The Motherhood Lie

There is this lie that we hear as mothers.

People tell us that we have the most important job in the world.

That's not something I'm disputing.  But they also tell us something else.

That we should invest ourselves completely in teaching our children to be better people, and that they will rise up and be activists and change the world, and then we will have done our good for society.

But I've been thinking about that a lot.

And realizing that we've been telling mothers that for generations.  Your children are your purpose.  Your legacy.  Your children are going to do the things you are not able to do because you are doing the most important job in the world: mothering them.

I think it sounds all well and good when you don't dig too deeply around it, but I've been doing just that and my shower thought this morning was a kind of rage.

Society has been telling moms this very thing for eons.  And here's the issue.  We tell moms this.  Who raise their daughters to be amazing active people who want to go out and change the world.  And then they become moms.  And we tell them the same thing.  And so on so on and so on into infinity so that a small percentage of these amazing women ever actually do the thing their mothers counted on them doing in the first place.

It's a circle of oppression. 

It's a way of keeping women down in their best years for activism.

Here I am.  Thirty-six years old.  And my excuse for not standing up stronger and harder and fiercer has been, over and over again, I'm raising my children.  That's the most important job a woman can have.

And you know what?  It's a super important spectacularly incredible job that is vital to civilization's continuance.  And we need to buck up and get some babysitters.

We moms need to stand up.

We need to stop our armchair activism and we need to make our voices heard.  And we need to be loud.  Because most of us have fully formed frontal cortexes and energy our kids' grandmothers are dreaming about now.

So I call bullshit on that: your contribution is your child line.  My mother counted on her contribution being me.  It's time I made good on that for her.  And her mother.  And her mother.  And her mother and on and on back to the time when women were first told that our children should be our contribution.  My children are vital.  And amazing.  And important.  But so. am. I.

Sigh. Another Post About Modesty and Teenage Girls

So this blog is a response to this - which is viral amongst my Christian friends and many of my non-Christian friends who are mothers of boys. 

First of all, this mom is trying to lookout for the moral welfare of her boys.  If you haven't read the blog, it talks about how they go through their boys' Facebook friends on a semi-regular basis around the kitchen table and delete the teenage girls from their boys' friends lists who have posted selfies in their PJs that might be sexual.  Or not sexual, but bra-less.

I have several issues with this blog.

First of all, one of the first things I see when I go to this mom's page is a picture of her family at the beach.  All of her boys are wearing swim trunks and bare chests.

I have serious issues wish her saying that teenage girls can't post pictures of themselves without bras (but covered in PJs), but her boys are allowed to post pictures of themselves making muscles without shirts at the beach.  This is a huge double standard.  HUGE.

Second she is basically saying that these girls posting pictures of themselves in their pajamas makes it impossible or nearly impossible for her sons to continue to view them as respectable, equal human beings.

So - the message I'm getting from the post is:

1.  Girls don't have hormones and are completely unaffected by pictures of scantily clad men showing of their strength.

2.  Women hold a huge responsibility for their own objectification, dehumanization, and possible rape.

3.  Men can't be held responsible for continuing to view smart, interesting, incredible women as "women of character" if they post any pictures of themselves that could be construed as sexual.

Oy.

The prize of virginity in girls, the shaming of girls who love their bodies and who might be experimenting with sex...  Oh, Church...  this is why society is running from you as fast as their legs can carry them.

I know this mom has a good heart.  All of the women I know who posted this have beautiful hearts.  We want the very best for the teenagers in our lives.  And maybe these girls should think more highly of themselves than trying to get attention by posting these pictures.  Or maybe they are proud of their beauty.  Or maybe they're just experimenting with this stage in their lives and their raging hormones.  It doesn't matter why they're posting them.  What matters is that they are.  And that saying that these boys need to turn away in order to maintain respect for these girls is the wrong message.  These boys need to be taught that women have bodies.  Women have sexuality.  Women think about sex.  Women are sexual beings.  AND they deserve respect as equal partners in earthly stewardship.  AND they are capable of great and intellectual feats.  AND they sometimes wear bikinis - and this is not an excuse to see them as objects.

So girls - yes - think before you post.  Remember that people of all ages and types can and will see your pictures - and that the internet has an extremely long memory.  I think we would all do well to remember this.

And boys - if you don't like something a girl has posted because you feel like it makes her look less than beautiful or that it might attract the wrong sort of man's attention - tell her that you think her other pictures are more beautiful.  If it bothers you, look away.  Women love to be lovely.  Women are constantly asking if they are beautiful enough.  So look past the PJ bra-less pic and answer her question in the positive.  See the beauty in the girl - not the body for you to lust after.  It's not fair for females to have all the responsibility for your morality.

And moms - talk to your boys about sex.  Be frank and honest.  Talk to them about girls and their bodies and how they like to be beautiful.  Spill  your guts about your premarital sex and your ex-boyfriends and what it felt like to be dumped/objectified/wolf-whistled at. Talk to them about feelings and about sex-trafficking and talk to them about their responsibility to women.  I don't think much will be accomplished by deleting their Facebook friends who you say are really nice, smart girls - but a lot will be accomplished by your openness.

After reading many other responses to this particular piece, I found one that I thought said everything, but with so much more grace than mine.  Thought you might like to read that as well, so I linked it up here.

How Mary Gets the Shaft.

Mary.

The Mother of Jesus.

I grew up Protestant and I always thought all of my Catholic friends were incredibly odd for praying to the Holy Mother.  And I had a lot of Catholic friends.  In sixth grade at my middle school they used to let the Catholic kids out early for CCD.  Out of a class of twenty-five, there were only two of us who didn't qualify for early release.

I used to feel left out... but I was told by those around me that Catholics had issues, and I should be glad not to be one of them.

Now this isn't going to be some post to bash all the Catholics in my life.  Quite the contrary, so stay with me.

The Protestant circles explained that Catholics pray to statues, especially statues of Mary.  That they have saints for things.  That they don't feel they can go to God directly with their prayers.

I have since learned that this is nonsense.  Catholics have statues, but they don't pray to them, they just appreciate them as artistic symbols.  Catholics do pray to saints, but they ask saints to pray for them, because we believe as Christians that those of us who are believers have eternal life, right?  So it's just the same as asking Mom to pray for us, or a close friend, or our pastor.  And Mary.

If you're going to ask someone to pray for you, what better choice could there possibly be than Mary?  Who could be closer to YHWH than the woman He chose to bear His Son?

All that being said...I don't ask Mary to pray for me.  I don't pray to Mary.  But I wanted to write this post about how I've felt about Mary for the last few years, and how I feel about her at this particular season of the year especially.

Mary is the Mother of Jesus - but I can't help picturing her before all that, and comparing that young girl to me at the very same age.

Mary was about thirteen when all of this went down.

When I was thirteen I was in eighth grade.  I got my period at a reading team competition (yes, I am a nerd, and I admit this proudly - I was the team captain).  I wore enormous dorky glasses.  I was incredibly unpopular.  I could name zero boys who were interested.  I had not yet figured out that half a bottle of hairspray in my bangs was unattractive.  I was a ridiculous mess of a person.  I contemplated suicide.  I looked in the mirror and saw a girl that I felt no one else would ever see - the girl behind the glasses and the retainer and the hair spray and the poor attempts at just about everything.

I can't imagine someone telling me I was going to have a baby.  I probably would have gone and drowned myself somewhere.  I would have been utterly rejected by everyone around me.  I would have been kicked out of my house.  I would have lost everything - and there is no way, even in my wildest fantasies, that I would believe any boy would want me now.

And so I think on Mary - who was "of age" to marry since she's had her first cycle and all, and who was betrothed to Joseph, and I think about that angel's visit and what it must have meant to her and for her and how she is possibly the bravest person on the face of the planet.  And how she only got stronger.

Motherhood takes it's toll.  It brings us back to earth.  It slays us with Reality.  It rips out our guts and our hearts and it is beautiful and difficult and more than I could ever describe.

How Mary must have felt as her Child grew.  And how she Knew.

There are things about our children that as moms we don't know.

We don't know who our children will be.

We don't know how they will grow or if they will be more like us or their fathers or if they will get a "good job" or go to college or skip it altogether or fall in love with the "right" person or if we will outlive them.

Outliving them is a thing we dare not think.  Outliving them is not an option.  Outliving them is the worst pain we can dream.  The worst pain we can dare to imagine.

And yet...  Mary knew.

Mary knew that she would raise this child to die.  Mary knew that she would have to go through that pain - pain to bring the Messiah into the world.  Pain while he left it.

What were her hopes?  What did she dare to dream?

Mary who loved The Son of God more than any of us can understand.  His Mother.

I can picture her standing at the foot of the cross.  She wraps her shawl tighter around her face.  The tears fall freely and she does not wipe them away.  She knew the day would come but this...this is more than she could ever bear or ever hope to understand.  Her husband is dead.  The sky is dark.  There is a streak of lightening.

I hope that I will never have to stand where Mary stood: watching my child die before my eyes.  Watching him suffer and shake and bleed.  I pray in the depths of my soul for those women who have to experience this very heart-wrenching thing.

But I expect they also ought to know they are in good company.

So I can't really blame Catholicism.  I can't blame women for wanting this particular shoulder to cry on.  These arms to hold them.  This ear to whisper their deepest fears and their hardest prayers - because, Ladies, she's been there.

She held out her arms when He was learning to walk and she kissed His bruises and scrapes and she encouraged and scolded and sat Him on her lap when he cried...

She was the real thing.  A Real Mom.

And so our scriptures gloss over Mary.

And so we don't talk about her much because of the fear of worshiping her as a goddess (which she isn't).  And we shun those who pray prayers to her and we looked askance at a rosary and we scoff at the Gnostic gospels...

But should we?  Should we give Mary the shaft in our theology?  Should we gloss over and push aside and forget Who She Was as we struggle to embrace our own identities as women and mothers?

I say no, Ladies.  I say.  No.

Cut.

Today my daughter gave herself a hair cut.

I have heard that this is a normal sort of right of passage for a young lady, and since my daughter is just over four, it must be about that time.

I blame myself.

First of all, I left the scissors out after cutting my sons hair today.

Second...  well...  I don't exactly present an example of long flowing locks as being equal to femininity.  I don't even present with a cute bob as equal to femininity.  So who the heck am I to tell my daughter she can't have a super short haircut?

But I admit, I gave serious pause when she opened the bathroom door, beaming, and her lovely brown hair was strewn all about the floor.  She removed her bangs completely.  There were several random chunks out of the back and sides.  Nothing was the same length.  And it. was. short.

I am certain that shock registered all over my face.

"I cut my hair!"  She was elated.  Empowered.  Glowing.

And I get it.

When you're four years old you don't have a lot of say over many things.  You can't drive.  You can't leave.  You can't use the sharp knives.  You don't have a lot of spending power.  You can't read well.  You don't yet type.  You don't have many friends.

But your hair...well...  that's yours, isn't it?  Isn't it?

I bit my tongue and smiled back at her.

My husband neatened it up a bit, with her permission, and now she's got a pixie-do... minus bangs.

While I was cleaning up the pieces of hair on the floor she said, "Mom, it's okay.  It's just hair.  And it's my hair, so I can cut it if I want to, right?"

Bottom line?

She's RIGHT.

So many of us are horrified when our daughter's take ownership over something as little as their hair.  Something as meaningless.

Hair does not define a person.  It does not define their beauty, their intellect, their emotions, their talents, their gifts, their capacity for love.  Hair is JUST HAIR, Mom.  It's JUST hair.

I've been through the wringer and back about my own choices in hair style - and yet I could feel my voice catching in my throat when it was my little girl.  I thought about my parents' reactions to my hair and I understand it now...  you think... suddenly...  she's not as pretty.

And you HATE that reaction.

That hair DOES matter?  It kills you.  Because it SHOULD.  NOT.  MATTER.

And you'd best bite it back.  And you'd best allow your little girl to OWN that haircut.  And you'd best tell her she's beautiful.  And you'd best MEAN IT.  Because if we are to say that women are more than their bodies.  And if we are to say that women have OWNERSHIP over their bodies, then we'd better apply that to our daughters right now.  And their daughters.  And the girl at the grocery store.  And the older woman who shaves or dyes or cuts or whatever she wants.  We need to look beyond the hair, and see into the soul.

...so why DON'T I?

I just finished reading this article in Whole Living Magazine about the Tao.

(cue freak-out from my religious friends who think I'll be a pagan/Buddhist/atheist/Jew at any moment...)

It's been awhile since I've read anything about the Tao. 

Last time, I was in college.

I was dating this guy who was supremely down-to-earth.  Not a boring down-to-earth, but a rich, soulful, grounded down-to-earth.

The kind of guy who sits up in his boxers playing jazz saxophone until three in the morning and tops it off with a joint, fine wine, and reading Anne Rice. 

He had the most interesting books, music, and philosophy piled in his cave-like basement bedroom, and introduced me to the wonders of Blues Traveler, Charlie Parker, Dead Poets Society, and The Tao of Pooh (did I mention the guy had an affinity for A. A. Milne?).

I read these books and listened to this music ravenously, and not just because I was trying to impress the guy, but also because I was genuinely interested.

And so...  long story not that much shorter, when I came across this article regarding the Tao in the magazine this evening, I was not wholly unfamiliar with the idea.

Of course, this time, I was approaching it as a married (NOT to this guy) mom of two who has her very own interests, a small-time career in the art world, and a shaved head.  Basically, I'm a far-cry from my nineteen-year-old self.

The first time I read, I took in the ideas, but this time, I nodded knowingly.  I embraced more fully.  I grasped more intentionally.  That fully developed frontal lobe has its benefits.

As I was reading I remembered how much the tao had to say about "going with the flow" and "trusting your instincts".  Those two things are catch phrases for nothing.  We really should much of the time.

It's funny.

There are so many times in my life where I look at something, or think of something, and think - I'd really like to do that right about now... but I don't.

I wrote these "mom goals" for myself a few years ago (I don't recommend this) and every once in awhile I visit them.  Mostly, they just serve for making me feel like a huge failure because the fact is, I really just don't do the things I set out to do there on that paper.  But... I want to.

One of those things is swimming every morning.

I can only imagine how much more amazing my life would be if I actually got off my butt and went to the pool every single day and started everything off with just a half hour of water awesomeness.  I love swimming more than just about anything.  I enjoy it more than running, hiking, walking, boxing, yoga - all that crap.  There's nothing that can compare to the water.

So why don't. I. do it?

Laziness?

I think about going to the water.  The thought thrills me.

And then something inside my body rebels.  It says "don't do it!  You'll get cold!  You'll have to shower after!  You'll be taking time away from your family!"  And those three things are enough to keep me home.

That...and the insane amount of busy-ness I've let accumulate in my life.

I haven't made any resolutions for this New Year.  And here I am writing something in January that you won't get to read until June... but I want to make this one promise to myself...  that I'll quit the busy-ness crap.  Seriously.  It's getting to me.

Most of you know I'm a theatre person.  I like that part of my identity.  It makes me special and different and associates me with a set of talented, intelligent, and creative people who are generally accepting, supportive, and fun.  The problem with being a theatre-person is that it is all-consuming.  During the rehearsal process and shows theatre trumps literally everything.  The longer I'm a mom and wife the more that bothers me.

Right now, I'm directing Brecht's Caucasian Chalk Circle.  I'm excited about the process and what will certainly be an exceptional product.  But when I looked at the schedule I'd made I realized that show week we trumped my daughter's dance class.  We knocked out my son's cub scout meeting.  We ditched swim team several times to make room for rehearsals.  And that's... well that's just wrong.  Selfish.  And wrong.

I have been so used to making theatre the Most Important Thing that I neglected to think about the ACTUAL Most Important Thing: the people I love.

Some show shouldn't matter to me more than spending time with my kids.  Than taking my kids to their chosen activities.

And this isn't me saying that parents shouldn't have their own interests, because trust me, it's a vital necessity, but it is me saying that for ME...theatre is probably going to have to go - at least until my kids are older - until I can approach it more on my own terms...until I can get to a place (if that place exists) where the craft doesn't own me...I own the craft.

And thus and so for the rest of my life.

Why should everything around me have so much power over me?

I get up in the morning and I WANT to eat an apple, but I eat potato chips because I feel a craving and I cave to it because it feels good for that moment even though I knew it wasn't what my body wanted or needed in that moment.

I don't go swimming because I've decided and programmed my brain to tell me every time I think on it that it's going to be more trouble than it's worth - forgetting the amazing pay-off for the follow-through.

Right now I'm in the throws of ...Chalk Circle and planning this bus trip with the fam. and trying to get out from under our house and taxi-ing our children hither and yon...  And it feels like this is not really the time to get out there and do the things I want to do...but if not now, when?

Now...  how to fit this into my already intensive schedule...  and which pool to try first.

What aren't you doing right now that you WANT to be doing?  What's holding you back?

How to Save Our Daughters.

I just finished reading an article in Better Homes and Gardens discussing plastic surgery and "injectables" as viable options for "looking your best" for the holidays (November 2011 issue, for those of you who are curious, I couldn't find the article online).  I'm more than a little floored by this, and needless to say, I will not be renewing my subscriptions (one I've held for ten years).  More than just make me angry, this article shows just how mainstream the idea that we are not okay just the way we are has become.  We need cutting, injections, invasive surgery, tattooed eyeliner, more make-up that doesn't look like make-up, more hair dye, shinier hair, more product, more facial cleanser, skinnier waistline, less fat, ...  the list extends into eternity.

Besides my fury that ALL of this is corporate mumbo-jumbo to make us feel "less-than" so that we will purchase a particular product or line of products, I see this as extremely detrimental to the future.

Any of us who have daughters feel that those little girls are GORGEOUS.  Our daughters are beautiful.  We look at those long lashes and those pretty eyes and those rosy cheeks and adorable smiles and we see pure, innocent, loveliness.  And if we don't, it's time for a reality check, because your little girl is AMAZING.  A princess, ladies and gentlemen, is an understatement.

When we look at those little girls, we don't want them to grow up thinking that they need more make-up, more product, a nose-job, a boob-job, etc in order to "look their best".  We tell them that they are beautiful.  We long for them to see it themselves every time they look in the mirror.

But...  often...  they don't.  Why?

Because, Ladies and Gents, actions...speak...louder than words.

So...

What to do?

1.  Stop it with the daily make-up.  


I've said before that I'm not against make-up.  But you know what?  The more I think about it.  The more Lucky magazines I get in the mail.  The more re-touching I see my husband do when he does a head-shot series for an aspiring actor or model... the more I hate make-up.  After all, why do we wear it?

We wear it because society has established a FALSE idea of beauty.  Way back in the day, only prostitutes wore make-up.  It was a sign.  It was a cover-up for the ugliness, the pain, the hurting that was underneath.  The hope that it would be enough...

Cover-up was made so that you could go out in public and no one would know you really had the Bubonic Plague (Queen Elizabeth wore quite a lot of it).

There were times in history when men wore it.  Times when eye-liner was royalty.  Different signs and symbols.

Today, it seems, at least in America, make-up is an expectation.

I've had woman apologize to me because I've seen them with no make-up as though they were apologizing for running over my beloved dog.  As though they were committing a high offense.

Ladies... this is a problem.

And when we make it a point to put on make-up in front of that mirror and our little girls see it - that is what they think about adulthood:  that you can't be good enough once you've grown up.  That your skin has to be perfect.  That blemishes make us "less than".  That no boys will like them if they don't wear it.  They see what we do and they know that no matter how many times you tell them they are pretty they will never be all the way there until they can do what you are doing.  To them, YOU are the ultimate example of beauty.  How's THAT for responsbility?

2.  Stop it with the magazines.

Every. single. magazine. you bring into your home is a huge advertisement for product.  I have learned over the past year (and maybe this makes me a fool for not noticing before) that each and every article - each and every photograph, is about selling a product.  Not always a blatant advertisement, but at very least a proposition to purchase the next issue of the magazine.

And Ladies and Gents, it's all just. stuff.  Not stuff you need.  Just. Stuff.

Everyone is selling make-up and clothing and scent and all this STUFF they tell you will make your life better.

We worry about our children watching too much television or not learning to think for themselves...  be careful what you read, what you have in your home for your children to read... everyone is selling something.  Before you read it and have your children read it, be sure it's something you want them to buy.

3.  Stop making make-up a right of passage.

My mom took me to the make-up counter for the thirteenth birthday.  It was what I wanted.

It doesn't have to be that way.

I wanted it because all the other girls in my class were wearing it.

Parents tell their girls that they can wear make-up when they reach a certain age.  It's a Big Deal.  I've decided that if my kid wants to try the stuff at age 2 then so be it.  She has her very own lip gloss, thus far.  I am sure to tell her how pretty she is when she's NOT wearing it.

Make-up should be fun, not forced, not necessary, not expected.  And if you can help it, not present at all.

4.  Stop getting cosmetic surgery.


There are women who get breast reductions because their huge boobs are causing them serious pain.  This is NOT the kind of cosmetic surgery I'm talking about.

I'm talking about the women who don't like how their nose looks.  The ones who want bigger breasts.  The ones who are fed up with getting wrinkles.

Ladies...  God made you the way you are.  He doesn't think your nose is too big.  He doesn't think your boobs need to be bigger.

Wrinkles...oh, my Dear Readers!  I can see them gathering at the sides of my eyes and all along my forehead and when I first saw them I was dismayed and afraid but please know! - wrinkles are a sign of wisdom.  They are rivers and streams of knowledge, beauty, and power.  They are the signs that you have been there, you have experienced that, you have frowned in deep thought and smiled with such joy and cried tears that left permanent paths down your cheeks and all of those things make. you. even more beautiful than before.

Our daughters need to know.

They need to know that when they're 35 and look in the mirror and see those crow's feet it doesn't make them less of a person.  It makes them so. much. more.

5.  Stop hating on yourself.

Jesus said, "Love your neighbor as yourself."  We remember that loving our neighbor part...but we forget that we need to love ourselves too. We never stop to think when we look in the mirror and tell ourselves "NOT good enough" that this isn't what The Lord wants for us.  We would never dream of going up to our neighbor and saying "You are not good enough.  You are stupid.  You are ugly."  And yet we do these things to ourselves on a regular basis.

Stop buying into the lie that FAKE is beauty.

It's a LIE Ladies and Gents!!!  A big. fat. Satanic. lie.

And if we all stopped believing it, how much better would our lives be?

If we really believed that beauty came from the inside.

If we really believed that God made us beautiful just the way we are.

If we really believed that WE were empowered to make healthy choices.

If we really SAW what everyone looked like under the make-up and before the surgery and...  how differently we would see one another.  How differently we would see the world.

Ask yourself - if I was the only person in the world wearing make-up, would I feel the need to wear it?

If I went to the movies and SAW that Julia Roberts had a pimple that day...  would I think of myself differently?

When you love yourself - you are giving your daughter the most wonderful gift.  The gift of knowing SHE is beautiful all by herself.

And finally...

6.  Stop judging her based on her appearance.

How many of us grew up in a house where our moms mentioned the clothes we chose.  The weight we'd gained.  The outbreak of acne on our foreheads...  and told us just what we needed to do about it, even if we didn't ask.

Our moms wanted to help.

They KNOW what it feels like to feel less beautiful.  To be ridiculed by classmates.  To be mocked.

And so moms step in with facial cleanser and concealer and money for different jeans and diet ideas and Fat Camp and...

And where does that leave us?

What does it say to our daughters when we do these things we believe are loving?

It says, loud and clear, You. Are. Not. Good. Enough.  It shows how we see their flaws.  It shows that we are no different than the classmate who points out the pimple or the bully that calls us fat.  It shows that we, the mom, aren't making the effort to see the Girl Inside.  We feel the need to change her.  Cover her up.  Put her on a diet.

The fact is - self-esteem and knowledge that you ARE good enough makes all that unnecessary.  If you've got the confidence that your mom and (especially) dad see through any flaws to the true YOU inside the skin then you can face the bully head on.  You can take it all with multi-grained salt.  You can hold your head up high because you know that the people who you come home to love you unconditionally, and The World can suck it.



Moms and Dads... it's not too late.

Your daughter is a precious jewel.  Some of you already see her that way.  Some of you need to wake up and smell the sea salt.  Daughters are a fabulous gift from heaven.  But they are a fragile gift.  Don't break them.  And if you fear you already have...  break out the glue. 

Back to Butterfly.

In less than two weeks, I'll be performing in Butterfly in New York City.  Off-Broadway.

My head is spinning.

I'm trying not to think about what I'm thinking about.  All of it needs to sink into black oblivion and I just need to focus on the moment.

It's not as easy as it should be.

I'll be shaving my head again next Tuesday.  It will be back to the world of "sir" and "oh, I thought you were a boy".

I don't know how I feel about it.

It was liberating.  It was an awesome journey...  but that journey is over and I'm new and different on the other side.

But on we press.  And I'm a pretty masochistic actor.

The show is new and different.  The director/writer has a vision of continuity and art and beauty and surprise that will absolutely take the audience for a ride.

I'm focusing on the project.  It's a job.  I'm trying not to let the nervousness of the people around me rub off on me.  I turn within myself.  I remain aloof.

I think about the afterward and the food and the drinks and the companionship with other witty, talented, creative, intelligent women who I admire and love.

I think about driving into the city.

I think about walking down the street in the haze of New York heat and getting the feeling for the first time of being a working New York actor.

It's funny.

I have several friends and acquaintances from college and high school who are equity actors.  Several who are "making it".  Several who have appeared in movies and commercials and on and off Broadway in numerous capacities.

I have students who are working actors in the Big Apple.

My life didn't go that way.

I got married.  I had children.  I chose to teach.

I wrapped myself in the safety of my degree and the expectations of my friends and family and my lack of self-confidence and the theory that someday things would be different.

Life throws you boomerangs and bowling balls and Frisbees and arrows and you do your best to catch and dodge and toss them back. 

I throw around my artistic interests and have serious difficulty just choosing one.  Focusing.  I lose interest.  I get interrupted.  I get lost in reading instead of writing.  I think about my family and then I think about what certain things would do to them.

I look at my art studio and feel pangs of guilt.

I look at this trip to New York and feel pangs of guilt.

I wallow in it sometimes.

I swim and dive and wrap myself in guilt like I wrapped myself in fear before.

I realize this now.

On Tuesday...as my hair falls pell mell into the bathtub I will imagine the guilt there with it.  Sitting and waiting for me to wash it down the drain.  And I will do it.  And I will climb into the van to New York City with a coat that is just me.

From my friend, J.

My friend, J____ and I were messaging back and forth about various and sundry topics on facebook, and she messaged this to me...  I thought it was pretty rad.



I was really thinking about you yeserday--well, you and Juliet Redefined... It just bothers me how sexualized out culture is, a theme I remembered you blogged about...--Anyway, it was really making me sad, even angry... that the menatlity is that a person must look a certain way, or be a certain age to wear a particular type of bathingsuit... Ugh. In protest today; I'm wearing a tiny bikini, yes, so I can get sunshine on my excema, w/ mommy-belly and celulite to match... simply to play w/ my kids, exercise, and enjoy life and all the blessings in it!

Rock on, J____!

Conversations. And Barbies.

I am sitting at my son's tae kwon do class while my daughter is at Vacation Bible School.  I sat amongst some friends of mine and two girls (ages 5 and 11 approximately) who were sitting on the floor playing with various Barbies.  Below are various segments of the conversation during the fifty minute lesson.

Mom 1:  As you can see, Ken is naked.

Mom 2:  All the Barbies are naked at our house.  We have a little Barbie Utopia.

Girl 1:  As she fits Ken with a yellow fairy skirt Well he has to wear SOMEthing on his bottom.  He's going on a date with one of these girls later.

There are three Barbies lying against a bookbag on the floor, all dressed in different clothing.  Multiple hair styles and colors.  The two girls are supremely engaged in their play.

Mom 2:  What's that?  she refers to a few sheets of paper in Mom 1's hand.

Mom 1:  Oh, that's my thirty day de-tox.  I got it at yoga.

Mom 3:  I tried that.  I only made it to day three.

Mom 2:  Let me see it.  She scans the document awhile.

Girl 1 finds a lip gloss applicator in the book bag and begins to apply imaginary make-up to each of the three Barbie's faces.  She is meticulous:  eye shadow, lip gloss, blush, etc.  Girl 2 brushes each doll's hair with a miniature brush.  

Girl 2:  She's getting ready for her date.

Girl 2 attempts to fit Ken into a new skirt (there are no "Ken" clothes around), but it won't go over his hips.

Mom 2:  It's just not meant to fit Ken.  His hips are too big.  This is a lesson in why Ken shouldn't be a cross-dresser.

There is some laughter.

Mom 2:  still scanning the thirty day de-tox  Okay - no sugar - not a problem, I don't really do sugar anyway...  scans further  Oh.  I couldn't do no starches.  I like my starches: corn, mashed potatoes...

Mom 3:  Yep, that's when I quit.

Mom 1:  I haven't even read it yet - you guys reading it out loud is the first time I'm hearing it.

Mom 4:  Are you doing this to lose weight?  She is incredulous.

Mom 1:  No, I'm not.  I'm doing it to be healthy.  I went to a nutrition class at my yoga place and we got it there.  I do need to lose weight though.

Mom 2:  Excuse me?  You do NOT need to lose weight.

Mom 1:  I just want to lose this gut.

Mom 2:  rolls eyes

Girl 1 puts the finishing touches on Barbie's make-up.  Ken is back in the yellow fairy skirt.

The conversation amongst the moms moves from bellies to breasts:

Mom 3:  Well I don't have anything up here.

Mom 2:  Well I'd give you some of mine if I could.

Mom 1:  I don't think your husband would like that.

Mom 2:  You're right.  He'd be all, 'where'd they go?'  makes desperate searching motions with her hands and arms.  All laugh.  

Mom 2:  You know men like big boobs and big booties.

Mom 3:  But I don't have big tits.  So I can't have a big booty.  I'd be all imbalanced.

laughter

Mom 1:  Right, it's a balance thing.

Mom 2:  Well I wouldn't want to be imbalanced.

Ken has now chosen THE Barbie for his date night.  He is donned in the yellow fairy skirt and only the yellow fairy skirt.  

Mom 1:  No underwear.

Mom 2:  Looks like he's got a Scottish thing goin' on there.

Giggling as we all acknowledge Ken's lack of undergarments.

Ken and Barbie hold one another as Girl 1 dances them across the floor.  The tae kwon do class ends.  We congratulate our kids on their accomplishments and gather their belongings so we can move on to the rest of our day.  


Mom 2:  I tried Weight Watchers - it didn't work for me.

The Barbies are packed away into the bookbag and the bag is zipped tightly.  The kids chatter.  As our car pulls out of the parking lot, my son sees Girl 2 walking with Mom 1 to their vehicle - he rolls down his window:

My son:  Bye, _________!

On Coolness.

So I wish that I could say I don't care about looking cool.  Or being cool.  Or anything about "cool".  But that would be a big fat lie.

So I will just say, that it's something I'm working on, and thinking about, and considering...  a lot.

I wonder where it comes from.  This...desire to fit in.

First of all I realize that our society, most societies, find it convenient for the general populous to have a desire to "fit in".  To "be cool".  Every advertisement is catered to something about being cool or looking cool or fitting in with a cool crowd at some level.  They play to our desire to be loved and adored.  It's how they work.  And I'm not saying that advertisers are evil - in fact, they're just doing their job, and they are good at it.  It works.  The companies make more money, and that's the point of business.

I don't fault the advertisers.  I fault us for going for it.

For giving in.

Giving in to the cool factor on so many things, at so many levels.

I care so much about what people think of me.

It's pretty pathetic, honestly.

Here's an example:

Last Thursday I was driving to the Thursday Night Supper Club, which is my women's Bible study and it was beginning to rain.  A very light rain.  Nothing torrential.  Just the beginnings of rain.  There was enough for water to have pooled in the street, and some of the water was splashing onto the windshield.  I thought about turning my wipers on while sitting at a stop light - but before I did that I looked around to see what all of the other drivers were doing.  Were their wipers on?  How fast were their wipers going?  What would people think of me if I turned my wipers to this speed now?

Insanity, right?

Is it?

Why did I care AT ALL what the other drivers were doing?  I should do what I needed to do and forget what they thought - because really, they didn't care AT ALL about me.  So I turned them on to the speed I needed and tried to forget about the other drivers.  I admit it STILL crossed my mind - even after all that.  Even after telling myself that it didn't matter.  I continued to think about it.  Insane.

Why does this happen?

I remembered, as I thought about it and continued driving, the my driver's ed teacher said once "If your not sure if it's dark enough to use your headlights yet, look around and see what the other drivers are doing.  If some of them have their headlights on, turn yours on too."  Apparently we can't think for ourselves.  Apparently, it's important to "do what everyone else is doing".  Maintain the status quo.  Don't do anything "weird".

I have done a lot of things in my life for which I have received criticism.  My hair cut.  The way I raise my children.  The way I taught when I was in the classroom.  The language I have used.  My political bent.  The way I feed my family.  The way I think about poetry.  I've been criticized for tons of things.  You'd think eventually I'd say "screw everyone, I'm going to do what I know is right for me and mine and they can all bite me!"

I hope I can get there one day.

It's a hard road.

Yesterday I took my daughter to church in her pajamas.

She did NOT want to get dressed.

I had a choice.

Get her dressed, have a fight, get frustrated, make her cry, and get to church late OR let her go in her PJs and get to church on time without a lot of frustration.

I chose the options that didn't include a lot of frustration.  And yet - the ENTIRE way to church I worried about what people would say about my daughter at church in her barefeet and pajamas.  How would they look at me?  Would they think I was disrespectful?  Would they think I was a bad parent?

Some people did comment.  They criticized with a smile.  Made it into a joke from which I was to learn a lesson.  But most people just thought she was the cutest thing ever and didn't mind at all that she was in pink monkey pajamas.

I'm trying to stop caring what they think.  What everyone else thinks really isn't all that important.  They can make fun or mess with me or tell me I'm stupid - but I've got to cling to the truth.  God loves me just the way I am.  He made me to be this person with these ideas and these physical traits and this set of parenting skills and this mind and these talents.  He loves his creation.  He loves me through my mess-ups and stupidity and stumbling block learning curves.  He holds my hand.  He nods with approval.  I'm His child.  My Father is the KING.  Nobody messes with the daughter of the king.

In light of this, I realize that I need to take greater care in my passing judgments.  It's something I've gotten better at as I've grown older.  Something I've gotten better at since shaving my head and receiving the harsher end of the judgment stick.  People are trying their best, in general.  And what we want more than anything else is acceptance and love right where we are.  It's not really about "being cool".  It's about being LOVED.  I hope we can all try harder to see through the hot mess we might think we are or the hot mess we see in someone else and see the prince or princess on the other side.  God loves us all.  Even the person with the wiper blades whirring at a million miles a minute when it's barely drizzling outside.  Even you.  Even me.

Pink.

A friend just posted this on facebook.

She cried.  Now I'm crying.

I wrote the poem about being a cocoon for my daughter this morning...

I guess the song speaks for itself:

Cocoon.

You walk into my room
Slow and tentative
Thumb to mouth
Hand to lovey: pink;
Chocolate Eyes wide
Peering over the side of my bed.

Dawn light streams through shut blinds;
Static cling hair pinches ruddy cheeks -
Long Lashes brush the sheet...


You climb in next to me
Thermal shirt:  purple, maroon, grey/green stripes
And snuggle close beneath the blankets
Full of Heat.

Little breaths
Shuddering heart:
Tiny Life and me -
Side by side.

I wrapped my arms around you.
Little Feet denting my thigh
Breathing in your thin fine hair.
You close your eyes and I close mine...

My little Butterfly.

On unwanted pregnancy.

First of all - let me say that this post is not about those who have been raped.  This is about something consensual that ends up in something unplanned.

My husband and I have always planned on having children.

We had grand plans about how our lives would pan out.

We would move to Maryland and I would take a teaching job (check).  He would work at random jobs until he could find work as a lighting designer in DC, and then we would move back to PA as soon as I had enough experience to do so.  Or we would move to the city (any city) after he made a name for himself as an LD and we'd follow his career.  After all of that (we estimated a five year plan), we would think about having kids.

We knew for sure we wanted to wait five years before even thinking about having kids.

So I was on the pill, and we were married, and all was well.

Then there was this one time where we were in a show and it was tech week and we were incredibly busy and we didn't get my prescription filled when we should.  Not sure if I missed one pill or a few pills, but I figured, I'd been on birth control for years due to some messed up stuff with my monthly cycle, so surely there would be some residual effect for that one or two days that I missed taking the pill.  I got back on birth control asap and went on about my life.

Sometime in January, I found out I was pregnant.

I was devastated.

I think that's an accurate description.

This was not something that I wanted.  I had just started my career.  We had been married seven months.  My husband was teaching at a middle school in Virginia.  Not where we wanted to be at that time, really, but we needed the extra income (or so we thought at the time).  I had no idea how to care for a baby.  I hadn't even liked babysitting older kids all that much as a teenager - it was more of an obligation than something I enjoyed doing.  We had just re-arranged the house so that my husband and I each had our own office with huge desks, our own spaces for being.  What in the WORLD were we going to do with a baby.

I didn't want it.

It didn't help that the entire first trimester I was throwing up pretty much constantly - keeping only Saltines and sips of water down for longer than two minutes or so.  It was tough to even get anything else past my nose.  I threw up in class.  I had a dizzy spell where I had to be sent home.

Being pregnant was NOT fun.  Re-thinking everything about my life was NOT fun.  I could not imagine how I could continue doing the things I wanted to do - the things I thought made me who I was.  Everything was going to end.  Doing theatre together with my husband was most certainly over.

I was angry and frustrated and on top of all of that I had a lot of shame.

You don't just roll over and decide that once you get married it's suddenly okay to get pregnant.  You've spent all of your teenage years avoiding it and scared of it because you know if you get pregnant you're going to be disowned.  Now it's okay?  Now I'm supposed to be happy?

There was a lot of private guilt.

Why couldn't I be happy about this baby?

Why did I have to feel so afraid?

What was going to happen?

How badly, really, was labor going to hurt?

What were the chances of dying in the process?

And at the same time, worrying if the baby was okay.  If I was eating the right things.  If I was doing the right things.  Guilt about how my negative feelings might be effecting him or her.

At first it was easy for me to not think about what was happening to my body as a baby.  I wasn't showing, just puking.  I couldn't feel any movement, I just felt like junk 24/7.

I admit I still have some flashes of guilt about my feelings regarding this pregnancy.  This...unwanted pregnancy.

I never thought about having an abortion, because I had decided I felt abortion was wrong when it came to matters of convenience.  It wasn't like I didn't know sex made babies.

I just felt cheated somehow.

There were people, friends of mine, who were TRYING to have a baby and couldn't have one.  And me.  I missed a birth control pill and now I was pregnant.  Insanity.

Eventually...once I could feel kicking, I became seriously curious about the baby.  I felt...a little different.

Yes.  My life was going to change completely.  I was terrified of labor.  I didn't know the first thing about caring for an infant - I was afraid I would break the baby if I held it...  but I was curious about this little person:

Was it a boy or a girl?  What would his or her name be?

Maybe...maybe we should start thinking about a room.

As I picked out the wallpaper and bedding my heart grew so big.  Thinking about this new life - I was scared, but now...  now excited somehow too.

When the gender didn't show up on the sonogram we went to have a 4D one done.  I HAD to know.  We picked out names.

And he was a boy.

And his name would be Jonah Thomas.  Jonah after "Jonas" in The Giver, who saw the reality of the world and understood the world's pain, and still wanted to be free from the false world around him.  Wanted the truth, even if it was painful.  Wanted to feel emotion and love and to touch snow.  Thomas after my grandfather who had recently passed to the next world.

In the first days after he was born I was so afraid of breaking him.  So afraid of messing up.  So afraid of hurting him or doing or saying the wrong thing.  Holding him wrong.  Feeding him wrong.  But I managed.

Still a skeptic about motherhood, feeling like everything I wanted for my life had been taken away, and guilty about feeling that way, I got up for a middle-of-the-night feeding.

Jonah was crying.  Hungry.

I warmed a bottle and went into his room.  Wallpaper I had chosen.  Clouds and sky on the wall and ceiling my husband had painted.  Little toys and blankets.  I pulled him out of his crib and fed him the bottle.  He was warm in my arms and staring up at me.  I loved him so much.  I realized I had loved him so much from the beginning - that all that shame and horror and worry was me and selfish and mostly just fear about my own ability to take on such a massive responsibility.

After the bottle I put him down on the throw rug (shaped like a turtle) on his floor.  It was quilted and soft... and I pulled out my violin.

I hadn't felt I was able to practice since we'd been home from the hospital.

It was around three in the morning.

I pulled out my violin and my music and I played for that little boy lying there, staring up at me on the turtle rug.

I think about that night often now.  About how my art and my love for my child entangled in that warm and beautiful moment.  About how yes, my life was changing but perhaps...  and now I know it for sure...  for the better.

I cannot imagine life without my son, and I don't want to.

Last night at The Refinery we were talking about Joseph, and how he had a decision to make about Mary.  He could divorce her quietly - send her away to relatives to have the baby.  He could have her stoned for adultery.  Or he could marry her - believe what the angel said about the origins of this child inside her.  Joseph chose to listen to the angel.

And what of Mary?  Her choice?

The angel said - this is going to happen and how do you feel about that?  And Mary said YES.  In spite of a culture of shame.  In spite of her fears.  And her answer changed the world.

I guess it felt like that for me.

I have this son.  He's six years old.

I could have said no.  I could have run away screaming.  I could have terminated the pregnancy.  But he is the JOY of my LIFE!

I know that my unwanted pregnancy was an easy one.

I have an amazing husband who supports me in everything and who was there for me through the whole ordeal.

Lots of unwanted pregnancies happen under very different circumstances than mine.  Lots of women are alone.  We make these choices and then we end up in a place we never thought we'd be.  Not every guy is like Joseph.  Some are, sure - but some aren't.

This isn't supposed to be some anti-abortion post.  I guess it is one.  But I don't want to add more shame to anyone's plate.  We've all got enough of that.  For me this is a post about hope.

About looking at a situation and trying to see that even if we can't imagine the good, there CAN be good.  That pregnancy is scary.  And motherhood is intimidating.  But a baby is...  a miracle.  A magic thing.  When you thought all of the love was drained from your fragile heart - how it can swell at the sight of your child - this is a miracle.

To all you single moms out there - my hat is off to you.  You are true heroes.

To all you guys out there who chose to stay when the going got tough - good on ya.  You are a man of courage.

To all you women who are scared out of their minds right now and have no idea what you're doing or what you should do - and babies seem the farthest thing from happy you could imagine - think about that night I had with my little son and my violin, and know that so MUCH is possible.

My heart goes out to you all.

Love.

Heather and Jade.

In keeping with what seems to be a mother-daughter theme around here for the week, I wanted to post these two photographs today:

Heather

 

 

Jade

Heather and Jade are mom and daughter who wrote their reasons for beauty separately, but, as you'll note, they are pretty similar!  What a cool statement about the things that moms can pass on and daughters can live out!  Thanks so much to these two lovely women who sent their photographs to The Mirror Project.

By the way, in case you couldn't tell, Heather is an artist.  Not just an artist, but an artist with the empowerment of women in mind.  You can see her work here and read her awesome blog, Body Politics, anytime you visit the R.J. site through the blogroll to your right. 

To those ladies who also sent in pictures this week, I've decided to post one at a time or sets that go together from no on, since I'm getting so many entries and I want all of the photographs to get great attention from my readers. 

Project photos will still be posted each Friday, and most likely I will post them in the order in which they were received.  If you would like to add your photograph to The Mirror Project, please email it to me, along with your name and, if necessary, a translation of what you've written (in case there is a glare or the words are somehow unclear in the photo) at redefinedjuliet@gmail.com.  I can't wait to see where this project will go next. 

Thanks so much, Heather and Jade, for sharing this special part of yourselves, and without even knowing it initially, your relationship. 

Moms.

I've been doing a lot of thinking about mothers and motherhood lately.

This is most probably because this Monday I began homeschooling my children, and it's got me looking at the world with pretty fresh eyes.  On top of that, last week I wrote this blog and I got a note from my mom about it.

First of all, I wasn't really sure if my mom read this blog.  I maintain a couple of others and I know she peruses those from time to time, but I wasn't sure about this one. 

Then, on the R.J. facebook page, I got this comment from her in response to my blog:  "Miss, this is excellent! I am proud of you. Did you actually send the letter? I hope you did!"

My heart was so warmed by this comment - I can't even begin to tell you.  

If it had not been my mom, you can bet the effect would have been significantly diminished.  First of all, the phrasing is decidedly intimate - but besides that, it's from MY MOM.


I doesn't matter how old I get - I still seek after my mom's approval.  


I still think about what my mom would think or what she would do.


Sometimes I know I'm doing something outside of her comfort zone, like shaving my head, for example...  but it is always one of THE BEST feelings to know that Mom is proud of me.  That she approves.  That she's there.


I know of folks whose mothers were not so good as mine.  Moms who hurt their kids or abused them or degraded them or what have you.  The thing about that is - I also know that those kids still long for that kind of approval.  Maternal pride.  And love.  Unconditional love.  


As a mom, it's been humbling to understand that I, as a thirty year old woman and mother of my own children still look to my mom for wisdom, for advice, for approval of my actions.  I still think about what she would think, what she must be thinking.  Humbling because I know that every thing I say to my kids will effect them so strongly.  That in twenty years or so it will be MY voice in their heads when they are faced with a tough decision.  That's a lot of responsibility.  


This particular post is for the moms out there who are thinking that maybe they aren't all that important.  Or that their job doesn't really matter.  Because those things are just insanity.  And I've been there before - I know.  I've felt isolated and lonely and tired and depressed about being a mom.  Felt like I was so insignificant.  But seeing my moms comment about her being proud of me - that's what it's all about, people!  It's a powerful position, and a humbling one all at once.  A paradox.  An important one.  Maybe the most important job in the world.  

This post is also for all the other women out there who might not have kids but who long to be moms.  Please know that there are a lot of hurting kids out there whose moms couldn't be there, couldn't face it, couldn't handle this responsibility.  Who turned to abuse, to drugs, who ran away.   Those hurting kids need mom figures in their lives.  Maybe you could find them, be one.  


To all you kids out there who have a mom who is trying her darndest to help you grow up in the best way possible (and you're still her kid til you're dead and she's still trying til she is), give her an extra hug today.  Think about that humble responsibility that she is face with.  Try to put yourself in her shoes sometimes.  


I know that especially when I was fourteen and fifteen my mom and I went through a really rough time.  I felt like she didn't understand me and she was trying to get through to me and I was scared and pubescent and angry and not telling her everything and just a general mess of a kid.  Maybe you're there right now and your mom is the last person on your "like" list.  If I could go back to my freshman year of high school I would tell myself to try hard to listen before speaking.  To talk calmly before freaking out.  To take time to get to KNOW my mom before jumping to conclusions about who she was.  


In the end, this post is about moms and for moms and about kids and for kids - kids who are now moms themselves and kids who are grown-ups and kids who are just starting to read this stuff.  Moms are a gift.  Some of us don't really have a mom, at least not one who is able to function right now.  Who is showing you maternal love?  What does that person mean to you?  What does Mom mean to you?

The past few days, weeks, months...hell...years...I have been feeling...just discontent.

It is not something that goes away, just something that sort of... ebbs and flows as the seasons change.

I try to tie it into other parts of my life. Try to justify it. Try to understand it. Now I think I am just accepting that it is simply a part of me. A part of who I am. Maybe a part of Christianity. Maybe a part of human existence. Maybe a part of womanhood. The answer escapes me now.

I look around me and everything is broken.

Today a baby bird was pushed out of its nest by its parents and I ran with a cloth to put it back inside.

When I picked it up, I could feel the warmth of its blood. The beating of its small heart. It was beautiful. Magic. A miracle. I put it back inside the nest next to its sibling.

Then I took my son to the library.

When I got home, I learned that the parents had pushed the baby back out of the nest. My husband looked up this particular species of bird and found that they push their babies out of the nest to live on the ground for a few days, feeding them there, until they are strong enough to fly.

To me, it seemed this cruel twist of fate that the two birds could not manage to fit into the nest any longer together. Here it was just the way nature had of helping the babies to be mature - to head out on their own.

How often we do this. Stifle ourselves and others, trying to put them back into the warmth of the nest when what they need in order to fly is just a few days on the ground.

We stuff them full of self esteem and pride and expect this to make them worthy of greatness.

I have no idea what the "right" answers are.

I find myself, as a mother, struggling daily with my highly gifted child and my highly active child who may or may not also be gifted, clueless more often than not. Desperate for answers and unable to find them.

I am not sure of the conclusion I am hoping to read in this particular blog. I just want to write and this seemed the place to do it.

I want to break out of my skin and put on something new.

I see the girls in college, the ones just starting life and I find myself jealous of them. Making decisions I should have made. I do not regret my life now - I love my children, my husband... but I wish I would have taken better advantage of my time as a young adult. Stretched my wings a little before I had them somewhat clipped by responsibilities.

I admit I am not sure where I should go from here. If there is anywhere to go.

A friend of mine wrote to me on facebook and told me that I need to understand that life comes in phases. During this time when my children are young I have to understand that I cannnot have the things that I value so much in life - theatre, time to myself, time to write, whatever. My life is supposed to be about my children.

I understand this. I feel that much of my life is about my children. But I refuse to lose myself in that. I refuse to be the mother who, twenty years from now, is sitting at home with no plans, no future, no interests - dreaming of the days when she was changing diapers.

I have fun with my kids. I work toward being a good mother. I devour book after book to help me in finding the "right" education for my children. I homeschool. I love them and the "Mom" part of me. But that is not the entirety of who I am.

I hope that it never is. And yet society still makes me feel guilty about this.

The truth is - you cannot do everything. You cannot be the best mom and the best in your career and the best artist and the best writer and the best player on your softball team. You might be able to do a few of these things if you give up sleeping. Balance is the key. I am not sure that we ever figure out balance in our lives until we are too feeble to get around on our own. Then we are forced to change our very human habits a bit.

I realize this blog is drivel for the most part. I think I might be making some kind of point in there. Not sure where it is. Maybe you can glean a little nugget of gold for yourself. Maybe you just wasted a few minutes of your time reading.