Men in Tights AND Women in Pads

I. My boys are on the field. It's still pre-season, so it doesn't "count", but who cares. A game's a game in my book.

Last week ... the Packers handed our asses to us on a platter. A cheese platter. We did beat San Diego the week before though

Here's hoping the boys turn things around tonight.

I, unlike Lorraine with High School Musical, will not be live-blogging the game tonight. (except to say we've already recovered their fumble, and scored, not 2 minutes into the game.)

Hey!! The exaggerated sighs of relief are not even necessary. I can hear you from here. Yes, as a matter of fact, I am aware enough to realize that most of my readers are infinitely more interested in musicals than football games.

Punks.

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II. You all want to know about some badass women? Check out the Seattle Majestics. They are women football players. You heard me right. And I am not talking Powder Puff. Tackle. These girls are on the line. In pads, with helmets.

Badass.

Today they got to play a post-season (for them) exhibition game before the Seahawks game, in front of a full crowd at Qwest field. Hell yeah. They play through the Independent Women's Football League (IWFL).

I like that they're not called The Lady Seahawks. I hate that shit. Like our high school's girls basketball team is called The Lady Warriors. (Knight type, not the stereotypical Native American type, as my high school was) There's just something about that which I find demeaning. Like they're not the real Warriors. Like aw, aren't they cute, the little ladies. Fuck that.

Anyway, the Majestics have been getting more publicity, and I'm happy they got to play at Qwest today. Just like the big boys, right? Next season I'm taking the kids to some games. I'm sure they'll be cheaper than Seahawks tickets, which is another fucked up aspect of women's sports, as far as the message it sends about what they're worth, but it works for my budget.

You go Grrlz!

Taking on the Man

Okay y'all, wish me luck. Today is the big day when my fledgling parents' group meets with the school district superintendent and his minions. We've been working our asses off for this meeting. It's a grassroots group. It started off with a few of us sharing our stories, and realizing how many stories were out there, and how many "isolated incidents" were not isolated incidents at all, but a reflection of a systemic lack of awareness of the issues that students of color deal with every day. The more parents we spoke with, the more commonalities emerged.

Each parent thought it was "just them". In each case, the child was seen as the "issue". The commonalities were too blatant to ignore, though, and the kids are the ones internalizing this shit. It's amazing what's been going on with these kids! None of us knew the big picture until we started digging and talking to other parents, hearing their stories.

Anyway, it's been been me and three other women organizing this. This is on top of us all being single moms/aunt to teenagers and working. Yeah. Monday we put four hours in. Yesterday, three more. I spent the weekend doing a power point presentation. Last night I wrote the summary after the airport, got to bed about 0230, then got up to go with the son to freshman orientation at the high school.

Orientation -- please. I was expecting to get some actual information, but the "parents' activity" was coffee and muffins in the staff lounge. What? I don't have time for chatting over muffins, are you kidding me? Where's the friggin' information? I got pressured to sign up for the opening BBQ, some bake sale, some other fundraiser, some ticket selling thing -- hello, been there, done that, working single mom now, thank you. I don't have time to bake for my family, let alone some function. I also got hear about where so-and-so had bought her cute bag; how Sally was SO devastated about not making cheer, and she was better than that other girl anyway; how so-and-so misses her husband so much and doesn't know HOW she'll survive with him being gone for a week on business! She doesn't work. Please. You can't handle a week without your man and you don't even go to work? Buck up, honey, you'll live, I promise. I was out of there in five minutes.

I do digress. This was supposed to be a quickie. And you all know how good I am at brevity. (Stop the fake coughing JP, I see you.)

Anyway, today's the meeting, I ditched the orientation and am going over my summary. How I got stuck with the damn summary I have no idea. Well, yes I do. Let the white girl do it, she's less of a threat to white men in power, they'll listen to her. Which is sadly true. "If a white person notices racism, then it must actually be true, because they don't have 'ulterior motives' or a 'chip on their shoulders'."

It "goes down easier" coming from another white person; this has been documented. Which is ridiculous, because really, I'm not the one who has the innate understanding/experience to explain this shit. But, I've seen how it works: person of color starts a dialogue about his/her experience with racism; white person's sphincter immediately tightens, s/he goes on the defensive, secretly thinking that the PoC has "pulled the race card" and is "too sensitive"; white person either clams up and nods with a tight smile, or attempts to explain to the PoC why they have not actually experienced racism, they have in fact simply misunderstood, or been overly sensitive.

I really hate when white folks try to tell folks of color what racism is and isn't.

Okay, y'all, I know I'm on about this stuff a lot. I know some of you may be like,

Damn, Cowbell, lighten up, can't we all just get along? I never see this stuff going on. Pull the racism stick out of your ass and get back to writing about how your mom wants you to marry a preacher!

I know it sounds soapboxy to those who don't have to live with it or see it going on. I realize this.

You all think I just woke up one day and say, hey, I'm going to all of a sudden get a stick up my ass about racism and white privilege! That would be fun! No, it's not fun at all. What happened is that I see the effect on my kids, subtle and blatant. Particularly since my son has been hit with the puberty stick -- folks' perception of him has changed before my eyes, which breaks my heart and pisses me the fuck off. (He's good, he's kind, he's a kid for godssake, don't be scared of him, he's not going to steal your stupid greeting-card-store knick-knacks, bitch.) I see the bullshit in the media. I hear the comments. I see how it is subtly woven through our institutions. And when I talk to other parents, I hear stories worse than mine. Much worse.

My kids are kids of color, but the reality is that they are riding the coat tails of my white privilege. A teacher may make an assumption about my son, may send him out of the classroom while smiling at his white buddy who was also talking in class. To my son. When I show up to talk about it, the look of relief is plain to see, ("Oh, YOU'RE Mom! Whew!" Because I will "understand", I will not "be difficult".) On the phone, the administrators may not want to put my son in advanced classes, may not want to answer my questions about why I didn't receive the application packet in the mail. When I walk in though, when they see me, suddenly he is of the caliber to qualify for these classes.

Their perception of his home life, his support, his ability is suddenly different.

On the other hand, boy do they value his ass on the football field, the wrestling mat, the track. They are sending my son a message about where he is valued, where he is expected to excel.

My experience in the school principal's office is much different than the experience of my friends of color. Which is bullshit.

Goddamn but I do digress. Sorry.

Anyway, I'm doing the summary, in order to avoid the clenched-sphincter phenomenon brought on by "playing the race card." Well, these boys don't know it, but I'm about to pull the white card on their asses. I am going to connect with them on their level. I am going to talk about how, as white people, we are not born with an awareness of this. I was not born knowing about this. I floated along for years, blissfully unaware of what other people were living every day. I had to learn it. It was my responsibility to learn about it, in order to effectively parent my children. And the district has that same responsibility to educate themselves, because our children are their students. It's their school too, and they deserve to be appreciated and valued for who they are, not for how effectively they can assimilate into the dominant culture to avoid problems. Not for how well they learn to suppress that shit.

Anyway, they think they can "relate" better to me, okay, I'm expecting something from them. So we'll see how it goes. It's been a lot of work, and the damn overhead projector had best be working right.

[Climbs down off soapbox.] I really do suck at brevity, don't I?

Leaving on a Jet Plane

The eldest daughter left to go back to college tonight. It was harder than last year. We both cried like babies. OK, maybe not babies, but whatever. OK, I did, but not until I was in the car. I hate airports. They could use it for a question on the SAT: Airports are to Cowbell what hospitals are to most people. With all the times we've moved, and with so many of the people in our lives leading the same traveling type of life, airports usually mean saying goodbye. For most folks, an airport goodbye is usually temporary, like a vacation or business trip or college. For us, it's more often permanent, so I guess I've got some sort of Pavlov's dogs reaction going on. This goodbye isn't permanent, the daughter will be back at Thanksgiving. But hey, Fido's still going to drool even if you don't put the bowl out after ringing the bell, right? Airports still suck, it's ingrained.

Where did the summer go? I friggin' hate Seattle summers. It's like you keep waiting for it to hit, and then it's gone. I just can't believe it's the end of August.

Mad Hattery

So I know you all are all stalking my blog like a bunch of vultures in breathless anticipation of details from my trip to Hatland.

Hello?

[chirp, chirp]

Guys? Anybody out there?

Fine. It's not like I was blog-stalking either, when Lorraine went to Chi-town, or when the Hat came to Seattle. Please. I have a life, you know. Hmph.

So, what to say? How do I put it to words? The Hat has become Real. Like the Velveteen Rabbit.

"What is REAL?" asked the Rabbit one day, when they were lying side by side near the nursery fender, before Nana came to tidy the room. "Does it mean having things that buzz inside you and a stick-out handle?"
"Real isn't how you are made," said the Skin Horse. "It's a thing that happens to you."

Well, The Hat certainly didn't have a stick-out handle, but after a certain number of tasty drinks, she may have had things buzzing inside her. Regardless, she is now Real, with a face and a voice and a fetchingly contagious smile.

I have to tell you all, I was amazed that she'd only been in her charming abode for little more than a month. From the gorgeously curvy (and oh so fitting) chaise lounge with funky pillows, to her Princess bed, to the flowers on her hat box end table, to the pictures on the walls - it was neat as a pin and looked like she'd been there for years. Lorraine would be proud.

I've been in my house for nearly a year. Ain't shit on my walls.
And yes, she actually does have an end table made of hat boxes. See for yourselves. Perfect? I think so.

Also, she had this hostess business down, y'all. I arrived to find a fancy spread of shrimp cocktail, mussels on ice, veggies, spinach dip (in bread bowl, of course), dill dip, 3 different cheeses, kalamata olives, and petite quiche.
Oh hell yes. The Hat rocked the kitchen.

She prepared some refreshing Iced Tea, perfect after my long and arduous journey. This tea was zippy and left me strangely giddy, yet able to grasp all the mysteries of the universe. It's some sort of Italian tea blend a la Lorraine. I liked it so much I snagged the recipe.
(Disclaimer: Italian Ice Tea not intended for those under the age of 21.)

The Hat's hostessing skillz really came to light with her change of attire for every course. The evening began with a flowy skirt and blouse ensemble, went to a frilly summer frock, then to basic black. She rounded up the evening with silky PJs in the color scheme of her chaise lounge, bedecked with flowers and a snappy trim. Impressive. I suspect she may have Superman phone booth skillz to boot, as I never actually saw this happen.

I brought a fine Chilean wine, based on my intimate knowledge of funky wine labels. You wine aficionados out there may recognize this particular blend as Voluptuous Beauty. Exactly. I really had no choice but to bring it, did I? Perfect for an evening at the Voluptuary. It didn't suck. I was proud. You can't tell so much in the cropped shot, but the backdrop for this shot was, in fact, beauteously voluptuous.
Sadly, there isn't as much photographic evidence as we'd planned. But really, who has time to snap pics when you're busy quaffing tea and untangling the mysteries of the universe? Anyway, here are a few of the pics. See, not too incriminating.

Below you'll see her Hatness chatting up one of her Real friends. We both had Real friends checking up via telephone, in case either of us turned out to be an axe murderer. We had to use code words and everything. Doesn't actually do much good though, when you tell the potential axe murderer about your code word.

(It does pay to be careful though, as this Australian farmer recently found out. He was kidnapped during an Internet meeting gone wrong. Of course, his visit did involve marriage and a dowry of gold bars, but whatever. It happens. Be careful out there.)

"So, things are going WELL ... yes, I said WELL."
(hello, adorable! Can we get a cyber wolf whistle here?)

"Wait! You should wear a hat!"
"Right! And pull it down over one eye like in the movies!
Do I look like a princess detective?"

"My! He really is a Dirty Rotten Kitty!"*

Frivolity abounded in direct proportion to the amount of "Iced Tea" consumed. And it really was just her chaise lounge that squeaked when she reached for her wine glass that time. I ended up crashing on the Hat's lovely chaise lounge, as we realized at one point it was 3:30 am. Oops.

Frivolity aside, I'm so glad to have met her. I never would've thought that this blogging business would lead to connections like this. I know there are people who don't see any difference between a blogging addiction and an online gaming or TV addiction.

The difference is the connection.

Meeting the Hat validated my feeling that these are, in fact, real connections. That these keyboard people with unknown faces, cyberly tied by the wisp of a broadband connection, are friends. As I got into this whole blogging thing more and more, I'd sometimes question myself. Okay, Cowbell, what's up -- is this online stuff isolating me from connections in the real world? Am I deluding myself that these are connections at all?

No. This online stuff is about building connections, and these folks are very much in the real world.

What I think about blogging is that it strips away all the things people normally connect over. Looks, age, gender, employment, location, orientation, education, income level, hot-factor, whether you're married or single, whether you have kids or not -- all of that is gone. Out of the equation. What's left is our insides, the core. Our beliefs, feelings, fears, humor, interests. The things that matter.

What is more real, connections based on those surface things, or a connection based on our insides? I'm thinking that a friendship based on shared beliefs is a lot more real than a friendship based on someone's hotness factor or income level.

If you take the step to meet a cyberbuddy in real life, you have already discovered shared beliefs, interests and humor. You have weeded through dozens of other blog sites before finding one that you connect with, and when you do connect, it's because there's something there beyond surface cosmetics. Well, unless someone has a really kickass template, that is.

I'm thinking this blogging thing is a pretty damn efficient way to meet Real Friends.

If you're wondering, yes, I did actually call her The Hat. No, there were no awkward silences. No "holy shit, what the hell am I doing here?"  We were not strangers. It was effortless. Okay, commenting over at The Club wasn't exactly effortless, but that was because of all the "Iced Tea" we'd consumed at that point. The rest of it though, was effortless. We talked about stuff way below the surface. Which didn't seem odd at all.

The Hat is every bit as lovely as I'd imagined. As I've already fawned over her pics at Lorraines, you know I think she is more delicious than a Daiquiri Shake (don't ask). And hello, the neighbor guy's comment? Well, let's just say, don't be too hard on him. Poor guy. The pressure was just too much. So yeah, the sparkly captivating hotness that comes through on her blog? Her. And yes, her smile really is that sunny.

*That last one is a long story. I stole Dirty Rotten Kitty from a friend on the East Coast a few years back, before her dog could destroy him. (He's actually a dog toy, but like the Velveteen Rabbit, is quite Real, and had to be rescued.) Since then he's kind of become like the world renowned Traveling Garden Gnome. He's been spotted in many places, and has much photographic evidence in his travel logs. He now has a new friend.

'Tis the Season

Football Season, that is.

First preseason game, Seattle @ San Diego.

Seahawks spank the Chargers, 24 - 16.

That's what I'm talking about.

- Coming soon to a blog near you: The wonderful world of The Hat. -

Hats Off!

OK kids, this is just a quickie. Oh do not even give me that attitude -- everyone needs a good quickie now and again. In fact, I am long overdue for one.

Anyway, I don't have much time, and there's a reason for that. Three guesses where I'm going today. No, I am not going to Honey's on 99. Sheesh. OK, here's a hint:

photo credit: Corsets and Crinolines

No, I am not going to High Tea with the Queen. Forget her, I am going to pay a visit to The Hat. I'm aflutter with excitement. Of course, I am a bit worried about seeming out of place. The only hat I have is my Seahawks ball cap. Well, no matter. What it lacks in feathers, it certainly makes up for in spirit. And, I have procured the perfect wine. Well, okay, the wine might suck ass, who knows, but it's all about the bottle. Just ask Lorraine. She got a fish vase out of the deal. I do not have a piscine bottle, but I think this will fit the bill.

And Hat, I have a confession to make. Better it come out now, than on your doorstep. I know I told you that I really do look like that blue tile Goddess in my profile pic, that it really was my picture. Okay, that was sort of a lie. I'm sorry. But to prove that I did once have a suitable hat, and so I won't be a complete and utter stranger, here is a pic. I'm the one on the left of the bar, holding the whip. (Just add about 40 pounds, and there you go.



So, I must away -- I still have to wear the canines out at the park before I leave, run to the store, shower so as not to offend, print out my map, and tend to the rabbit. Now where's that whip ...

The Visible Vote

If you all are on your computers reading my crap instead of watching The Visible Vote on LOGO, get thee to a television. (words I never thought I'd have occasion to utter.) Democratic candidates addressing LGBT issues directly, live. More later...

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OK, I have to say, I just loved listening to Dennis Kucinich. I have no idea why they didn't have his (hot!) wife on the stage, but hey, whatever. I mean, OK, he sounded kind of hippie new-age in a few spots: (and I may not get the verbiage word for word, so cut me some slack)

I see the Equality sign here. I've got the same sign up in my office, in Washington DC. Now imagine that sign, encased ... in a heart. (draws a heart shape in the air)

He went on to talk about the power of love. Later, he spoke so passionately and sincerely about love, and also the depth of love he feels for his wife, and how devastated he would be if they were not legally able to marry. He went on to talk about how important GLBT rights are to him -- spoke for some time about it, and damn did this man sound so sincere. He did not sound like a politician, he sounded like a guy just talking about what's important to him. I mean, you could practically feel his belief in these issues coming through the screen. I got teary eyed. I clapped alone in my living room when the man was done.

-sigh-

I know he's too much of a left-wing hippie boy to get elected. And personally, I am not convinced he would actually be the best man for president on all the issues. The president will need to fix this global mess we're in, and need to be really strong and experienced on international issues. (Thanks, Dubya.) But damn. He sure would be the best man for the job on the issues affecting the gay community. And for healthcare.

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OK, Bill Richardson just blew it:

Melissa Etheridge: Governor, do you think being gay is biological, or is it a choice?
Bill Richardson: It's a choice.

ME: I'm not sure if you understand the question; do you think we are born this way, or around 7th grade, we just decide, 'oh, I wanna be gay',"

BR: (looking pained) Well, I'm not a scientist .... ... I don't like to answer definitions like that that are perhaps grounded in science or something I don't understand.

Oops.

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Doh! Melissa just called Hillary out.

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OK, I did not mean for this to turn into some kind of review thing, I basically just wanted to remind everybody to watch, because I meant to do that earlier today.

I liked Obama, because I like Obama, although I do wish he would step forward about the marriage thing. I see what he's trying to say about how marriage should be completely separate from the state anyway, but still. It isn't.

I actually liked some things Edwards said, more so than I usually do, even though he's not my man. He came out pretty strong in support of separation of church & state. He seemed a little ... trying too hard to convince on some things. A little hokey at times.

Gravel ... y'all that man is just a trip. Weird. He just leaves me scratching my head. Watch him for the entertainment value, if nothing else.

Clinton, well, she's not perfect, but I have to say, I am impressed with how she comes across as such a strong leader. I thought she did well tonight. I don't agree with everything she's about, but I'm never going to find a candidate I'm 100% happy with. I'm still undecided, but am leaning more from Obama toward Clinton. Slightly. Still undecided. She seemed comfortable tonight. Some, like Richardson, and even Gravel, seemed downright ... well, not comfortable.

But, I'm tired of of writing about this, so you all watch it on YouTube if you didn't get a chance to see it.

Here's The Confession

Okay, y'all, I am a bit freaked out on two counts, both musical. Here's what I know:

1) I do like some 80s music after all. In fact, I like a lot of it.

2) Lorraine and I sang two of the same songs for church in years past. It's true. Amy Grant's El Shaddai and Father's Eyes. Given that I found this out purely by chance while cruising old comments, I bet if we actually compared notes, there could even be more.

These are the things one discovers whilst passing time alone in a night club way past closing time on a Sunday night.

I am a child of the 80s. I'm pretty sure that was a mistake. I think I was supposed to be a child of the 60s. I may have missed out on Free Love and fringe, but I stole the music. I believe I've mentioned that I worship at the church of Joni Mitchell. The 60s was a cool decade. Woodstock, the Black Panthers, free love, natural hair, acoustic guitars. Dr. King. Flowy tunics that flattered everyone. Down with pretense. Make love, not war. Revolution. They made a difference, man. Far out.

Those days, however, were not mine, but my mother's. The 60s were her heyday, she of the GoGo boots, embroidered vests and protest buttons.

I may have come into being in the 60s, but I came of age in the 80s. Big bangs varnished with Aqua Net. Jheri curls. Side ponytails. Clown make up. Jeans desecrated with tapered ankles, pleats and acid wash finish. Shoulder pads. Leg warmers with Flashdance sweatshirts. Reagan. What a hellish legacy to leave for a generation. And it's all immortalized in our yearbooks -- bad hair, bad make up, bad fashion, bad politics, and bad music.

Or so I thought.

Fast forward: summer, 2007. Sunday night it was me, my dogs, and a some Black Dog Ale. I'm cruising around the Internets, and decide to check out that totally rockin' hot spot, Here's the 80s. This was new for me. As you know, the proprieters are the hilariously irreverent and bitter Lorraine & JP. Although I am thoroughly addicted to both their blogs I have not been a regular patron at the club. Here's the 80s? I thought. Are you kidding? I finally got my bangs to lay down and merge with the rest of my hair. My pants no longer come up to my ribcage. No way. I have been shed of the 80s since belting out Auld Lang Syne on New Year's Eve, 1989.

Or so I thought.

Here's the confession: I do too like 80s music. It's true. I'd forgotten how much of it I actually did like. Granted, a lot of it I missed, because I was doing the Contemporary Christian Music thing at the time (thus the aforementioned church solos I have in common with Lorraine), but you can't go through a decade and not hear this stuff. Plus, after I left the cornfields of my youth for the firing ranges and red clay of Fort Jackson, South Carolina, I added secular music to my list of allowable indulgences. I still had over half the decade to go, at that point.
Leaving smalltown Ohio brought other music to my experience. Thus my affinity for old school rap and groups like DeBarge. (Don't judge.) Purple Rain? Are you kidding? Prince was a god.

So anyway, I was sucked through a vortex of black lace and big hair last Sunday night. I was sucked back into the 80s. I was there for hours. Alone, inebriated, on a Sunday night. Guys, you'll see plenty of my comments scattered around the place. In fact, I made myself stop after a while, realizing that they were taking on an "I love you, man!" quality, most likely due to the freely flowing beer. Sling wasn't there to serve up anything more interesting, so I made do with Black Dog Ale.

I'd forgotten about Huey Lewis and the News. Then Dire Straits made me think about my first boyfriend ever. He was great. To this day, I can't hear Sultans of Swing without thinking of him. Damn, that boy could kiss. I credit him with my high kissing standards of today. (Also, to this day, Dan Fogelberg's Auld Lang Syne will make me get misty behind that guy.) Culture Club, Cyndy Lauper, the Commodores, Linda Ronstadt, Aretha, Foreigner, Beastie Boys, The Pointer Sisters, Journey ... yeah. I was liking some 80s music y'all. I even found a bit of old school -- LL Cool J, MC Lyte, Oran Juice Jones, Young MC, Run DMC ... hell yeah. Even the Fat Boys were there. (Trust that Kurtis Blow, Whodini and UTFO will be on the request line soon.)

So now you know. Shoot, now I know. Here's to the 80s. *clink*

Baby Boom, Redux.

Have you all heard of this "competitive birthing" deal? I heard about it on NPR this morning, while taking the eldest daughter to the airport at o'dark-thirty on a Sunday morning. May the Ex be stricken with an aggressive case of pubic lice for setting up those tickets.

Apparently, upper crust mommies are getting caught up in the "competitive birthing" phenomenon sweeping through gated communities across the country. According to NPR:

Historically, the country-club set has had the smallest number of kids. But in the past 10 years, the number of high-end earners who are having three or more kids has shot up nearly 30 percent.

Some say the trend is driven by a generation of over-achieving career women who have quit work and transferred all of their competitive energy to baby making. They call it "competitive birthing."

Yep, the newest twist on keeping up with the Joneses is the mega-family with four or more kids. The uptown mommy is popping out babies like a well-coiffed brood mare. Mothers behind the curve with only one or two children admitted feelings of inadequacy next to their fructiferous peers.

One mother of two, who'd left her child bearing years behind her, reconsidered upon moving to an affluent Connecticut suburb. Even after a third child, it wasn't long until she felt the pressure to be fruitful and multiply once more:

I was bike riding at 6am with a friend, and she said 'I'm pregnant with #4!' and I was like, 'I'm so jealous of you,' and sure enough within the month, we're biking again, and I'm like, 'Guess what, I'm pregnant with #4 too.'

Competitive birthing indeed.

I'm sorry, but if your ass is out biking with your girlfriend at 6am, that means there is a nanny at home watching those kids. That means you're getting enough rest to be up and perky at that hellish hour of the morning, because somebody is helping your ass with laundry and dishes and carpooling and shit, and it means you're not going to work.

You are not Supermom, honey, you're team-mothering. Hell, I'd be competitive, too.

According to Virginia Smith, director of Wellesley Nursery School in the Hills, that's a big part of the high-society baby boomlet. These moms are having more babies because they can.

They're hiring consultants to do the toilet training, to teach them to ride the two-wheelers, to teach them to tie their shoes, it's like the kid gets head lice, and the nit-picker comes and picks the head lice out! Is it ok? I don't know...

These posh moms drop the little darlings off at Wellesley In the Hills with lipstick in place, a fresh manicure, and bags that match their designer workout clothes. They've got the time and energy to hit the gym and the tennis court, have coffee with the girls, get the school-agers off to soccer or tap, and still have time to freshen up before hubby gets home from work. Why not have an extra kid or three?

Another mom, from an article in the Boston Globe:

Every person I know who has four kids has full-time help.
40-year-old former investment banker and current Wellesley mother of three.

Well, no fucking wonder! See, I am just not impressed. You don't punch the 9 to 5 clock, you've got help with the cleaning, yard work, cooking, and chauffeuring, you've got babysitting or even nanny services to boot, where's the stress in that? Please! Moms, back me up here -- what makes parenting hard is that we have to handle everything else in life while we're doing it, right? If all I had to do was parent, damn, I could do that.

Shoot, if I had that set-up, my ass would be toned, I'd have a bouncy haircut with highlights, a pedicure, and shaved legs. My damn bag would match my cute workout shoes. I would kick ass if I didn't have to work and had "full-time help".

Who the hell has "full-time help" anydamnway? What the fuck is that about? Is that even real?

Five bucks says these prolific parents don't have to worry about things like college tuition or sports equipment or the cost of Driver's Ed classes either. That would go a long way toward reducing stress and anxiety, wouldn't it?

I'm thinking that can't be all there is to it, though. Besides the obvious financial reasons, why do these women do it? Why not spend that money on travel or Botox?

*One former attorney says being a mother of four validated her choice to leave the work force more than being a mom to a single child would. I guess I can see that. Easier to justify leaving behind a high powered job and letting that Vassar tuition slide down the drain to raise four kids as opposed to one. Proof to the world (and yourself?) that your life is challenging, that you're doing something not everyone could do. That you're not sitting around sucking down bon-bons. Because you know that's what we moms do.

Another mom puts it like this,

I think it's because we're compelled to be successful and to be achievers. If you're an Ivy League graduate, who's always balanced all of the things in your life, and done it well, you don't decide to be a mom and have one kid. You're going to do it in a big way, full stop, 3 or 4 kids.

Really? I guess I can see that. There is more affirmation for parenting multiple children. I get that sometimes, even with my three, and if I'm honest, yes, it is validating. Then again, I'm definitely not using the team-mothering approach, and my ass goes to work every day. Shoot, I could use the other parent being present, let alone a damn housecleaner.

My mini-brood did not come about through some sort of Wisteria Lane competitive birthing deal to seal my status as an Ivy League mom, I'll tell you that much.

No, that shit came about because I temporarily lost my damn mind, no thanks to that damnblasted Barry White. That and baby shoes. Don't ask.

Actually, having reached Older & Wiser status, I do feel guilt about adding to the planet's burgeoning population with my three, particularly since we Americans are not down with Kyoto or any type of greening down as a whole. I rationalize that, though, with the knowledge that my kids are geniuses who will change the world. Plus, the eldest doesn't want kids, the 2nd says she'd adopt, because there are too many kids of color already needing homes. Hey, we adopt shelter dogs, same deal. Plus, no stretchmarks. See? Genius.

I do find it interesting that once again, it seems to be about women feeling the need to prove their worth. If they're not proving they can hang with the guys in the corporate world, they're justifying their choice to stay home and mother by supersizing the family. As if mothering one kid isn't mother enough.

Of course my Radical Bohemian daughter found it interesting that while this is reported as the latest fashion trend among the jet-set to be aspired to (Four Is the New Two! ), regular folks with large families aren't viewed in quite the same way. Far from being trendy and chic, working class families with several kids are seen as irresponsible. Out of control. Not in the same class as the super-sized family elite, are they? (Hey! I was not out of control -- that shit was planned before Barry started singing. The baby shoes didn't help, though...)

So, for those of you who haven't hopped on the breeding bandwagon yet, it's something to think about. Little Topher and Jennifer (and Jayden and Madison) can be walking, breathing status symbols. You too can be a high society competive birther.

Just make sure you've got your support staff and your Hummer in place.

Photo credits: first two photos: Pam Berry/Boston Globe Magazine

Jesus Land

I just finished reading Jesus Land, a memoir by Julia Scheeres. Her story is written from the perspective of her 17-year-old self, and is both sweet and brutal. Her writing is very honest, sometimes disturbingly so, and her sarcastic dark humor flavors the agonizing experience that was her childhood.

Julia spent her teen years in rural Indiana, raised by fundamentalist Christian parents in the 80s. Her parents adopted two African American boys out of a sense of Christian guilt. Much of the story revolves around Julia's close relationship with her "twin" brother, David.

Their parents had no clue about raising a child of color in the cornfields of the Bible belt; the brothers' daily experiences with racism, both out in the world and at home, are central to the story. The parents were emotionally distant and abusive with all their children, and were physically abusive to Jerome and David. They were heavily into the whole Spare the Rod, Spoil the Child deal, to the point of having that bit of Biblery engraved on the two large paddles hanging on the wall.

My high school years were spent in the rural Midwest in the 80s, immersed in The Way, The Truth, The Life as well, so parts of the book had a familiar feel to me. Fortunately, I did not have the home life that Julia and her siblings dealt with -- my parents were not abusive, and though my mom was very religious (as was I), she was not a fundamentalist. The community though, from the school to food, dress, landscape and attitudes, could've been my town.

One thing that personally freaked me out a bit, was the music. Throughout the book, Christian music is the backdrop for the story. Mom continuously blasts Rejoice Radio over the home intercom system, and hymns and religious songs are often referenced. (The intercom is also used to eavesdrop on the kids' conversations, in case any heathenism is going down.)

I knew every single song in the book.

Every single one, y'all. Every hymn, every contemporary Christian hit, every camp song. After all these years, the words, melodies, harmonies -- in some cases multiple verses and even the tenor harmonies -- all still in there.

These songs have been running through my head for the last three days. It is freaking me the fuck out. I'm talking songs like,

Just As I Am
Power In the Blood
Were You There When They Crucified My Lord
All to Jesus I Surrender
Old Rugged Cross
Go To Dark Gethsemane

... like that. The Rejoice Radio hits too -- Sandy Patty, Amy Grant, Keith Green, Petra, those were my tunes in the 80s.

Secular music was sinful. It encouraged wild kids to have sex and become drug addicts. No bump and grind for me, no sir, I put my Keith Green in the tape deck and got my religion on.

So apparently, religious music is still in there, locked away among my neurons and synapses. Scary.

Anyway, this book kind of got in there for me. The racism that David and Jerome dealt with just tore at my heart. Adoption across racial lines is a whole'nuther post. I am not saying I think it's wrong in every circumstance, but I do believe that in many situations it is not the best option for the child. I may get a lot of disagreement on that. I'm in no way saying that every situation of interracial adoption is detrimental. I do think that it is often done by well-intentioned white folks trying to do a good deed who have no understanding of or connection to that child's culture. So the way of dealing with differences lots of times is to just assimilate the child into white culture, as a way to "make things easy" for them. So the child will "fit in" and be "accepted".

That shit doesn't work, in the end. You can assimilate your ass all day long, but it will never be white enough for society to afford you full membership privileges, and then you've lost connectivity to your culture and ethnicity to boot.

These particular parents should not have adopted any child, black or white; they had no concern or understanding of the issues that they brought upon these kids. Mom's answer to everything was "turn the other cheek". It broke my heart and pissed me off, to think of David living this life with no control over his situation, no one to understand, no one to get him the fuck out of Dodge. He was taken as a baby and given unto Jesus and and a white world of ignorance and hatred.

This book made me think of my own choice not to move back to the Midwest. It breaks my mom's heart to have us so far away, and I can't help but feel I'm going to reap what I've sown big time in the Karma department. I have this fear of my own kids scattering to the winds after they leave home, that I will not really be part of their lives, that it will be my Karmic reward for not being an actual presence in my parents' lives as an adult. (not fishing for comments about how that's not true and it will be fine -- I know in my head it's some weird guilt game, but the feeling is still there. Whaddya gonna do.)

My reasons for not moving back to the Midwest revolve largely around the conservative mindset there, and the levels of racism, right-wingery, and Bible-thumping the kids would be regularly exposed to. Not that you can avoid it anywhere in this country, but let's face it, some places are a whole lot worse than others.

I can't say it's just for the kids -- I don't think I could deal with living in that environment any more. Every time I go back to Ohio, it just sets my teeth on edge. A lot of it is subtle. A lot of it is blatant to me, but not really noticed there. I like living in a blue state, I like progressive thought being the norm.

So I struggle with that -- did I make the right choice? I don't know. My mom has MS and can't travel. I knew that, and that's part of the equation. I don't make the kind of money that would allow me to travel back and forth with three kids.

I miss my parents terribly.

On the other hand, the thought of raising kids of color in the Midwest was not something I could reconcile. We -- my ex and I -- made the conscious choice to bring each one of them into the world. I may not have understood all the ramifications at that time, but it's my responsibility to do the best I can with what I know now.

My folks say it's changed, it's not that bad, but their perception of "not that bad" is not the same as mine. Mom says, "There are a lot of East Indian and Asian kids in the schools now; they're so smart! Such good students." (I am just "looking for negatives" when I bring up the whole model minority thing.)

Anyway, this book got me thinking and remembering. I kind of got off on a tangent there. I'd suck ass as a book reviewer. I don't want to give away the story line, so no spoilers, but the story goes a lot deeper than I've mentioned here. I'm glad I read it, and will be looking for future works from this author.

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The Radical Bohemian daughter and I are heading to Value Village to drop off some donations and see if she can find any funky clothes to get her style on. Then tonight we are going to see The Tallis Scholars, hello, at St. James Cathedral. Yes, I said The Tallis Scholars, hell yeah! OK, so it's only four of them, performing with the students from their annual summer school, but still. The daughter and I saw the whole group at St. Mark's once -- I have no words to describe that experience. If you like Early Music, you've got to check these guys out. They rock.