Tag Archives: self-deprecation

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.

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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.

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Carnival of Natural Parenting -- Hobo Mama and Code Name: MamaVisit 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:

  1. Even if I am a feedback investment banker.
  2. You didn’t think you were getting away without any, did you?
  3. 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!

Have I ever thought of a book?

A reader, bless her beautiful heart, recently asked if I had “ever thought of a book.” This comment, while breathtakingly sweet and a balm to my self-scathing soul, betrays a fairly fundamental lack of understanding of what it means to me to have bipolar disorder.

Have I ever thought about writing a book? Being bipolar means I have to expend a significant amount of mental energy on not thinking about writing a book, not thinking about a book deal that will make me rich, not thinking about getting published and getting famous, not thinking about my appearance on The Daily Show (the quips we’d trade, the bloggers with less privilege I’d promote, the laughs I’d get, the thoughts I’d provoke, the flats I’d wear to not loom too tall over him), not thinking about getting invited to the White House to discuss the immensely important issues my book would address with depth and nuance (Josh Lyman would be there, of course), not thinking about the revolution that will finally overthrow the kyriarchy for good sparked in no small part by said immensely important and deeply nuanced book. Because if I think of doing a book, I cannot help but thinking of all those things in turn: there are no half measures in this mentally ill mind o’mine.

Reality of course can never live up to such fantasies, and dreaming them both takes away from time I could, and would rather, spend actually writing, and paralyzes me, because the flip side of such grandiosity — only ever a hair’s breadth away — is being convinced I am and only ever will be a waste of oxygen, hydrogen, carbon, and space. (A friend asked me the other day why, if I didn’t think my writing was any good, were people coming to the site in such numbers. My reply was “To point and laugh?” Yes, I might be a wee bit crazy.)

The only way I’ve found to avoid this type of thinking (what Anne Lamott cleverly and concisely calls “mind fucking”) is to not think. If I allowed myself to think about how big my blog could get, what I’d do if it became really popular, the articles I’d be asked to write for Bitch and Salon and Mothering and The New Yorker… I would never actually be able to blog at all. So I don’t. I think about this post, the post I have planned for tomorrow, the way I’ll respond to the comments I’ve actually gotten. Better still, I just write, and don’t think about it in a meta way at all.

So have I ever thought about a book? Um, yes. But I try not to.

We are not bad moms

(Inspired by an off-hand comment from a friend of mine, but applicable to pretty much every mom I’ve ever met. Very, very few of the dads, though. And no, that is not a coincidence.)

Allowing, or even encouraging, your toddler to watch TV does not make you a bad mom (or mum).

Using disposable diapers/nappies, whether regularly or occasionally, does not make you a bad mom.

Pushing your child around in a stroller does not make you a bad mom.

Using bribes or coercion or even lying to your child does not make you a bad mom.

Sending your child to daycare or public school, whether so you can work or just because you need the break — all together now! — does not make you a bad mom.

I am a TV-free advocate. I am an Elimination Communication (with cloth diaper back up) enthusiast. I adore and enjoy teaching babywearing, and prove daily that a stroller is not an essential baby-accessory (we don’t own one at all). I firmly believe in unconditional parenting (and unconditionality), and strive for consensual living. I believe in attachment theory (about the same way I believe in the theory of gravity), and advocate for attachment parenting, and think the public school system, in the US at least, is fundamentally flawed.

But parenting — life — is not a checklist. It is not a competition. And you are not a bad mom.

This is not to say that anything goes, or that having ideals and standards and beliefs and goals is wrong, or mistaken, or pointless. Far from it; I am, as the above list shows, a fan of ideals and standards and beliefs and goals. This is not to say there are not right and wrong choices in parenting (feeding your kids is right, beating them is wrong); it is not to say there are not things better and worse for kids (exclusive breastfeeding for the first half-year is better, yelling at them for developmentally appropriate behavior is worse). Rather, it is to plea with all those reading to recognize that even making a “bad” choice does not make you a bad mom. Even if we agree that a particular choice or action is less than ideal (today I have yelled at my child, threatened him, bribed him, ignored his cries, and generally made some less than stellar parenting choices), making that choice, or doing that action, or failing to meet that standard, does not make you a bad mom.

The whole world is filled with people who are eager to tell us what a bad job we are doing, that we are ruining our children, that we as women are inferior, that we are incompetent, that we are hated, that we can never be good enough, that mothers are worthless, that we are worthless mothers, that mother love is instinctual, that mothers must be perfect, that if we achieve perfection it is no big deal, that if we fall from perfection we are broken, that we are bad moms.

These are lies. These are misogynistic lies, put forth by the patriarchy. And we swallow them whole, and we spit them back out, at each other, at ourselves.

Don’t do the patriarchy’s work for it. Reject the lies. If you let your toddler watch TV, even if you don’t like that s/he watches, that’s OK. If you don’t feel guilty letting your toddler watch TV, that’s OK too. (If you try to argue with me that there’s nothing wrong on a large scale with infant TV watching, I’ll argue back, but no way am I going to tell you what to do in your own life.) You are not a bad mom. You do not have to call yourself a bad mom when you admit it, as though it were some kind of protective amulet (mothers are hardly the only ones who do this: it’s just shades of “yes massa” “I’m just a silly blonde” “you know how we Jews are”); you may get a pat on the back from the patriarchy, but all it does is perpetuate the hate. And you are still being oppressed.

What we do is not who we are. What we do in the early years of parenting our children really is not who we are. Our choices matter, yes; activism and advocacy matter; and there really are bad moms out there.

But really? We don’t need to prefix or suffix our “failures” with self-flaggelation. If parking your kid in front of the TV so you can get a break (or cook dinner, or take a shower, or just because they enjoy it) is the worst you do on a regular basis, I can say with all confidence you are not a bad mom.

Thumb your nose at the patriarchy: next time the words “bad mom” start to fall from your lips, change it to bad-ass mom. Because you are.

A minor talent

I have some talent musically. I studied piano for twelve years, and tutored it for a summer after high school. I played the sax in band, first the alto then the bari. I can play an octave on a dozen instruments, and pick out the three-note melody for Mary Had a Little Lamb on almost anything. I sang in choir, and when in condition had an alto range that could serviceably manage a tenor through a soprano.

I also have some talent with the written word. I wrote poetry unceasingly from middle through high school. I got in to honors English in high school on the strength of an impromptu essay. I won a partial but significant scholarship to college based on a collection of my essays and poems. I was chosen for a very small honors colloquium at the college I ended up choosing. I flatter myself that I am skilled enough to write a blog worth reading.

And yet…

One of my best friends is a musical genius, an easy natural with near-perfect pitch. She picks up instruments like others pick up… well, nothing. Socks, perhaps. I sat in first row in my instrument in high school; she sat first chair in hers. The guitar is one of the instruments that has so far eluded me; yesterday I was at her house, and listened to her play a professional sounding accompaniment to several children’s songs… that she had “just picked out”.

My other best friend is a twice-published novelist, whose lyrical, honest narrative wins critical acclaim internationally. I won a partial scholarship to a liberal arts college with my writing; she won a larger scholarship to a fine arts university with hers. I’m watching her craft a third novel, as she takes a plot which could be sappy or heavy-handed (as indeed all plots could) and uses it to tell truth and beauty in alternating heart-stopping and humorous ways, choosing language and imagery I could never in a hundred years think of.

As I stand with my minor talent in the shadow of these greats, I struggle to avoid the cultural conditioning which says I must be in competition with other women, which says if I cannot be the best, why bother. It is a struggle, to be sure, and sometimes I think I do turn green with envy — not a flattering color for my ivory-pink complexion, nor an appreciative enough treatment of my goddess-granted and mother-descended gifts. I struggle to avoid the comparisons which are the root of competition, to stand proud with what I do have, when every part of the patriarchy tells me I could never be good enough, even if I were the best. I struggle to deny the messages that say I must either hate or worship those more blessed than I: those with more musical talent, those with more writing talent, and those of the “right”, more privileged gender. Rejecting that culturally-dictated hatred — hatred of the better, or hatred of the self — may seem like a minor feat, but it is one of the most radical acts I can imagine.

This Is Not an Introduction

Blogs scare me. I grew up writing journal entries for teachers to read, honed my essayist’s pen on college entrance applications, found my voice on mothering forums, so you’d think I’d be a natural. But there’s a pressure with blogs that there isn’t on a discussion board, nor even with college apps: sure, your entire life hinges on how well and what you write — thus the 200 revisions at 2am — but they won’t write back. You’re pretty much guaranteed merely a simple yes or no (or, because I’m special like that, “if there’s room”) and dodge all “man that sucked” or “what the hell do you mean by this?” or “do you even know who Gloria Steinem is?” comments. And if you inspire another person’s rant (“you’ll never believe what I read today!”), you don’t ever hear about it. Which is just fine by me; my ego is not that secure, much as I like to pretend otherwise. And in a discussion forum, one can comment on others‘ stupidities, or crazy fucked-up problems, and pretend to be all wise and knowing and not fucked-up. It’s participating in a conversation, but in equal part with 5 or 50 or 500 other people. Not so a blog.

A blog is one’s own place for airing laundry and pontificating confidently. Sure I sometimes have things to say, but who the hell wants to read it? No one really wants another middle-class-mommy-life sucks blog, and my brilliances don’t come daily (or weekly!), stand-alone, neatly packaged. They strike in the middle of a conversation, or the middle of the night, and to blog about them is to pretend both that other people care enough to read it, and that I don’t care whether they do.

But here I am. Because I may not be a bandwagon-hop-on-er, but five years after every teenager has a cell phone, I give in and get one. I keep having ideas for it, so I might as well. Although, I’ll be fairly shocked if this doesn’t languish in the no-updates desert, or end up over 50% copied discussion posts.

So here’s what the reader should know about me: I am a reluctant, under-confident blogger; I overuse parentheses (and how!); I have a semi-colon key and am not afraid to use it; I swear rather a lot; and I, a queer-identified, male-partnered, fat, mentally-ill white woman, am raising a presumably-straight (though you never know), stick-thin, able-bodied white male, and it’s an odd enough feeling I thought it warranted a blog.