Monthly Archives: May 2010

Backpocalypse 2010: Or, my silence explained

You know that fabulous class I was gushing over in my last post?

Yeah, Day Three fucked my back up. Or rather, my back, injured long long ago when I was twelve, decided it had had enough and wasn’t going to take it any more, and I wasn’t going to give yet another massage, I was just going to lie on the floor and cry for an hour.

That day? Also the first of my cycle. And the spasm came while I was trying to put on my pants, so I was on the floor wearing only a nursing tank and my bright red undies¹. So, that was fun².

On the other hand, if you’re going to have a great big physical and emotional break down, there are worse places to do it than a room full of nurturing women half of whom are doulas (some wonderfully radical) and all of whom are massage therapists or massage students.³

This has happened to me before⁴, and it will likely happen to me again, although I’m working on preventing it. But this has me thinking a lot about privilege⁵, and access to medical care, and sick days, and disability, and, oh, lots of things.

Like there’s this: since it happened, I’ve seen a massage therapist, a physical therapist, and the chiropractor twice. The latter two are almost entirely covered by my insurance, and the former offers me a student discount (which I can only be because I had good enough credit to have taken out a massive loan to cover my schooling — it’s really true that the more you make, the less you spend).

And there’s this: The Man took two days off, took a super long lunch to get me to an appointment the third day, and has a job that allows him to work from home once a week so he was around again to help me out today. He’s salaried, has abundant⁶ sick and vacation days, and is in a class of work that allows for flexible hours and minimum oversight.

And this: when I am not up to writing, when I am not up to taking out my own damn sponge, I can do nothing but sit around and pop NSAIDs and ice my back and go to body work appointments and bitch about #backpocalypse2010 on Twitter. I lose some readers and some momentum, I miss a week of The Boychick’s Bookshelf and am five days late on a monthly menstrual post⁷: I do not lose my job, I do not worry about paying my rent, I do not grit my teeth and soldier through and further damage myself to avoid those things.

And then there’s how hard it is to ask for help, the socially imposed conditioning to apologize for being hurt⁸ that I’ve struggled with, the allowances I am given because this is presumed to be temporary, the language used to describe the incapacity⁹ that is today only for me and every day for others, the suggestions that it’s my own fault for not taking better care of myself, the voices¹⁰ saying that if I’m so damaged what am I doing trying to be a massage therapist… there’s rather more going on than I can identify, much less analyze. Especially as the ice pack melts and my hips start tingling and my back starts twitching and my bed starts calling — loudly, in the form of snores from my child and texts from my lover.

But I haven’t forgotten you¹¹, and soon I’ll be back with another Boychick’s Bookshelf (and there may be a collaboration there to announce soon — stay tuned!), and a review of Flow (oh so mixed), and whatever else I can eke out time for (ideas I never lack — time to follow through, often). And I promise it’ll be a little less apocalyptic¹², and a lot more topical.

And, I was trying out my new menstrual sponge for the first time, and when I got home couldn’t even wipe myself much less reach it, so The Man had to go sponge spelunking for me, and apparently it’s not exactly easy to get out, especially when it’s been in for rather longer than it was supposed to’ve because I collapsed on the floor and had other things on my mind. ↩
This is sarcasm. ↩
I’d still recommend just not doing it, though. ↩
The spasm, not the perfect storm of spasm, pregnancy massage class, and Day One menstrual sucktastitude, and dear Goddess can that please be a once-in-a-lifetime event? ↩
Raise your hand if you’re surprised. ↩
Comparatively, for the US of A. ↩
Am. Not. Pregnant. ↩
Seriously, how fucked up is that? How many men do you know who apologize for hurting? At worst, I’ve heard guys say that they let down the team if they’re injured and pulled off the field, and men surely have to contend with a culture that says they’re only valued for what they can do/how much money they can earn — but to fall to their knees and have the second words to come out of their mouth (after “FUCK!”, of course) be I’m sorry?? We women have got to rid ourselves of this idea that we’re supposed to apologize for existing. ↩
See, that’s problematic language. ↩
Mostly in my own head, admittedly. ↩
Or my beautiful FD Footnotes, how I love and overuse thee. ↩
And less annotated. ↩

13 Comments | Posted on 21 May 2010 by Arwyn | Category: Body, Kyriarchy, Life, the Universe, and Everything | Tags: class privilege, disability, excuses, massage, Menstruation, Meta, owie, Privilege, school

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Massage thoughts

I’m in the midst of a maternity massage series — two three-day-weekends in a row, for a total of 44 class hours — and am utterly knackered. I’ve had so many thoughts, so many posts I would’ve given a toe¹ to be able to sit down and get out, but have had to get back to class, to get even more inspiration for more posts I don’t have time to write.

So in lieu of one of those posts, some thoughts:

I love what I do so, so much. Seriously. I get to touch people and make them feel good, I get to rub pregnant bellies and (eventually) get paid for it. How much better can it get?
Silver or burgundy vines, raised rivers of wounds survived, bands of muscle, dimpled flesh, hair soft and sparse or springy and abundant or all but undetectable: all bellies are beautiful.
There’s got to be a way to celebrate birth and pregnancy without being cissexist and ableist and misogynist (which is to say, without essentializing women to walking uteri, ignoring women who don’t or won’t or can’t bear children). I’ve yet to see it done, but my optimistic nature believes it must be possible.
How the US routinely treats women and babies in birth should be criminal. It’s not about hospital or home, medicated or not — no matter how a woman² chooses to birth, she and the baby(s) she births deserve dignity, honor, and respect. One should never have to choose between medical assistance (whether needed or wanted, it doesn’t matter) and kind, physiologically appropriate treatment.
The way educational videos talk about ovulation and conception and pregnancy would be laughable, if it weren’t so ingrained in our society and so reflective of deeper, far less humorous attitudes: the site of ovulation is a “wound”, the egg is so fragile and “has only 24 hours to fulfill its fate, or it DIES” and it “waits” for the “vital ingredient” (sperm), which has its own “trek” to “penetrate” the egg — and if all that “fails”, then the uterus “sloughs” its lining. I could go on…
Best compliment received ever: “Thank you for having grace with me.”
Waking up four hours earlier than usual three days in a row sucks — but it’s all a bit more bearable when one knows one gets a massage that day. Massage school is the best.
I’m sure I’m forgetting things. But see aforementioned four-hour-earlier-than-usual wake ups.

As drained as I am physically, my spirit is soaring. I wish I could gift some of this to all of you — touch, and camaraderie, and joy in vocation, and that yummy post-massage blissed out head space. It’s too good to keep all to myself.

May you have reason to smile, today and every day.

I’m trying to tone down my hyperbole. How’s it working? ↩
Or man. ↩

16 Comments | Posted on 15 May 2010 by Arwyn | Category: Body | Tags: excuses, massage, school, sleep

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NPFP Guest Post: Relapse

Welcome to RMB’s Naked Pictures of Faceless People, a series of guest posts from diverse anonymous bloggers. (Read more about NPFP’s origins.) These are the posts that are jumping to get out of us, but for whatever reason — safety, embarrassment, conflict of interest, protection of loved ones’ reputations or feelings, or so on — we don’t or won’t or can’t post at our own blogs. Anyone is welcome to submit or discuss a potential post by emailing me at arwyn at raisingmyboychick dot com.

Relapse

I woke up this morning ready to receive clients for my work day only to find chip dip strewn across the living room hardwood floor because you left off the lid and the cat got into it, an opened bottle of vodka sitting in your shoe, cigarettes and your lighter next to the fireplace and a half drunk can of beer. I had five minutes to clean it up. Luckily it was enough time to remove the evidence of your relapse, but I didn’t end up doing what I should have done to prepare to receive my clients. My clients who are all under the age of five.

One morning, not too long ago, the children arrived and an hour later I found your opened bottle of vodka sitting next to where they were playing. You hadn’t drank in months. I didn’t feel the need to look. I had learned to stop looking for evidence. There were no accidents that day, but everything I had learned to do to “let go and let God” went up in smoke. For awhile. Then you stopped again and it has been another month or so of sobriety. Luckily not long enough that I have stopped looking for evidence to keep the children safe. Already I have grown used to looking for the cigarettes and lighter by the fireplace. Although we’ve spoken fifty times about how much I hate that you smoke up the chimney at night when we are all in bed, you will not stop. You will not respect me. You do not respect yourself.

I’m so pissed off. I went to AlAnon for four months solid while you struggled to get better. I stopped going because I’ve seen so much progress and things have been so good between us. Yesterday you told me your doctor and counselor said you hit a turning point, a pinnacle in your recovery. I agreed. I congratulated you. Now I wish we hadn’t said that. As much as it made you feel good to be praised for all your hard work, I see now that it also made you afraid. You are scared of success. You don’t know how to maintain it. I don’t know how to maintain this relationship if you can’t stop.

But my fear in leaving you is not being here for the children. Not being around in the morning to pick up the bottle of vodka you forgot to close and put away because you were too wasted to remember you have small children who get up earlier than you. Not being around to put away the cigarettes and lighter. Worse, not being around to help them in the night when they wake from a nightmare and need help going back to sleep. YOU can’t do it. I’ve seen you “try.” Turning on their light and yelling at a child for crying and keeping you awake is not conducive to helping them settle again. And those were the nights you were still awake and able to hear them. Once you’ve passed out nothing wakes you.

I remember the early days of our relationship, when we were dating and keeping separate residences. I remember letting myself into your apartment one morning to find you passed out on your living room floor. Your eight year old son was thankfully still sleeping in his room. I woke you up and put you to bed. I should have known what I was getting into. Sometimes I wish I’d just left the key on your table, turned around and never looked back.

I would love for everyone to know about your addiction, if only to propel you to stop out of humiliation. But I have a business to run and a shred of dignity that I’m trying to maintain. Plus, I respect your desire for privacy from our family. Anyway, no one would ever say anything to you if they knew. And those of our friends who know never say anything. Because you don’t fit the alcoholic stereotype. (Damn those!) You’re a nice guy. You don’t hit me. You have a job. As an addictions counselor no less! You don’t drink socially or publicly. You drink late at night after everyone has gone to bed. Then I erase the evidence in the morning. I would not be a co-dependent wife if I did not work from home. This is not who I am, but I have to make my workplace and my children’s home safe.

Tonight there is an AlAnon meeting. I had planned to hang out with friends, but tonight I think I might make an excuse.

——————————

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6 Comments | Posted on 12 May 2010 by Arwyn | Category: Body, Naked Pictures of Faceless People, Parenting | Tags: addiction, Gender

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Say Something Good

Welcome to the May Carnival of Natural Parenting: Role model

This post was written for inclusion in the monthly Carnival of Natural Parenting hosted by Code Name: Mama and Hobo Mama. This month our participants have waxed poetic about how their parenting has inspired others, or how others have inspired them. Please read to the end to find a list of links to the other carnival participants.

***
Women, generally, have a hard time saying good things about ourselves.

There’s an excellent reason for this: when we do, we are, invariably, attacked. We are women, and although we are apparently supposed to do all the work that runs the world (except make any of the decisions outside of the house or the market), we are not supposed to be proud. We are always, always supposed to make ourselves smaller (belittling means “to make little”!). We are always supposed to demure. We are always supposed to put ourselves down, beat ourselves up, and point out our shortcomings. We can never be allowed to say something unqualifiedly good about ourselves.

And I know this. I know this, I know this is a function of kyriarchy, I know this is a product of sexism, I know that the crazy in my brain latches on to this social injunction and yells that there’s something wrong with me if I ever so much as hint that I’m good at something without a shrug or an excuse or a “but”.

But I am a woman, and my brain is even more messed up than most women’s, and I find it really hard to say good things about myself. Not because I don’t rock — I do, and I know it — but because saying something good opens me up to accusations of pride (starting with my own damned brain!), to being belittled, to getting knocked down a peg.

So this month’s Carnival of Natural Parenting topic? Is really hard. I want to write about how I’m not all that. I want to write about how I fail so often. I want to write about all the people who have inspired me. At best, I wanted to say “Aw shucks, I can’t do that” and open the thread for y’all to fawn over me and tell me how great I am and how I’ve changed your lives and get you to write my post for me. (Because women are allowed to do that, we’re allowed to blush and say “Aw shucks” and giggle appreciatively when other people say good things about us, but heaven forbid we do it ourselves.)

But y’know what? I am good at what I do. And part of what I do is inspire people.

I figure out what teachers, textbooks, “experts” are saying, and I turn around and help others understand it. I write in language that is engaging, and illuminating, and sometimes heartbreakingly, breathtakingly beautiful. I portray the nuance of life, and this parenting gig, in ways that resonate with people, that show pain without wallowing, that illuminate ideals without shaming, that are, y’know, inspiring.

Y’all sometimes tell me that I’ve touched you. That I’ve made you feel less alone, or I’ve shown you a new way of looking at something, or I’ve helped you understand something that never made sense before. I’ve helped some of you yell less, breastfeed longer, let go of guilt, defy gender dictates, have more fun with your kids, and feel better about yourselves as parents.

And I’ve done it by doing this: sitting here, typing about the crazy in my head and the ideas I’ve gotten from other people, and the ways I’ve failed, and the ways I’ve tried to hate myself less when I’ve failed.

I wish I could come up with a beautiful, specific story of how I inspired someone to nurse in public, or convinced someone not to circumcise their kid, or taught someone to recognize their baby’s elimination signals, or gotten their kid comfortable in a back carry for the first time. And I’m even pretty sure I’ve done most of those things. But I’ve done it by being me, and doing this: I live my life, I parent my kid, and I blog about it. Sometimes people tell me how that’s affected them, but mostly, they don’t. And that’s ok, I’m not in this for the accolades¹.

So here’s your homework², dear readers:

One, tell me something good about yourself. No “pretty goods”, no “buts”, no “other than”, no “comparatively”, no qualifiers of any kind³. Tell me something that you do well. Parenting, business, school, personal, whatever. It all counts here, even if our culture tells us only some achievements matter.
Two, tell someone else how they’ve inspired you. No, not me — I already know I’m the bee’s knees. If there’s someone out there who has inspired you by being themselves, by parenting the way they do, or by writing about it — tell them. Tell them in real specific detail, with quantifiers and adjectives and dates and numbers, so that they have a great story to tell that makes them look and feel as good as they are. So they don’t just think they’ve done some good in the world, they know, and next time someone asks them to tell a story of when they inspired someone else, they’ll find it that much easier to just do it and skip all the “aw shucks” and “but I’m not that greats”. You know they rock; tell them.

Go forth. Proclaim your badassery. Proclaim others’ badassery. Change the world.

***

Visit Code Name: Mama and Hobo Mama to find out how you can participate in the next Carnival of Natural Parenting!

Please take time to read the submissions by the other carnival participants:

Woman Seeking Inspiration — Seeking Mother’s struggles and joys to find her own path in motherhood have inspired others — to her surprise! (@seekingmother )
Paving the Way — Jessica at This is Worthwhile makes a conscious effort every day to be a role model. (@tisworthwhile )
No Rules Without Reason — The Recovering Procrastinator wants to inspire her husband to discipline their children gently. (@jenwestpfahl)
Creating a Culture of Positive Parenting Role Models — Michelle at The Parent Vortex shows parents at the playground how to do a front wrap cross carry and tells nurses about her successful home births, as a way of modeling natural parenting in public. (@TheParentVortex)
Making A Difference for Mamas — Shana at Tales of Minor Interest took an embarrassing pumping incident at work and turned it into an opportunity for all the employees who breastfeed.
Inspiring Snowflakes — Joni Rae at Tales of Kitchen Witch Momma is a role model for the most important people: her children. (@kitchenwitch)
Paying it Forward — Amber at Strocel.com inspires new (and often scared) mamas with these simple words: “It will be OK.” (@AmberStrocel)
A SAHD’s View on Parenting Role Models — Chris at Stay At Home Dad in Lansing doesn’t have many role models as a SAHD — but hopes to be one to his daughter. (@tessasdad)
Am I a Role Model? A Review — Deb at Science@home brings attachment parenting out of the baby age and shows how it applies (with science fun!) to parenting through all of childhood. (@ScienceMum)
Say Something Good — Arwyn at Raising My Boychick reminds women that it is within our right to be proud of ourselves without apology. (@RaisingBoychick)
Try, Try Again — Thomasin at Propson Palingenesis wants to inspire like the Little Engine that Could.
I’m a Parenting Inspiration, Who Knew? — Sarah at OneStarryNight has received several beautiful comments about just what an inspiration she has been, if not in real life then definitely online. (@starrymom)
That Little Thing — NavelgazingBajan at Navelgazing demonstrates the ripple effect, one status update at a time. (@BlkWmnDoBF)
How Has Your Day Been? — mrs green @ littlegreenblog inspired her friend to be an active listener for her children. (@myzerowaste)
No, Thank You! — If you are reading Maman A Droit’s post, you’ve probably inspired her. (@MamanADroit)
My Top 3 Natural Parenting Principles — Deb Chitwood at Living Montessori Now describes how her family’s natural and Montessori principles inspired others. (@DebChitwood)
My Hope for a Better Life — Mandy at Living Peacefully With Children hopes her choices inspire her children toward a better life.
Natural Parenting Felt Natural — Sheryl at Little Snowflakes didn’t plan on natural parenting — but her son led her there. (@sheryljesin)
Rest. Is it even possible? — Janet at where birth and feminism intersect has found that even role models need rest — and that there are ways to fit it into everyday parenting life. (@feministbirther)
May Carnival of Natural Parenting: Role model — Lauren at Hobo Mama was the fortunate recipient of a seed of inspiration, and has been privileged to plant some of those seeds herself, though she didn’t know it at the time. (@Hobo_Mama)
crunchspiration — the grumbles at grumbles and grunts wants to inspire others to parent from their heart. (@thegrumbles)
No Extra Inspiration Required — Zoey at Good Goog doesn’t think she inspires anyone and wasn’t inspired by anyone in return — except by her daughter. (@zoeyspeak)
Upstream Parenting — Luschka at Diary of a First Child blogs for that one mother in one hundred who will find her words helpful. (@diaryfirstchild)
Parenting Advice for the Girl from Outer Space — If Mommy Soup at Cream of Mommy Soup could give one piece of inspirational advice to new parents, it would be to parent with kindness. (@MommySoup)
Natural Parenting Carnival — Role Model — Sarah at Consider Eden feels the pressure at trying — and failing — to live up to her role models. (@ConsiderEden)
May Carnival of Natural Parenting: Role Model — Dionna at Code Name: Mama encourages natural parenting mamas to take joy in the fact that they are touching lives and making a difference to children every day. (@CodeNameMama)
Inspiration Goes Both Ways — Melodie at Breastfeeding Moms Unite! is flustered that people consider her a breastfeeding role model — but the lovely comments she’s received prove it’s so. (@bfmom)
My Seven — Danielle at born.in.japan has identified seven role models in her life who brought her to natural parenting. Who are your seven? (@borninjp)
A Quiet Example — Alison at BluebirdMama was one of the first parents in her group of friends — and has come to see almost all those friends follow in her natural birthing footsteps, whether intentionally or not.
Gentle Discipline Warrior — Paige at Baby Dust Diaries has inspired a gentle discipline movement — join her! (@babydust)
Change The World… One Parent At A Time — Mamapoekie is more comfortable inspiring parents online than she is in real life. (@mamapoekie)
Inspirational Parenting — pchanner at A Mom’s Fresh Start has intentionally tried to be a role model but was unprepared for how soon someone would take notice. (@pchanner)
My Inspiration — Erin at A Beatnik’s Beat on Life has written thank-you letters to everyone who’s inspired her to become the lactivist and natural parenting advocate she is today. (@babybeatnik)

Even if I am a feedback investment banker. ↩
You didn’t think you were getting away without any, did you? ↩
I will edit those out of any comments left — so, I suppose, if you need to to get it down, leave them in, but they’ll be gone by morning! ↩

21 Comments | Posted on 11 May 2010 by Arwyn | Category: Body, Kyriarchy, Parenting | Tags: Carnival of Natural Parenting, Gender, gender roles, misogyny, self-deprecation, societal pressures

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A Mothers’ Day Secret

Here’s a secret:

I am, basically, the same person that I was before I had a kid. I am still just as selfish. I am still just as petty, as cruel, as small minded. I am still wondering what the fuck am I going to be when I grow up.

Maybe you’re not. Maybe parenthood was a revelation, a small but complete revolution in the halls of your psyche. But me? I’m still Arwyn. Everything I did before, I still do. Everything I was bad at before, I still fail to do. My house is still a mess, clutter is still the default state of my house and mind, I still alternate between concocting plans to take over the world and barely clinging to the skin of sanity trying to simply survive each day.

Because motherhood isn’t a magic cure. I didn’t have a baby and suddenly wake up a morning person, minivan in the drive way, clothes picked out, and lunch already packed. I wasn’t that person before I had a kid, and I’m not her now. I don’t think I ever will be her, and some days I’m really ok with that.

We have this idea that when a woman birth/adopt/partner with a parent, she becomes A Mother. And we have all kinds of idealized notions of what A Mother looks like and acts like and accomplishes in a single day. But the truth is — my truth is, at least, though I suspect you’ll find it true of others as well — that it doesn’t work that way. I may have, eventually, over time, become mom to my kid, but that transformation into A Mother I was supposed to undergo never came.

I have changed, because change is inevitable. My life has changed — if for no other reason than now I’m trying to keep two humans alive through the day instead of just one — but the habits and patterns of my life largely haven’t. And the me-underneath-all is still here, still as bewildered and confused and scared and cocky and self-centered as ever, wondering when someone will notice that the transformation never occurred, waiting for The Mother to come save me and do things properly.

And that’s the thing: she’s never coming. I don’t think she ever came for my mom, either, and isn’t that a terrifying thought to the part of me still two years old, who remembers climbing into my mother’s lap like I was ascending into heaven, being granted audience with Love Herself and welcomed unreservedly thereby.

Because The Mother is a myth, and all those women we assign to her pedestal are rather more like me than they are like the Perfection Incarnate whose face I stared into. Even after adolescence, even after seeing my mom’s imperfections, her bad habits, her failures and shortcomings, her encroaching crows feet and lengthening greys, even after fighting with her over issues both substantial and trivial, I never lost the idea that she was A Mother. And when I look at myself and my motherhood and find it lacking in any significant capitalizations, I feel I have failed.

But the failure isn’t in me — it’s in a Hallmark society that puts the capitals there to start with. The problem is a culture that puts women-with-children on unattainable pedestals. The problem is the group-think that says women with children are somehow fundamentally different from (and better morally though inferior intellectually to) women without children.

The truth is — we’re not.

We never become A Mother except in the eyes of our children; we muddle along, muttering prayers and curses under our breath and hoping we don’t fuck things up too badly, and our children (though we fuck them up inevitably, though not usually irreparably) are the ones who see us as angels (or devils), as Love (or Hate) Incarnate, as significant capitalizations. Whether we do well by them or earn our disownments, some part of them sees us always through the eyes of a two year old, capitalized, Their Mother.

One day they’ll grow up, and they might have kids (or they might not) and wait for their selves to be improved, their parenthood made profound — and then they might realize that Their Mother was only ever a person, struggling to fill up the enormous space they had assigned to her.

The truth is, all mothers are only this: only you (whether you have kids or not), only me. Only gloriously imperfect, entirely human, completely lacking in capitals.

Terrifying. And wonderful.

Happy mothers’ day.