I'm a Feminist but I'm Not Going to Get Naked

I cut all of my hair off and Papa says I look like I have a feminist blog.  So, here goes.I guess I'm a bit of a feminist.

I think women should be paid equally. I think women should be treated equally. I think no one should rape anyone and no one should abuse anyone and it doesn't matter if the victim is a woman or a man... so I guess that falls under feminist.

I think anyone should be able to be first lady/gentleman, regardless of whether he or she has been publicly nude or even photographed nude. In fact, I think those same people should be equally able to be president. Michele Obama's arms should be a complete non-issue, and Melania Trump's nude photos shouldn't be an issue, either... even if I don't think Trump should be allowed to be president.

Presidency aside, women should be allowed to be whatever they want to be. There are no jobs that are more feminist than others. Nothing should stop a girl from dreaming of (and achieving) being an astronaut or a field researcher or a pilot or a nanny. My daughters should not feel guilty if they choose to be a mother. No one should ever suggest that they are "only a mom". Being a mom is hard work, and the more pressure we put on our moms to be more than "just a mom", the more children are being left with strangers. And worse, the value of our children is slowly chiseled away by that pressure. If we make women believe that the only feminist thing to do is to break the gender stereotypes and climb the corporate ladder, we are basically telling them that their jobs are more important than their children. The only feminist thing to do is... exactly what you want, without letting anyone else decide for you.

I cut my hair because it was frustrating. It was always in the way. I have four children I'm always having to look down to. I spend two days a week in a botany lab, looking down into a microscope. I like to be outside. I like to camp and hike and ride my bike. My hair was always in a ponytail, so I decided to just get rid of it entirely. I made that decision for myself.

In the time since I cut my hair this way, I got an invitation to a campus feminists group. I wouldn't say it had anything to do with my hair style, but the two events coincided. When asked what the group was about, the girl, who is probably close to my age and also has children, was very excited to announce a list of lecture topics and activities. One of those activities was a slut walk.

I don't have a problem with slut walks. I think it's important to bring the secretive issue of rape to the attention of the public. I also understand that not everyone gets naked for these events... but I actively think you shouldn't.

As I mentioned at the beginning of this post, people who have been publicly nude should not be limited or shamed by their choice, whether male or female. Somehow, we've got to make nudity less of a taboo in this country. Slut walks, though, are probably inadvertently associating nudity with violence. Sure, just because you're naked doesn't mean someone can have their way with you, and you're trying to stand up for that message while demanding attention for the cause. People can't ignore naked (or mostly naked) women in the streets with picket signs. But if this is the only time we see women dressed like this (I don't know about your life, but this and Pride Fest are basically it for me) it starts to seem like naked women are associated with rape culture. eww.

Besides, I've never been called a slut while I was naked or wearing shorts and a bikini top. I've been called a slut while wearing stilettos and a knee-length skirt, or a low-cut top, or a shirt that fell to just below my ribs. I've never been called a slut when I was extremely exposed... only when I was just a little more exposed than standard.

I think it's like the uncanny valley. If you're too far from what society considers acceptable, you're just clearly not normal. If you're just slightly outside of the norm, you make everyone uncomfortable because they can't figure you out.

Sure, the point is to enforce the idea that, no matter what you are or aren't wearing, you don't deserve to be raped. So naked would be one extreme. But, of the 60 percent of the Harvard class of '15 who responded to a survey, "31 percent said they had experienced some sort of unwanted sexual conduct at Harvard."

So, wear your short shorts, your belly shirts, your high-heeled boots, and your skirts, or your regular clothes but don't think you need to go naked.

Nine Years

A couple of years ago, I told you all about the drama and craziness of my first birth experience. My twins made me a mom, nine years ago today.

In the span of mere seconds, I can be both terrified by how quickly the years seem to pass me by, and overwhelmed by how distant nine years ago seems right now.

I remember I once said that if I believed in a creator, I would say it must have given me twins on its first attempt because it knew I'd never do this again. I really thought that was it for me. I was 19 and I figured I'd never want to have another baby. That was pretty terrifying since I hadn't seen or heard from their dad in months and it seemed like it would be pretty difficult to find a partner who was okay with never having his own kids. Somehow, in a wide variety of ways, my life changed a lot over the course of the next few years (and then again over the few years after that), and I had two more.

In addition to the fear of never finding a guy who didn't want me to have more babies, I knew I had to be picky about the people I allowed in our lives. When I brought them home, I nearly immediately broke up with my boyfriend. He was a guy I met several years before and had been friends with for all of that time. He was an amazing person and an amazing boyfriend... except that his mom didn't like me and definitely didn't like the idea of "us"... and the babies really sealed the deal. I just knew I couldn't deal with his family and their judgement in my life anymore. So, having destroyed my relationship with someone I once thought was the perfect guy, I figured I'd be single forever.

Then, I married their dad. That was a mistake and a mess that I just kept having to apologize for while I pretended to be happy. I don't particularly want to talk about it in greater detail, but you can read about the official end of it (after two years of bitter and painful divorce proceedings) here. Maybe someday I'll put it in a memoir. Like many people fresh out of a situation like that, I was pretty sure I was unlovable and I pretty much hated myself. Still, long-story-short, I wound up stumbling rather gracelessly, and with a lot of baggage, into the prefect relationship. We've been together for four and a half years.

In nine years, the twins and I have lived in five different states. I've owned houses and rented apartments. We've lived in our own place, and military housing, and spare rooms with family and friends. We've been through a lot. At times, I thought our lives would be a series of "we'll figure it out"s. Somehow, we landed in the suburbs in the state that was always my first choice for "when I grow up" collages, with a mortgage on a house we've lived in for over three years. Not bad.

When the twins were born, I had resigned myself to being working-poor for probably the rest of my life. I had graduated high school and, before I found out I was pregnant, I was considering college options. It felt like it was too late once they were born. Then, I realized I wanted to offer inspiration for them by building myself up again, so I went to college online through Westwood. I thought that was all a mom could do. It was expensive and non-transferable and a huge waste of my time and money. I just felt like I had created a deeper grave for my career prospects and filled it with student debt. I went back to the "working-poor" theory... but when I got fired from my job that only paid just enough to cover child care, I decided I needed a change.

All of this is why nine years ago seems so far away.

As of today, I've been a full-time student a legit university for almost two years, working towards my bachelors in biology. We've lived in this house, which we own, for more than three years. I've got four, awesome, frustrating, smart, healthy kids. I've had the same incredible relationship for more than four years. And, in this time, I've learned that being a parent is never easy. It's always difficult for one reason or another... and it won't be the same reason for long, or you'd get used to it. Also... things rarely go as planned, or as you feared.

We're celebrating the twins' birthday on Saturday. They've been in gymnastics for more than two years. They're starting taekwondo next month. They went ice skating for the first time about a week ago and seem to have found a new passion. They still pretend a LOT. They also read a lot. C loves Calvin and Hobbs, lately. S likes reading about animals. They saw their first orchestra performance on Sunday. Here are some other neat experiences from this year:

April: Helped build a chicken coop
May: Built a crazy fort in the woods and participated in their first gymnastics expo
June: Used the sewing machine for the first time
July: Fired guns for the first time
August: Road public transportation for the first time
September: Camping for the first time
October: Their first Zombie Crawl

They're growing up so fast, as cliche as that sounds. That's why I'm terrified by how fast the time is passing me by.

Costa Rica: It Begins

I started writing a blog entry the day I arrived in San Jose, Costa Rica. Here are some excerpts:

When I got here, I felt intensely out of place because I don't really speak Spanish. Thankfully, everyone I've had to communicate with has known enough English to help me hobble through the conversation. Clearly, they deal with people like me all the time. 

...

Several minutes later, he (the guy who called my taxi and said it would arrive in 5 minutes) said this, "Five minutes is twenty minutes in tico time." So, welcome to Costa Rica.

...

There's nothing like being in a Central American country in the back of a crappy van, careening down loud streets in a neighborhood where all the houses are surrounded by bars and many barred fences are topped with razor wire. I'm so glad I didn't have to drive. I never want to hear another United States citizen complain about drivers from other states. If you haven't driven in Central America... you don't know!

I wasn't the first to arrive. Several of my classmates flew in early so they could enjoy a bit of a vacation before class officially started. When I met them, I worried I wouldn't fit in. Not only had they bonded before my arrival, but they were still in vacation mode and I was ready for class. In retrospect, I was feeling a little stuffy (and it wasn't congestion).

Over the course of the 10 day class trip, I worked my tail off. Some days I had scheduled activities before breakfast and/or after dinner. I often felt like there wasn't enough down time to get any useful work done on my field notebook (which is required for the class), and I know I'm not the only student who felt that way. I was winded, I was sore, I got noodly arms on an 8 or 9 mile kayaking trip (having never kayaked before in my life), I was sweaty, I was tired, I was itchy, I was sun-burned. And I had the best time of my life so far.

I saw an incredible array of animals and plants in this biodiversity hot spot, and I learned more than I think I have ever learned in a class. There's a tree in Costa Rican forests called a suicide tree because it produces seeds only once, then dies. Sloths only really come down from their high perches to poop. They dig a hole with their nubby tails, poop in it, and make their way back to the canopy. Darker roast coffee is roasted for longer and loses more of its caffeine. Sugar cane is full of potassium. You can tell an insectivorous bat from a frugivorous bat by the shape of the uropatagium (tail membrane). All of that academic excitement aside, let me share with you the most important thing I learned while in Costa Rica:

I learned to slow down. Don't take things so seriously. Everyone I met while there was patient with me while I was struggling to communicate or understand. And, with the exception of chasing the "bonk" of an out-of-season bellbird, none of the natives were in any particular hurry and they never made me feel rushed. I think "Tico time" isn't a derogatory term for chronic lateness in natives, it's a label for the comparatively more leisurely and enjoyable way that Costa Ricans live their lives, without strict time pressures.

I also never felt judged. When you walk into a new class on campus, you feel the heat of dozens of eyes examining you... sizing you up and deciding where you belong. I never felt that from a Costa Rican native.

There were hammocks and chickens and care-free dogs everywhere and people seemed to love what they were doing. That is how life should be.

Marriage is Like a Tattoo

I just watched people get married in front of millions of people in times square so they could sign the forms later and be "the first couple of 2016". Papa and I have been watching Friends and we just got through the story arch that involves Rachel and Ross drunkenly getting married in Vegas.... and then divorced. In light of all the people getting crazy tonight, I want to talk about marriage and divorce.

I've been married and divorced. I have dated people who wanted to rush into marriage. I've dated people who didn't believe in marriage or, it turns out, monogamy. That's fine. I've seen a lot of polyamorous relationships end in a spectacular conflagration, but I've seen the same from monogamy. Fine. Pick your poison.

Anyway, I'm not the only person I know who has gone through/is going through a divorce. That's really comforting. Misery loves company, right? But, in this case, it's more about not feeling broken. Is there something wrong with me? Am I unlovable? Am I always going to be miserable? Is it my fault? How did this happen?

I didn't intend to end up divorced. No one does. I wasn't the sort of person who takes marriage lightly. You know those people who write facebook posts proclaiming that they will never give up on their marriage? They say they'll work everything out like adults because they're not quitters. Yeah. That was me.

Whenever you make proud assumptions like that about yourself, you might be setting yourself up for a lot of pain in the future. If you would never formula feed your babies, you will be destroyed if something prevents you from breastfeeding. If you'd never drop out of school, you'll be devastated if, for some reason, you have to. If you'd never get a divorce... it will eat you up inside if your partner is hurting you and you have to say goodbye.

But marriages are like tattoos, so it's going to be okay.

Tattoos are traditionally permanent and your parents tell you to wait because you don't want to do something you'll regret. But that's because, in their time, it was not as possible to undo.

These days, you can have a tattoo removed. Good thing, too, because people often get tattoos under... less-than-optimum circumstances and soon regret them. You can cover it up with another tattoo, or you can just have it laser removed and never get another one. You will never really be the same, but you don't have to live the rest of your life with a tattoo you hate.

Some people never get tattoos. Some people get lots of tattoos. People might judge you for your decisions about tattoos, but it's none of their business and, if it makes you happy, they can shut their stupid faces.

You can have tattoos that no one knows about. You can have tattoos specifically so people will see them. You can get tattoos because you think other people will think more of you if you have them. You can get tattoos because you want other people to leave you alone. For some people, tattoos are extremely meaningful and have incredible depth. For others, they're just for fun.

Some people get tattoos, are disappointed, but keep them anyway... but you don't have to. That's what's important.

You don't have to stay.

I don't advocate divorce. It's difficult, expensive, damaging... it seems to always hurt someone. Still, no matter how many people you know are saying they would never leave their spouse no matter what he/she did... even if you've told yourself that... you don't have to stay.

I still don't take marriage lightly. I still believe in working it out like adults. I am divorced. It was a painful and complicated decision and process, and it was absolutely the right decision. I am scarred and a part of me is still a little sad. I will never be the same. I am still learning not to kick myself for my past, but it gets better all the time.

If you never want to get divorced and you want to work it out like adults, good for you. If that works for you, I'm glad. That is how it should be. But remember that a marriage involves two people. One person is complicated. Two are doubly so. Marriage is complicated and difficult even when it's healthy. But when it's not... if you've tried to fix it... if it's dangerous... don't put it on yourself to make it right. You can get that tattoo removed.

I Failed

Remember that math test I was pretty sure I failed? I did, in fact, fail. What's weird is, I felt better, not worse, when I saw my grade. In fact, I felt a lot better. I felt relieved. I don't exactly know why, but I think it's something like this:

• I hadn't failed a test in my adult life previous to this, so now I've set a record... and a bar. It's okay to make mistakes. It's okay to fail. It happens sometimes. I know I've been pretty busy and had a lot of crazy stuff going on in my life lately, so I don't take this one too personally. And, so far, I've only failed this test, which came at a bad time for me and included a lot of difficult stuff and, it turns out, everyone else did surprisingly poorly as well. Which brings me to the next point.

• It was an anomaly. I got A's on my other two tests in that class. I've gotten perfect or near perfect grades on the homework. It wasn't a surprise, because I went into the test knowing that I wasn't really prepared. Still, it was an exception, not part of a trend.

• No one was upset with me. Some people expressed some sympathy (or empathy, since anyone who has ever tried to get a college degree has probably failed a test), but no one was disappointed. That includes my professor. She recognized that this was unusual for me and the rest of the class and is offering us an opportunity to get some extra credit by reworking the problems we missed and turning the test back in on the day of the final.

I will still probably get a B. Like I said, I did really well on the previous two test and all of the homework and I'm not too worried about the final. I just need to study this weekend.

I failed a test and it was okay. It means I'm trying something new and difficult.

So, here's what I learned about parenting, and this is an important topic that a lot of people seem to be talking about lately: It's important to teach your kids that failing is... not only okay, but essential. If you are pushing yourself, trying something new, expanding your boundaries, you are going to fail sometimes. It's important to see that failure for what it is and learn from it. You don't have to feel bad about it. Feeling bad about it is a waste of your time and emotional energy. Besides, there's really nothing to feel bad about since everyone fails sometimes.

I think I expected disappointment. I expected to be disappointed in myself, but I also expected everyone I told to be disappointed. I don't want to disappoint people I care about, so I had an uncomfortable lump of fear. When no one reacted the way I expected, I thought, "Well, of course. I'm not in compulsory school anymore. My failure or success is entirely my own and no one has the power or reason to berated me for my shortfall anymore."

But why does anyone berate anyone for their shortfalls? Why do we breed fear of failure in our kids? They get pressure from every different direction. Their siblings judge them for being less capable in some way or another. Their teachers pressure them by giving them definitive grades and expecting them to learn at the set pace of the classroom (this reminds me of a blog about the pressure of grades I wrote over a year ago). Their peers label them for struggling with a concept. They don't need more pressure to perform... it just becomes more fuel for fear of failure.

I want my kids to fail, because I want them to be trying. I want them to be changing and growing and pushing the limits. I want your kids to do the same. The kids who don't fear failure will be the future innovators who stand on the edge and say, "we can make this jump". Maybe they fall, but they can get back up, armed with new information and try something else. They will be the leaders who change everything because they're not afraid to try.

Ask your kids what they failed at today... and be proud of them. Talk about what they learned and be glad that they tried. Make it a friendly, comfortable topic. Destroy the fear.

Sometimes, I Hate Being a Mom

When I was pregnant with the twins, I frequented a mom forum. I was scared. I didn't know what to expect and I didn't know any other reasonable people in my generation to talk to about what I was going through. I felt like I belonged. These people didn't even judge me for being 19 or unmarried. It felt like a miracle. I trusted these women.

After I had the twins, I continued to mingle in those forums. circumstances forced me to move to a rural town in Kansas to live with my mom and I was bored and lonely. I still didn't have mommy friends. I didn't really have friends at all because I could hardly leave the house. I trusted these women.

Then, one day, I wanted to complain. I don't remember what my gripe was about, specifically. Since I had two, infant, premature, colicky daughters I had to share a room with and I was single, broke, and living in rural Kansas, I'm sure you can fill in the blanks.

The responses I got just made things worse. People I had been talking to and asking for advice for a year or more were arguing with me and each other. A few were defending my right, as a mom, to complain. Several were chastising me for ever speaking out against the joys of motherhood because there are women out there who would give anything just to be able to have a baby and it's not fair of me to complain since I'm so lucky.

It's like saying there are people out there who are jobless and would love to be able to work, so I shouldn't ever complain about the harsh and demanding realities of my minimum wage, no benefits, hyper-demanding work at the funeral home (yes, I used to work at one of those) because I'm so lucky to even have a job. Okay. Yes, I was lucky to have a job. I could have been jobless instead. But if I don't point out the flaws in my job, I feel like I'm leading others to believe that there's nothing wrong with it and it's a sparkly fairy tale. That's not right. I mean, I stepped into it with no information. I don't want that for others. Besides, if I don't complain, it might never improve because no one will know that I'm dissatisfied.

Sometimes I hate being a mom because:

• It ruined my body
• it routinely destroys my internal peace
• it complicates my career path
• it puts a lot of stress on my family and my marriage
• it means I have to own a much bigger (read: more expensive) house
• it means I can't justify living in the city
• it changes the places I can go out to eat
• it means I have to own a huge (gas greedy) car
• it keeps me up at night
• it makes me judge myself harshly... all... the... time
• it makes me question myself constantly
• it complicates my budget
• it's suddenly much more cost effective to drive for two days than to fly anywhere
• I never have time to study
• I barely even do my makeup anymore

No one of these things seems like much of a problem. Combined, though, they start to hurt. The hardest part is that I am now constantly at war with myself. I can't manage to pursue my dreams and provide theirs. I never feel like I'm doing enough, and no matter how much I do... they don't understand the significance and don't act like they appreciate many of the things I do. So, I'm keeping myself up at night thinking about how to be a better mom and produce better adults from these children I have created... and they are totally unaware and seem to not even care.

And that's all okay. It's okay for them to behave that way. They don't understand. But it's also okay to feel this way, as a parent. Those of us who do (and I'd venture to guess that all of us feel this way sometimes, even if we put forth an image that looks like a Betty Crocker advertisement), shouldn't have to suffer in silence. That's just perpetuating the problem. No one will throw you a life vest if they don't know you're sinking, and if you've just had to fight off the Kracken while struggling to keep it from pulling you under, I expect you to warn anyone who will listen not to swim in the same waters unless they're feeling exceptionally brave. 

I just took my kids to a member's-only pre-grand-reopening event at the Children's Museum of Denver. They made all these amazing renovations. We had a completely fantastic time. I got Cub up from nap today and he asked me about lightning. I told him about static electricity... but he's convinced that thunder is the sound of Power Rangers kicking the lightning so it will go away. I love them and they make me smile and laugh and feel validated in my constant struggles... but they also make me scream into my pillow and self-loath and cry sometimes. This is being a mother. 

It's Okay to Cry

(I wrote this on Wednesday)

I'm pretty sure I failed a math test today. I could give you a lot of reasons why. I feel like I need the reasons because I did so well on all of the previous math tests this semester. I don't think the content was more difficult. I think I'm just wearing myself out.

I'm not getting quality sleep lately. My nose gets stuffy when I lie down... but only in the winter I guess. So I'm tossing and turning and waking up and stress dreaming. Plus, I started (or tried to start) this gym routine that has me getting up at 5:30 on Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays. Needless to say, it has been very sporadic. It seems like my gym buddy or I have some reason we can't at least once a week. Still, we try.

My math teacher put together a review for us and we worked through some of it in class, together, on Monday... but I was too tired to understand what she was explaining. In fact, when I was driving to campus that morning, I had repeated feelings of being in a dream instead of actually driving. Apparently, that's called depersonalization and is a form of anxiety attack. Sleep loss increases anxiety, my good friends. Fun times.

So, I studied. I put it all on myself. "I must have just forgotten the stuff we went over several weeks ago." It was logarithms and completing the square. It's not simple stuff, and it had been a while since we talked about it. Review would surely help.

Last night, while the girls were with Daddy, I sat with Papa and reviewed the stuff I couldn't remember. But what he was explaining to me often didn't make sense and I'd have to ask him to start over. This stuff I learned several weeks ago was not coming back to me. It was like I was learning it for the first time... again. I cried a bit and got a little angry... as I am known to do when I come up against a wall I don't know how to climb.

We didn't have nearly enough time to go over everything I was struggling with, but we worked on every problem in the review, one by one, until I understood how and why we did each step... until we had to give up and go to bed.

Then, this morning, I skipped the gym so I could hopefully sleep a little more... but I had tossed and turned all night and spent hours lying awake, panicking about all of the school-related obligations creeping up on me. So, I left the house a little earlier than usual, planning to get to class earlier so I could jog my memory by studying the problems we had done last night.

When I opened my notebook and looked at the study guide... none of it made sense... again.

Then came the test. There were whole problems I couldn't even begin to work. There were problems for which I could find a solution using my calculator, but couldn't show my work because I didn't know the first thing about how to manually solve them. I wrote a note to my teacher on the scratch paper she provided. I explained how embarrassed I was by this test and that I studied but I couldn't understand or retain a lot of it for some reason.

After the test, I cried. I called Papa. I vented about how difficult it is to study, how tired I am, that I'm doubting my motivation and resolve to even get this degree. Why am I doing this?! Why am I making myself so miserable and stretching myself so thin? I want to show my kids that college and a career are viable options... I don't want to teach them that torture is how you get there.

Papa says I don't have to go full-time. I don't have to graduate in as few semesters as possible. But I don't want this crap to be a part of my life for any longer than it absolutely has to be. It was just one test, but it broke me.

Having calmed down, I know I am more than a sum of my failures. It's okay to fail sometimes. I've obviously over-extended myself. I was tired, and I have been for weeks. I am over-burdened and have been for a while now. I'm okay. I just need a break. Good thing Thanksgiving vacation is coming.