A Mother’s Campaign to Re-Elect the President

Tags

family, healthy choices, healthy living, my daughter, obama 2012, only child, politics, pop culture, war on women, work, working mother

Last week my daughter and I were walking to school, holding hands, swinging our arms and trying to run away from our shadows when she looked up at me with her nearly 4-year old cherubic cheeks and said, “Mommy, when I grow up, do I have to be a mommy?”

I reflexively responded, “you can be anything you want to be when you grow up. No one can tell you what to be when you grow up, you get to choose and mommy will help you.” And then my throat caught.

I came of age in what I would call, relatively speaking, the Golden Age of Choice. (New York City, liberal bias so stipulated.) In the 90′s when Roe was largely re-affirmed by Planned Parenthood of Pennsylvania vs Casey and, parental notification notwithstanding, barbaric back alley abortions suffered by petrified high school girls, undergraduate co-ed’s, single working gals and young wives, were the stories we heard to remind us how good we had it.  Although it was not something anyone ever talked about, girls I knew had safe and legal abortions, often accompanied by their mothers.  Those with steady boyfriends and courage asked for, and received, birth control pills from their doctors.

By and large this was the reality into my late 20′s.  I was fortunate to not have had an unplanned pregnancy and therefore never forced to make a difficult choice before I was ’ready’ to have a baby.  I was also lucky to have good health insurance which made birth control easily accessible.  My accessibility to economic freedom and good health seemed as certain as my right to consume oxygen.

When I learned that I had given birth to a daughter, it was my assumption she would have every opportunity to choose any path she saw fit; that her options for health care would be even better than mine and that obstacles I faced in the workplace would just be stories I told her, you know, about the old days.

Then came the healthcare debate and the demonization of Planned Parenthood, an organization that spends over $10.6 million per year on health services for men AND women, and exactly ZERO federal dollars on abortion services.  Hyperbole like ‘Obama-care is socialism’ and ‘Planned Parenthood does the devil’s bidding’, did little to disguise a dangerous subtext: women should not be left to make their own reproductive and health decisions, and they are probably hussies anyway.

But it got worse.  Personhood (sorry infertile parents to be) became a thing, the morning after pill was re-branded as abortion (science be damned) and aspirin was reintroduced as a viable method of cheap birth control (there are no words).  Now a man who voted against the Fair Pay Act and who authored EIGHT of the most staunchly restrictive anti-choice bills ever brought to the halls of congress will, in one week’s time, be officially nominated as the Republican candidate for the vice-presidency.

Indeed the rabid commitment of some elected officials and media personalities to restricting women’s health care choice and reproductive freedoms has now given rise to, what we can only hope, is the final insult.  A candidate for the United States Senate, Todd Akin (R-MO), has sought to suggest (and bear in mind this is not the first time he’s done so) that there are varying degrees of rape (because, it would seem, women are prone to exaggeration).

As a woman who has sought to be financially independent and as a mother, these attacks on reproductive freedoms look, smell and feel vindictive.  With abundant evidence of the Pill’s positive impact (visit The National Bureau of Economic Research www.nber.org) on a woman’s financial well-being, amid the backdrop of long-term economic contraction, one is forced to wonder what is truly driving the last two years of unfathomable attempts to rollback access to family planning options.  While a demonstrable wage gap persists (see GAO study October 2003), gains have been made and the data suggest that 8-10% of the narrowing which has occurred can be attributed to the Pill.  (Cue raised eyebrow.) Since prostitution is illegal and therefore not included in the government’s labor statistics, we can reasonably conclude these gains do not result from a boom in earnings from whoring, as Rush Limbaugh might suggest. (No citation needed here, methinks.)

Nowhere is anti-choice extremism more evident than in the halls of the United States House of Representatives.  Rep. Paul Ryan and Rep. Todd Akin, among others, have actively and repeatedly sought to eliminate access to abortion services under any and all circumstances.  ANY and ALL circumstances.  As if to suggest women spend their lives wishing and hoping to find themselves in the position of needing an abortion.  Because just in case this wasn’t already obvious, we don’t. 

And just as an aside, while I have you’re attention: while we’re telling folks what to do with their bodies and questioning their ability to make their own decisions, we need be reminded of our moral imperative to protect the rights of anyone with $100 and an internet connection who wishes to purchase an ak-47. ’Cause, ya know, that makes sense.)

We have been barraged with the sounds of choice clawbacks.  Men talking about women’s health and choices in the abstract, seeming to have never contemplated the notion that a woman’s decisions are the sum total of myriad inputs and not a singular emotional, ignorant reflex. 

And so it is that on August 21, 2012 there are 77 days until election day.  A day on which all Americans will be able to (theoretically)exercise their most basic freedom and choose our president.  To the voting booth we will carry five years of economic hardship and uncertainty; 11 years of two endless wars; and billions of dollars in debt for which we are now ALL responsible.  I will carry my daughter and lift her up to pull the lever for Barack Obama without hesitation or reservation.  I will tell her that we are giving Obama our vote because some people are trying to take away our voice and he speaks for us.

I supported Barack Obama’s candidacy for President in 2008 because I believed he was the right person for the job.  As a country we were in dire need of new ideas, intelligence, hope, and yes, change.  This time around I am fighting for Barack Obama’s election for one reason: my daughter. 

Please join me in supporting the health and freedoms of all our daughters by voting for Barack Obama on November 6. 

P.S. Confirm your voter registration TODAY.  Most state deadlines are coming soon.

Mini Me

Tags

my daughter, pop culture, sarah, spice girls, working mother, yoga

I entered parenthood with a single solitary parenting philosophy: who you become is 75% nurture, 25% nature. I believed, and still do, that with the right amount of nurture, I could help my child’s natural abilities reach their full potential.  Oh, and help her become polite, well-mannered, confident and generally put together.  Mostly I hoped not to screw her up.  I didn’t much think about creating my own vision of who she would become.  That is outside of her obviously going to MIT and being brilliant in both math and have a super human command of english and mandarin.  All that cooing, crawling and teething lends itself to this kind of fantasy.

My daughter was an early talker (nature); I made sure to teach her please and thank you (nurture).  Nurturing off to a great start.

At 13 months she picked up a crayon like she’s been holding a pen for decades (nature); I spent hours on the floor with her coloring and scribbling and compliment her fine motor skills (nurture).  Success!

Then at 18 months my darling daughter starting playing ‘pretend’. (nature) Her first game? “Going to a Meeting.” (Er, um, nurture.)  She quickly amassed a collection of multicolored file folders, loved notebooks, pens, markers, phones (she held a blackberry perfectly by age 2).

Next game: “Going to the Gym.”  Smug pride at my daughter’s innate desire (nature) to be active and stay healthy by working out (nurture).  ”Mommy, I need a sports bra-th.”  Expert discussion of mommy bodies and toddler bodies ensures.  I’m nurturing all over the place.

At 2.5 my darling daughter was in a full on love affair with my shoes and hand bags.  I truly don’t know if that is nature or nurture but I am concerned about the future of my shoe collection should we end up the same size.  She has since ‘adopted’ a hot pink designer clutch that I bought in a drunken spree during my 20′s and I am especially pleased that it’s been given new life.

This summer we have been having a grand time getting kiddie manicures and picking out each others’ polish colors.  Most recently when we were in the nail salon they were showing an Audrey Hepburn movie and my lovely daughter was mesmerized.  Nurturing  good grooming and good taste.  CHECK.

Since she was a little girl we have been enjoying hand selected (clean) popular music, which my little princess has become age-appropriately obsessed with. (see Spice Girls and Lady Gaga)  As we barreled down the highway signing “Colors of the world… spice up your life,” together I couldn’t help but feel a little guilty that I was creating a mini me.

Then I thought that as long as I’m giving the best parts of myself (work ethic, healthy living, hip-hop&pop!) then maybe it’s ok.  It is an incredible gift to be given a daily reminder to be my best self.  (Feeling gratitude, ditching attitude.)

Also it’s a two way street.  Note addition of pink clothing to MY wardrobe since October 2008.

Coming Out

Four years ago, I was pregnant.  VERY pregnant.  So pregnant that the baby, now known as my daughter was squeezing my brain. (Or so it seemed at the time.)  I pretty much hated being pregnant.  Not that I had too much to complain about.  I had wonderful care from a doctor, midwife and a doula as well a doting husband.  Nevertheless I was not a glowing, pregnant person.  I have met many women who ‘love‘ being pregnant. Um, ok.  ”It’s the most womanly thing you can do,” they would say.  Sure, why not.

My daughter was born in October 2008 and I loved her instantly.  Love like only a mother can feel can instantaneously and unwavering.  I committed to nursing her.  I hated it.  I saw these women with suckling cherubs everywhere and all I could think was WTF?  It did NOT come naturally to me.  One woman told me at the time that nursing was the most magical feeling in the world.  Mouth, meet floor.

In that first year I signed up for all the blogs, all the list-serves, all the clubs.  I struggled to read a single blog post, never mind actually making it to a ‘meet up’.

One of the happiest parts of that first year was finding new music to share with my infant daughter and I quickly discovered the Laurie Berkner Band.  Kids music to be sure but her rich voice and folky guitar are really quite enjoyable to this child of the 70s.  One song is called ‘5 Days Old‘ and the lyrics are about a baby who will someday (presumably FAR in the future) be 4 years old.

I remember hearing this song and thinking about long it would be until my baby was four.  How I had all the time in the world to soak up her baby-ness, to perfect my skills at mothering a baby.  All the mornings I was up with her at 5am, cuddling her and simultaneously praying she would fall back asleep. I was sure that would last for forever.

And now she’s about to turn four.  Turns out it doesn’t last forever.  Turns out, looking back, it lasts for like a minute.  Everyone will tell you that and it seems impossible.  But here I am, saying it.

Yesterday we were in the car and my daughter asked to hear ‘The 5 Day Song’ and I instantly started to cry.  My five day old baby is very nearly four years. (“One day I’ll be a year, then I’ll be two then three then 4, but as for now I’m sitting’ here, I’m five days old and no days more…”)  Me, the pregnancy hating, nursing loathing mother, crying because my baby is not a baby anymore.  Sobbing and hiccuping silently and grateful that we are in the car and I’m driving so she can’t see me.

Last night as she danced around our living room in her tinkerbell nightgown, pretending it was a ball gown, again tears came.  Twirling and swooshing, my little baby with no neck muscles was leaping across our living room.  My five day old baby, about to be four.

So now I’m a cryer?  One of those women who cries at every birthday?

Seriously? Me?

YES.  ME.

 

Stroller Derby

My daughter will turn four in exactly 8 weeks.  Which means I have been pushing a stroller for exactly 200 weeks.  One would think in that time I would be able to master all the skills needed to navigate your average Maclaren/City Mini/ Peg Perego.  I mean 1400 days really should do it. I graduated from college in less time for heaven’s sake.

So then why am I SOAKED??? Why?  Should someone of my talent (ha!) and skill (ha ha!) not be able to drive a stroller and carry an umbrella at the same time?  All the other stroller drivers seem to do it. Or is it possible that am I just too rain drenched to realize they are also dripping wet?

The great thing about motherhood is that I actually don’t care that much about arriving someplace wet with frizzed out hair.  Really who is looking at me anyway?

Unless I have a meeting and then I’m PISSED.

Solution: wait till dear daughter is 5 and can carry her own umbrella.  Until then, run between the rain drops and shake out that hair.

But I’m open to other suggestions.

rain soaked mommie

Ode to Joy or… Spice Up Your Life!

Tags

london 2012, moms we admire, olympics, pop culture, spice girls, summer, victoria beckham, working mother

If you were alive and at least semi-conscious in 1996 you have heard the Spice Girls.  Their POP-vocal stylings could only be described as infectious and who among us can hear the phrase ‘zigga-zig-ah’ and not think of Mel B (aka Scary Spice). It really is pure fun, pure joy.  I can still remember running with my walkman on the treadmill of my undergraduate gym listening to the Spice Girls.  Over. And Over. And Over.  Gets you where you need to go I tell you. (especially on the literal and figurative treadmill of life.)

According Ryan Seacrest The Spice Girls are the most successful girl group in the history of the planet Earth. Now I’m not entirely sure what metrics we are using to define this, but who am I to argue with a Ryan Seacrest?  (He who controls the golden tickets wins.)  So stipulated Ryan.

As for the music, we all know it, we get it (’cause really what is there to get?). It’s been mocked and parodied.  But the Spice Girls are important.  The Spice Girls brand was fueled by Girl Power marketing (see Wikipedia re Girl Power) and introduced a whole generation of young women to the Power of She in a very mainstream way.  Girls I knew then who would NEVER would be caught dead being called a feminist were shouting “Girl Power!” and “You go girl!” at every possible (and not always applicable) opportunity.

I was tickled pink-glitter to see the Spice Girls, all of whom have become mothers in the last 15 years, at the closing ceremonies of the Olympics on Sunday.  It was my one only occasion during the fortnight to think that NBC did not completely suck-it by giving the girls a nice intro and really emphasizing their success without talking about their kids/husbands/’issues’.  I appreciated that they all looked great and like themselves.  Posh Spice’s (aka Mrs. David Beckham) perma-scowl notwithstanding, they looked like women in their late 30s having a grand old time with a couple extra pounds then when last we saw them (again, with the exception of Posh/ Victoria B).  Perhaps above all else I appreciated that they were dressed like mothers, yes hot rock-star mothers, but like a lady should be dressed when she’s 38 and has a child who has friends who will see said mother dancing on tap of a bedazzled English taxi cab. Well done Girls.

Life changes, clothes change, bedtimes change, priorities shift.  But we are who we have always been somewhere between the book sales and the meetings and the baby sitters and the rules and swear boxes and emails and the juggle.  It is a gift to be reminded of that from time to time.  Especially when it comes with glitter and a really kickin’ refrain.

Zigga-zig-ah indeed.

Appendicitis, so to speak

Tags

deepakchopra, healthy choices, iphone, morning joe, my daughter, pop culture, the fresh beat band, work/ life balance, working mother

Last week I saw a great segment on Morning Joe with Deepak Chopra, called “Unplugging Your Spiritual Side” in which Dr. Chopra said, and I’m paraphrasing here, “If you’re texting on your iPhone and talking to me you’re not really doing anything.”

Whoa.  Holy chakra-shock!

Maybe it’s just me but when Deepak Chopra espouses the virtue of single-tasking I stop and listen.  It seems so rational and manageable when he says it.  For a moment I contemplated the merits of programming an auto-reply for my email saying “Deepak Chopra says I should carve out one specific sphere in my life for email so I will respond to you when I arrive at that sphere,” and that all those who email me would agree.  (Especially Barack Obama and Joe Biden who have been emailing me A LOT these days.)

As I weighed the potential professional ramifications of such a practice I decided to try, I mean REALLY try, to be fully present for my child between the hours of 5:30pm and 8:30pm when I say good-night to her (ok fine, except for when she’s watching her 30 minutes of daily sanctioned tv, because really how many episodes of the Fresh Beat Band does a grown woman need to watch?  Also I have learned the whole routine to ‘Great Day’, time served!).  For the last week as soon as I enter her school for pick up I drop my phone in my bag and yes, leave it in there until her show starts (or it Marimba’s more than twice).

Once I set my intention, I found that my hyper-observant 3.75 year old needed nearly as much adjustment and reassurance as I did – as if some appendage to my body had been suddenly and inexplicably removed.  So far our practice has gone like this:

DAY 1
3.75 year old daughter: Mommy! Where is your phone?
Me: Um, well it’s in my bag.  Did you, um, want to make a call?
3.75 year old daughter: no, but don’t you need it?
Me: Why would I need it?
3.75 year old daughter: you always need it Mommy!

Day 2
3.75 year old daughter: Mommy! is your phone in your bag?
Me: Yes.
3.75 year old daughter: do you need it?
Me: Nope.
3.75 year old daughter: ok.

Day 3
3.75 year old daughter: Mommy! is your phone STILL in your bag?
Me: Yes.
3.75 year old daughter: do you need it?
Me: Nope.
3.75 year old daughter: Because you love me?
Me: Yep.

Day 4
3.75 year old daughter: Mommy your phone goes in your bag.
Me: Yes.
3.75 year old daughter: unless we want to take a picture.
Me:Yes.
3.75 year old daughter: Or if we have an em-er-gen-cee.
Me: Yes.
3.75 year old daughter: Because you love me!
Me: Yes.

Appendectomy complete.  Do they grow back?

love makes you do crazy things!

Beach Toes

Tags

healthy choices, my daughter, summer, vacation, work/ life balance, working mother

I recently returned from a two-week vacation at the beach with my little girl and our extended family.  It was a unique time when I was able to slow down and just enjoy being my 3.5 year old’s mommy.  Even if she tested every boundary known to woman-kind.  Just being able to focus a single part of my head – motherhood – felt like, well, a vacation.

Long Beach Island

Why Don’t They Call Them Working-Dads?

So it’s true that I spend a lot of time waxing philosophic about the woes of balancing all the things I want and need to do.  In point of fact, I live a rather charmed existence due in very large measure to my wonderful husband who is also an extraordinary father. Though it came as no surprise, until he held his little girl in his arms it was impossible to envision just how exceptional a father my husband would become.

Nothing I do would be possible were it not for his devotion to me and my daughter.  When I suffered postpartum anxiety he never made me feel crazy and I subsequently learned that he had privately researched postpartum syndromes during my pregnancy to prepare for the possibilities.  When I tearfully told him I needed to leave my Wall Street job after our daughter was born, there was no discussion – only “ok”.  When staying home did not work out either and I rebooted my career in non-profit fundraising for a third of the salary, “ok”.  When that job took me out of the house on many evenings and weekends, “ok”. When I started this blog he immediately bought the domain name and encouraged me to write more.  All this while he has a more than full-time job and really interesting interests to nurture.

In my own, let’s be honest, self-centered search for equanimity I do not express my gratitude and appreciation as often as I should.  So, confession time in my search for professional and personal harmony: I’m not always a great wife; in spite of having an always-great husband who doesn’t have a blog, a Working Father magazine subscription or a Pinterest board called “Working Dads”.

I know a thing or two about extraordinary fathers, having one myself.  Extraordinary is an all too often used word, but in this case, it is appropriately used twice in a single 707-word missive.

The story of me and my dad really begins in the summer of 1985, in what may be best described as the mushroom cloud of my parents’ marriage.  A presence in my early childhood, it was after their separation that my dad was truly a constant.

When my dad got his own apartment that fateful summer he took my sister and I to Century 21 to pick out sheets for our new bunk-beds.  (I got My Little Pony, she got Rainbow Bright. The sheets are still in my dad and stepmother’s linen closet and are sleepover favorites for their three favorite granddaughters. They really don’t make ‘em like they used to.)  The sheets were on our beds the first night we slept in the new apartment, which it only just now occurred to me always felt like home.  I don’t recall that he had much help moving into that new apartment, yet he made it our home from the first night.

There are 1,000 stories like the one about the sheets.  I know the angst-filled teenage years were tumultuous at times (and this would be an appropriate time to give a shout to my step-mother, THANK YOU), but all I remember is that he was always there.  And he made it look easy.  And I know now, being a parent, that it wasn’t.  I am so lucky to have my dad as my dad and now as my daughter’s grandfather.

With all that love and gratitude now firmly established may I ask – WTF HALLMARK?!?  What’s with the overabundance of cards with the dads lying on the sofa, drinking beer and watching sports?  And also there seem to be a disproportionate number of dads-as-frogs imagery – seriously, what is that?  What is one to do when she has a non-frog husband and non-beer swilling father?

Where is the card for the working-multitasking-devoted-daddy?  I know they are out there.  I have an abundance of first hand experience and primary research to back me up here.  Really card peeps, it’s time to get with the program.  It’s 2012.

Also I don’t need to spend 45 minutes sorting through crappy outmoded cards that don’t represent any of the fathers I know.  And really let’s face it, it’s all about me.

Post Script: Happy Father’s day to the two greatest men I know.  Thank you.  I love you.

A Brief History of Blogging Failure

Tags

auntie, healthy choices, healthy living, pop culture, running, sissy, soul cycle, the office, working mother

According to wordpress it has been 52 days since my last blog post.  My younger self would have been horribly disappointed in myself, possibly to the point of complete blog paralysis.  Mercifully, my 34-year old, Mommie-self says, ok, I’m a little disappointed in myself and moderately embarrassed – but let’s get right back on that horse and do this thing!

With that I give you, if anyone is still reading, a synopsis of what I’ve been doing for the last 52 days (in no particular order):

1. WURKING

2. Becoming addicted to Soul Cycle – seriously where have you been all my life?

3. WURKING

4. Listening to the French Open – that’s right, listening.  Because in 2012 there is no streaming video for the French Open. WTF France?!

5. Field trips – really if I’m going to walk around a museum/fire house/ library with my daughter and her 4-year old bestie, can I take them on my time-table?

6. Epic sinus infection, no time for sick days.

7. More WURKING.

8. Scouting US Open tix (really, it must be love).

9. Turning 34.  Getting used to being 34.

10. Taking my delicious daughter for her first manicure.

11. Meeting up with sissy/ auntie in Washington DC for 2nd annual girls weekend.

12. Creating kid-friendly, pinkalicious herbal iced tea.

13. Running again for the first time in six months.  (sweet victory.)

14. Season finale of: Grey’s Anatomy (Ugh, ENOUGH!), Private Practice (sniffle, sniffle), Scandal (thank you new guilty tv pleasure) and Mad Men (for the record, I still “heart” Roger Sterling. Judge away…).

15. Having a love-hate relationship with Facebook.

16. Enjoying the Upper West Side in the Springtime. It just doesn’t get better.

17. And, yes, still wurking.

In fact the Marimba of my iPhone is telling me that duty calls.  More to come.

Freshman Year Redux

Tags

family, healthy choices, work/ life balance, working mother

Confession.  My dinner often consists of cold leftovers, eaten out of a Tupperware standing over the kitchen counter.  Or baby carrots and humus – out of the container, standing.  Rice cake and peanut butter – you get it.

The reasons why this happens are varied.  I get home too late to eat with my daughter and husband; I’m not hungry when my daughter eats at 5:30; I use dinnertime to workout; the list goes on. But the truth is since my daughter starting eating solids I have a difficult time getting her meal on the table and mine at the same time.  To be completely honest, I’m usually in an all out sprint to get something remotely healthy on the table and by the time she’s climbed up into her chair and her little mini version of whatever I’ve made is ready, mine isn’t on the plate yet and I just say screw it. I’ll eat later.

And while we are on the topic of remotely healthy: earlier this spring I served “breakfast for dinner” which consisted of rice krispies and bananas.  My daughter was giddy.  I was mortified and energetically praying that she didn’t tell anyone.  (Note: praying for your 3.5 year old to not reveal that mommy “let” her have what could only generously defined as breakfast for dinner DOES. NOT. WORK.)  However, was it actually a less healthy option than some pre made, sodium laden frozen dish?  Maybe in the absence of time and energy, I made a reasonable choice?

dinner!

Back in the land of the Tupperware and cereal, it’s stipulated that dinner with a 3.5 year old is just not an experience in fine dining.  Not that standing with a fork and a Tupperware over the kitchen counter is exactly haute cuisine. But I do get to eat uninterrupted, albeit often in the dark, alone (cue violins).  That said, sitting with my little girl while she’s eating is really delightful and the fact is I don’t mind doing so without the distraction of my own food.

Eating alone, late night – it’s like revisiting freshman year.  Also, when you’re the mother of a young child, you clean a lot of vomit off the floor.