asked myself these questions every hour on the hour this week trying to talk myself off the guilt cliff to which I’m clinging. Am I trying to create the “perfect” childhood where my children never have to struggle, feel uncomfortable, sad or upset? Do I never want them to have to do something they they don’t want to do? Or do I want my children to learn as many of the hard lessons of life while they are still under my protective gaze and I have the ability to intervene and counsel and give advice? Do I want my children to face their first set backs in life AFTER they are adults ,when the consequences are so much larger and the safety net is gone? Do I want my children to be self-righteously indignant the first time they get a boss who couldn’t care less if they want to work, arrive on time and have a good attitude?
I know by the end of the week I’ll have at least one leg swung on top the guilt cliff and by the end of the month no part of me will any long be hanging over the edge. I also know my children will have settled into their new routine, enjoyed some really cool field trips, and made some new friends. Their still small bodies will be tanned and their brown hair will be highlighted gold. They will have played approximately twenty soccer games, swam in an indoor pool ten times, and eaten four ice cream cones that came off an old fashioned truck. I think its going to be an okay summer in Stepford after all.
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