Exploring how I feel about this issue: feminism

I read an article recently about how women rate their happiness "quotient" lower in recent times than they did in the 70s, and according to the obviously conservative authors, it is due to the feminist movement.
At first, I was annoyed and disagreed indignantly, thinking to myself, yes, times were so much better when women experienced discrimination and social inequalities/injustices.

I've been giving some thought to some of their points lately, and just want to lay it all out and see where I end up. Am I happier because it is now completely socially acceptable for me to work in powerful roles along side men? I'm stretched awfully thin sometimes and it doesn't always feel very happy.

The main premise of the article was based on the ideas in a book by a husband and wife team who assert that modern women are less happy than they were before any widespread feminist movement, because apparently, women were more fulfilled when they were simply wives, mothers, and/or fulfilling subservient, potentially exploitative workplace roles (think 70s flight attendants--widely rumored to be attractive and subject to weight requirements--I didn't fly for the first time till the 90s so I don't really know.) I added the editorial comments about the workplace roles. I think workplace attitudes have come a long way since the 70s, and this works to my advantage, as I am the primary provider in my family, and likely earn as much or more than most of the men in my department.
However--this is what gives me pause: I have recently been reminded that, biologically speaking, there is a lot of gender-role carryover that will never be legislated away. Pregnancy and its implications is an obvious example. Nursing a child is something that my husband simply can't participate in--aside from bottle feeding pumped breastmilk. As a result of the nursing (I think), my daughter often prefers me when she wants to be comforted. Actually, I will go as far as to say she prefers me exclusively. Often in the wee hours. When you couple this with a periodically high stress job that begins at 8am half an hour away from my home, it amounts to chronic sleep deprivation--since my last trimester of pregnancy. Then, when you add the disparate cleanliness thresholds of men/women, is it clear to me why some of the social female roles persisted well into "modern" times: it is hard to do it all. Nature has made it so that I am the nurterer and nest-featherer, and my mate is expected to be the provider. When you reverse these roles, things might not always be perfectly orchestrated-the new, female provider still has to be the nurterer and nest-featherer. Truly--I feel like I am stretched very thin much of the time, usually taking care of everything and everyone before myself. In the animal world, though, the female generally serves all of these roles as well, as there are very few species who raise young together and mate for extended periods of time.
Although, I am happier than ever--I was not surveyed for this book. I derive a sense of pride that I am able to provide for my family, and that my daughter gets to stay home with her dad every day. Most fathers from my childhood were very hands off, mine included, and I'm delighted that Elise and Danny will have as close of a relationship as she and I will surely have. What love that child will feel--I believe her home life will be enhanced because of "reversed" gender roles. Sometimes I wish it was me that got to stay home--and I hope it will be someday.

My good friend has a bumper sticker "Feminism is the radical idea that women are people." If that is what feminism really is, then I'm all for it. I don't think I'm being 'unfeminist' by acknowledging that biology really determines a lot of the interaction among humans--socially we could likely improve plenty of attitudes with regards to plenty of things, but as far as feminism goes, these attitudes about women don't always exist out of man's desire for a paternal dictatorship--as I think many feminists probably believe.
I find it only slightly ironic that women are capable of bearing so much of life's burdens without breaking--yet, we are physically weaker than men. We are emotional giants. Pillars of mental strength. I actually believe my brain chemistry changed during pregnancy, to allow me to comfort a fussy child far beyond what my patience was previously capable of, to survive sleep deprivation rivaling someone in the final stages of a dissertation--for months/years at a time. Women are amazing. I just realized I'm describing mothers exclusively in many of my examples, and I don't mean to--motherhood just illustrates my point. We are all amazing.

the untied shoelaces of my life

I love my daughter like I've never loved before. A viciously protective form of love, where I want to shield her from evil, hurt, malice, and negligence, and teach her everything I've learned the hard way in life so she can avoid some of the pain I've endured. I struggle daily with how to be a good parent, questioning my actions and reactions, and constantly reconciling how my parents were with me with how I am with Elise. I feel like I turned out pretty good, in spite of how I was raised! That isn't to say my parents didn't do a good job, but there were some pretty radical twists and turns that could have led me down a more destructive path. To my surprise, I came to the conclusion the other day that even though my dad was a little heavy handed on the discipline and my stepmom had bad chemicals in her brain, the fact that they supported my education and gave me a stable home was enough to launch my adult life in a productive way. In fact, because things weren't cushy and super-duper happy, I think my siblings and I "launched" better than most because we wanted to get the heck outta there and live our own lives on our own terms.

So, the question is, how do I recreate a similar childhood for Elise?

And the answer is, I don't. I will be me and I will do everything for her out of love. Right or wrong, permanently scarring or not, it will be because I love that child.

The hiatus may be over--Books and etc!

I can't seem to find time to blog lately! I am definitely not lacking in blog fodder. I mentally compose things as I'm driving, showering, chasing my very-nearly-walking-now-one-year-old child around. And of course, now that I have time to write, I can't remember any of the things I wanted to say!
I'll start with Elise: her birthday was September 22. She's a dream, that one. We want to have another one but I can't imagine my heart being able to hold any more love. It could likely explode (what a nice way to go, eh?)
Here's one of my favorite photos from her big day:
I actually was home sick on her birthday, nasty sinus infection. I am currently on antibiotics and feel a million times better. I'm apprehensive about the 2009 impending flu season, not sure if I should act on the H1N1 hype as a cautionary measure or just use common sense and do what I can to stay well? With Elise being in daycare, there will be more germ exposure than years past. It could be a rough winter. The almanac is predicting a very cold winter as well. I dread this--mostly in terms of utility bills. I get out so rarely these days that extreme cold will be just one more excuse to cozy up to my couch and my bookcase--so many things I want to read! I heard a book review on NPR for a book called 'Love Warps the Mind a Little" by John Dufresne. I think I'll go try to find it today. I've afforded more time for reading lately, not sure how, its just happened (maybe I've been reading in lieu of blogging!) I recently read a book called "The Shack" which is a little out of my reading element, but it sent me into a tailspin for a few days. I shall explain (spoiler alert! If you are going to read this book and want to be surprised, don't read much farther!) This book is written in a style that I hated so much that I almost couldn't make it through the book--very colloquial and "dumbed down", yet, I could tell the author was a thoughtful person who wouldn't ordinarily write like that, which is probably why I found it so distasteful and condescending. He used concepts like fractals, for crying out loud, while writing in colloquial vernacular that I found completely annoying. Additionally, the subject matter was typical of the Christian experience I had growing up: intentional breaking down of reader with emotional blackmail, then rebuild using the concept of God's love and forgiveness. I find this distasteful, but still ended up loving the book. I shall explain again: in this story, the main character's youngest daughter is kidnapped and murdered, the details of which are horrifically detailed, in terms of the emotions and suffering the family endured, and the lasting impact it had on the family. I can't imagine such a terrible fate for my own daughter, so this was particularly poignant for me. At any rate, the main character, whose name escapes me at the moment, is invited by "papa" (his wife's name for God--blech) back to the shack where his daughter was likely murdered. When he gets there, he spends a wonderful weekend with the God tri-fecta: Jesus (as himself), God (as portrayed as a large black woman who likes to cook), and the Holy Spirit (portrayed as a wispy Asian woman who collects tears.)
Sounds kitschy, right? It was. But, the philosophical ideas explored were fantastic. And the book left me with a comfort and a little bit of relief from my hellfire- and- brimstone-based religious upbringing. One of my favorite points in the book is that most of human suffering on earth is brought about by religion, economics, and politics--its so true! I do think our collective problems as a human race can boil down to those three elements. Also, it shed some light about the depth of God's understanding and forgiveness of humanity--even for someone who is "evil" enough to murder a little girl. It blew my mind to think that there could be grace for someone capable of that sort of thing. But, it all goes back to somewhere down the line, something happened to him or his father or his father's father that caused this evil, and that is the way of our imperfect planet. More profoundly, we demanded freedom from God per the story of Adam and Eve--we wanted knowledge of good and evil, so He gave it to us. Consequently, we complain and beg for deliverance from it.
I've only touched on the ideas in this blog. Even if you do not identify with the Christian faith, I would recommend this book simply from a philosophical viewpoint. Just remember I warned you that the writing was terrible!

Important anniversary and airing of grievances

So, as of last week, Danny has officially lived here longer than my ex did. This is important to me, time being the great healer that it is. Time is movement, a wise friend once advised, and so it is; these past two years have moved me forward, up and over my horrible hump, and now I'm running and skipping and dancing along.

That being said: the month of August also marks the second anniversary of the death of my stepmother. We went to Wichita this weekend to celebrate my dad's retirement, and I was shocked at how time's movement over the past two years has not impacted my father. The house was in a state that I'm ashamed to recount; but its hard to expect an immaculate home from someone who has had a wife to take care of that for the past 40 years. I hate to generalize, but his generation often sticks to their assigned gender roles, and it doesn't matter if you teach him how to operate the washing machine and the dishwasher, he just doesn't know how to maintain a household. I feel compelled to add that part of what makes it so hard for him to keep the household immaculate is the presence of knick-knacks on every surface. Sheila was a hard-core decorator; there are doilies and "collections" everywhere: teacups, bells, angels, baskets... stuff that a crusty 62-year-old man should not have to worry about dusting (not that he's a big duster.) But he won't let it go, isn't ready to close that chapter, he says.

But, I'm ready for it to close. There were reminders all over of the marginalization that occurred in that family where my brother and I are concerned. For example: photographs. On many, many surfaces were framed pictures of everyone but Jason and I, including photos of people Sheila had referred to as their "adopted" kids and grandkids. Not a single photo of Elise or Danny and I. But, plenty of photos from the photo session that occurred when we were together over Christmas in Dallas, where I was excluded from the family photo (after driving 10 hours to be there, no less.) Those photographs burn me up, and I want to let my dad know that. But, its in the past, I should probably just let it be (right?)

catching up

Warning! This blog could be completely disjointed and random, as I scramble to type as much as possible while Sweetums sleeps and I rack my brain to try to remember everything I wanted to mention!

First order of business: I felt like a big doormat loser at Starbucks the other day. I ordered my usual vanilla breve and decided to have a scone as well. The clerk forgot to give me my scone. When the barista handed me my coffee, I asked if she could please grab my scone, since the clerk was in the middle of taking an order. The barista said, "Mary Ann, what kind of scone did she have?" Mary Anne looked right at me, said "blueberry," yet no one moved an inch to actually get me my forgotten pastry. The woman right behind me had also ordered a pastry that was forgotten, but the barista knew her personally so when she said, "Mary Ann forgot my (whatever it was)" the barista took the time to go get a tissue, go to the pastry case, and grab her pastry. Meanwhile, I'm standing there, waiting for someone to acknowledge me. Meanwhile, the line grows, so both clerk and barista grow busy. There was no good opportunity to line jump and say, "Pardon me, but could you please give me the scone I ordered and paid for?" Finally, after about five minutes (which feels like an eternity when you're just standing around like a dummy), the line was gone, and I approached the clerk and said, "I never got my scone." She offered a cursory apology and handed me the stupid pastry. The other thing that irks me about this whole situation is that I've been going to this same Starbucks since they opened, and every time I go (which is more frequent than I care to admit), they have to ask me my name. I don't think my name and face match up, else I'm not particularly memorable. Danny thinks if I were more assertive, maybe I'd be more memorable. Wendy thinks I should relish being relatively invisible; at six feet tall, people always remember her, for her size she thinks, and she wishes she would fade into the background a little more.
I don't necessarily need the clerks at Starbucks to remember me or my regular order--but I do need them to not make me feel like I'm invisible when they fudge on their customer service.

Speaking of regular orders: the Sandbar celebrated their 20 year anniversary last week. I was a regular there for nearly ten years, so it made me a bit nostalgic and sad that I couldn't attend the celebration and that not a single one of my former bar friends called to see if I was going. An odd tension exists between drinkers and former drinkers; maybe we have nothing in common anymore. The Sandbar was more than a watering hole to me, though, back in those days. When my friends and I all graduated from KU, I was literally the only one who didn't go on to move to Kansas City or grad school elsewhere. I essentially was starting my professional career and post-college life from scratch in Lawrence--which was kind of weird, considering I'd already lived here for four years. A coworker of mine at US Bank knew I was kind of lonely, and he invited me to drinks one Thursday night, with a group of people called "Thursdays, Inc." at the Sandbar. Turned out to be a great bunch of people, some of whom I still associate, and it definitely opened me up to new networks within Lawrence's business community and tons of personal connections. Unfortunately, that night also was the beginning of being a regular at the Sandbar--which is where I met my first husband.
Ah, history. I look back all the time, and think "OH if only I had just not done that!" But, every single step I've taken has led me here, to this place, this wonderful place. If I hadn't married Pat, I'd still be in Florida (most likely.) If Pat had been able to earn a better living, I wouldn't have felt the need to take the job I currently hold; if Pat hadn't been such a turd about displaying his grandma's guitar, I wouldn't have had to go into a music store to purchase another stand-which is how I met Danny.
And on and on.

More updates:
Elise started daycare today. I think it went well.
I have not kept up with my fitness experiment. I'll try again in August. I've lost more weight (more muscle) so I must start exercising pronto.
I'm ready for fall. Those crisp mornings we had last week made me crave some apple cider and pumpkin pie and the smell of the first fire of the season. And Elise's first birthday! Wow, what a ride this first year has been. I can't believe she is very nearly one.

boring women have immaculate homes

When I was in elementary school, I waited for the bus at a friend's house around the block. On the refrigerator in their perpetually messy kitchen was a magnet proclaiming 'Boring women have immaculate homes!" I'm sure it was a tongue-in-cheek way for the lady of the house to laugh off her domestic chaos, and as I remember that family--I actually agree with the statement. They were a wonderfully colorful group of people, very loving and fun. The mother would drop anything to climb a tree with her kids or do a puzzle. I remember a puzzle of some ships on the ocean that sat unfinished for the better part of a year on their dining room table; we'd piece it together a few at a time.
Their house was far from immaculate! But their lives were rich, interesting, and there was a very relaxed vibe in that house--of acceptance, of the ability to LIVE there, without worrying about making a mess or damaging anything within.
Before my mom died, I feel like my home was that way. We had very casual decor, nothing fancy at all. The carpeting in the family room was a patchwork of remnants glued to the floor--I remember a game I'd play with myself, hopping from one red piece to another to move about the room.
When my stepmother moved in, things changed dramatically. She furnished and carpeted and decorated--we weren't allowed to wear our shoes in the house. In fact, we weren't allowed to be in the living room unless we were practicing piano. Every Saturday morning was spent doing chores that involved dusting, vacuuming, laundry, etc. It was an immaculate home. And... dare I say it... she as a boring person (at least to a kid. Well, her and I didn't exactly have much to say to each other in later years either. But I will say she was quite the housekeeper.)
I wrestle with this concept this morning, as my daughter sleeps and I ponder dozens of things I could be doing with the precious hour or so. I decided to clean the house... and then found myself thinking, why is it SO important that my house be immaculate? Its relatively neat, it was cleaned thoroughly last weekend, wouldn't it be much more rewarding to my soul to do something creative or stress-relieving or to just sit and BE for a moment?
So, I made myself a delicious vanilla breve latte, grabbed the Sunday paper and my doggies, and went out on the deck.
And now I'm listening to my iPod on shuffle and blogging.
And in a minute I'm going to check out craigslist and see if I can find Elise a new white dresser.
I love Sundays. And I'm glad, for just this once, that I was able to not be a boring woman with an immaculate home. It won't happen every Sunday, but its good enough for today. :-)
I do love having a clean house and it does make me crazy to live in chaos, but knowing what you need to nourish your spirit is far superior to being a slave to obligation "just because."
Salute! Happy Sunday, everyone!

cruising the wild alfalfa

Lately I've noticed some things about myself that prove, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that I am indeed growing older: 1) I prefer listening to NPR over 96.5 the Buzz, and 2) I am finding beauty and recreation in simple things, like walks, sitting on my deck and listening to cicadas, and learning more about the world I live in. Beats pop culture any day of the week. To that end, the fireflies are here! Its time! Let me explain:
Summers in Kansas can be insufferable: as humid as South Florida at times (without the scenery!), while at other times, as hot as a desert (without the nightlife!) The worst of all worlds, it seems. There are usually a couple of weeks on either side of spring or fall that are fantastically beautiful; I have to wonder if the pioneers who settled here passed through during one of those deceivingly idyllic moments.
However, there is a natural phenomenon that happens some summers, that is so magical and occasional that it warrants mention in the local newspaper and photographers wait with lenses poised. Wet springs apparently mean prolific fireflies mid-summer; which means busy firefly mating season, which means fantastic light shows once the sun goes down.
I remember the first time I ever experienced the crazed blinking of a field of fireflies; the first summer I stayed in Lawrence after classes ended, I was trying desperately to impress the guy that lived next door. I had lived in Lawrence a year longer than him, and loved introducing him to my "discoveries." One thing I shared with him was Wells Overlook, a 4-story wooden deck built on a hill that provides a stunning, panoramic view of Lawrence and surrounding farmland. For some reason, one night, late, we thought it would be fun to go to Wells Overlook and see the lights of the city. Little did we know that Wells Overlook park was gated and locked at night. Instead, we made the amazing discovery that the field across the street was alive with more fireflies than I knew could exist in a single place. The lights of the city as seen from Wells Overlook were nothing compared to a million fireflies in a single pasture trying to attract a mate! It was unlike anything I had ever seen--a million mini flashbulbs doesn't really do the description justice, but I can't think of a good "flashing" metaphor!
The wooded area across the street from my house was alight tonight. Ah, Kansas. I hope we still live here when Elise is old enough to experience it.