Motherhood Uncensored

Innocence Lost.

I tend to think that parenting boys is just as serious business as parenting girls. Raising strong empathic men who treat women as whole beings and not as sexual objects and lesser humans is not a task to be taken lightly. 

But it's hard not to become extra troubled when our girls are continually bombarded with images that test their innocence. I'm talking about the Hanna Montanas, the High School Musicals, and the Jamie Lynn Spears.

It's no wonder we've all those fleeting thoughts about tucking them away in their rooms for a few years and then unleash them directly into a convent.

My issue with the damn Disney princesses (love them as my daughter does), is that they only show our daughters one ending. THE ending.

Aside from it being totally unrealistic, it just doesn't reflect any type of ideal I hope my daughter to aspire to. In my book, the marriage, the kids, the happy ending will be her choice and not a social norm.

And yes, I realize that they are fairy tales, and in that there is a component of fantasy. But with no discourse, no discussion, and no critical analysis, it tends to soak right in.

I spoke at length about this topic with mom Kerry Cohen and author of Loose Girl on my podcast this past Wednesday. It lent itself to the discussion that's been circling around Bristol Palin and her mother's support of abstinence-only education, as well as the gaggles of us mothers with daughters who don't necessarily blame Sarah Palin for her daughter's decisions, would probably still feel somewhat responsible.

When it comes to any "all or nothing" sex education, at least in my experience in an extremely religious family, there were no options. You just didn't have sex. And you most certainly didn't talk about it. And the mystery became the intrigue. And the intrigue became exciting.

And if you put that excitement in the hands of 17-year-olds who aren't educated, then you sometimes get a baby.

Thankfully, I was a bit too scared by the wrath of God that would come upon me had I engaged in intercourse that I waited a really long time.

I don't know whether Sarah Palin had ongoing discussions about love, sex, and relationships with her daughter. But I know I never had them with either of my parents.

And so I formed my own opinions, based on what I saw, and heard. For me it was seeking love and acceptance from an alcoholic father through attention from guys.

Had someone told me that just because a guy looks at you doesn't mean you have to fall in love with them and that marriage and kids are all fantastic parts of life, but that they may or may not be what's right for you, at 23, or 30, or ever, maybe my life experiences would have been different.

Who knows?

I can only make a concerted effort to start and continue an open and critical dialogue about all these issues with my own daughter (and my son). That doesn't necessarily mean that I rid my house of Ariel costumes and turn off the television. At some level, our kids are going to be exposed to the world.

And it doesn't mean my kids won't end up needing years of therapy (which really isn't necessarily a bad thing).

Our nights will still be sleepless, but perhaps for different reasons. And in the end, we can only take these issues and images that are placed in front of us as startling reminders that our job as parents is always evolving.

And cross our fingers really hard.

Of Tots and Tongues

When it comes to tantrums, meltdowns, and those other rites of passage falsely advertised as "developmental milestones" that afford us mothers nothing but extra crows feet and hemorrhoids, I've been fortunate to enjoy the lesser end of that evil continuum.

That's not to say we haven't had our fair share of uncontrollable crying fits brought on by just slightly tepid yogurt or my eyes being open too wide when I asked how her day was.

But here at our house, we generally enjoy a combination of sassy mouth, mouth farts, and foot stomps.

Now when performed individually, I do my dutiful "1-2-3 Magic" counting, which most often quells the behavior by a strong "2 plus mommy glare."

However, the combination punch is a bit more difficult to handle.

It usually starts with the "parent parrot," followed by a hearty mouth fart, and then large dramatic foot stomps bested only by German soldiers and the Conshohocken High School Marching Band.

"No YOU go clean up your toys. *phhhhhrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrt* STOMP STOMP STOMP."

The other day, she decided to stomp with her hard plastic flashing princess shoes right upon my toes, accidentally of course, but still pissed me off enough to make her stand facing the corner for as long as I could possibly stand it without giggling as she told off the wall in a flurry of rapid arm movements and head shakes.

But just yesterday, she decided to add the tongue, strategically timed just after the circular stomps to respond non-verbally to my corner-pointing finger.

There it was. That little pink tongue that used to suck on my boob and roll sweet potatoes into a glob on her bib now sticking straight out of her mouth right at me.

No sounds. No pffffffffrrrrrrting. Just a tongue.

After arriving swiftly at her favorite corner, she decided her time in confinement should be used wisely, like by perusing the new Pediped catalog. I responded by instructing her to put it away, and was met with yet another tongue.

Aside from tossing the catalog straight in the trash, which might have just killed a little teeny tiny part of my shoe loving daughter, I realized this was a teaching moment and took a few minutes (after the world tragedy that was a catalog in the trash was over) to offer her other more appropriate ways to express her anger -- you know, breathing, counting to ten, or separating yourself from the situation.

However, I might as well have told her to go drink a fifth of whiskey because she just glared at me and said with absolutely no hesitation, "Well, if you weren't so mean to me, then I wouldn't get angry."

Apparently I forgot "Blame it on the people who love you most," an excellent co-dependent way of dealing with the stress and frustration that comes with being a four-year-old.

I guess now all I have to look forward to is "Of Five-Year-Olds and Fingers."

I've already got it saved as a draft.

Confessions of an Anxious Mother

"I just can't take anymore loss" she said to me, gulping back the tears when she called me last week to wish the huz a happy birthday.

"I know, Mom. I know."

It was all I could say to comfort what has been a lifetime of loss. A dead daughter born on the same day as my husband. Her own husband passing without her presence. And her boyfriend leaving this world just a few months ago.

It's no wonder she's been having trouble sleeping, her mind weaving her somewhat rational thoughts into irrational fears and worries that have been limiting her to about two to three hours of sleep. Add in a stressful job and an empty home, save a sweet but fairly independent cat, and you've got my mother. And her anxiety.

Since my mother and I rarely talk about these sorts of things, perhaps due to the nature of our own sometimes tenuous relationship, or the fact that my mother grew up in an era where moms just never talked about how they felt, I don't know how long this has been going on. But I do know that she's like every other mother out there.

Even me.

I've managed to be able to contain my own tendencies toward irrational thinking by sheer will. It grows increasingly difficult for me when my husband is away and I'm alone at night.

If I lock the gate at the top of the steps, then if someone breaks in, I'll hear them struggling to get through and I'll run to grab Drew, and then grab Quinlan, and then lock her door and then climb out the roof over her window.

It's one of many plans I've hatched on those long lonely and sometimes scary nights.

I turn off the violent movies and the news. I've learned my limits when it comes to reading about the tragedies of others. And sometimes I have to almost physically stop and shake my head in order to reorganize what could become uncontrollable worry.

Of all the things I've learned about how to deal with when it comes to mothering, I've found little, if anything, about how to deal with the anxiety. We giggle at the helicopter parents, and we chuckle at the germaphobes.

But how far away from overprotecting our own children are we?

With all the amazing developments that the 21st Century has brought, I tend to agree that there is definitely an innocence lost. While we would roam freely through the malls and ride bikes at night through our neighborhood, I'm not sure my daughter will have that privilege, at least in the capacity that we had as kids. I'm not being overprotective.

I'm being realistic. I'm parenting in the current state of our world.

I encouraged my mother to get help and I shared my friend's story with her. When it comes to a point where I can no longer shake my head and make it go away, I too will reach out for assistance. And when I find myself unable to parent my children without suffocating or smothering them, I will know that it's time.

Until then, I'll watch reruns of Sleepless in Seattle and You've Got Mail, and I'll stock my diaper bag full of antibacterial wipes.

And I'll hope that moms everywhere won't be afraid to share their worries and fears. Because sometimes typing it out and saying it aloud can be a powerful remedy.