THERE WILL BE BLOOD (Daniel Day Lewis to be played by a Tampax)- Embracing the Beauty of our Female Cycles.

 I am on the brink of having a woman as a daughter. My 11-year-old has passed into the realm of breast buds and mood-swings. She is asserting her independence daily; stretching her long legs out to see if the same old boundaries still apply. She is asking for opportunities where we can choose to trust her, and then pushing us as far as she can to see if we can still be trusted to be there. One day soon she will bleed from the most sacred of her body parts. What could possibly go wrong? I went through this same thing. All women did, and we have fond memories of that time right… right?!... shit.

There isn’t a lot of positive confirmation in the whole period department. Typically, our moms didn’t say the right thing, or they said nothing at all. We tend to simply chalk up the failures of our mothers during this time as a phase we lived through. We turned out alright, so will our daughters. Maybe.

Let’s be honest, this ‘day and age’ cannot be depended on to represent a healthy version of what a woman is. Unless we are hiding our girls under rocks, they have seen (or someone has colorfully described to them) Miley Cyrus riding on a wrecking ball. Family movie nights have relentlessly depicted the one right way for a woman to have a body. And, any two-dimensional coming-of-age idol that they may desire to imitate has been put through the sexually objectified wringer (with no objections). Such is life.  Heap on the weight of every trite observation that is made about pubescent girls in our society, and get on with the journey.

But what if we could offer them more? Who is to say that you cannot rewrite the best version of this experience, the one that you wished you’d had, and give it to her? What would it take? Go back to 12 years old you. It’s that gangly time where you made strange fashion choices and your close-to-full set of adult teeth looked too big for your mouth.  You were on the verge; an old favorite Barbie still stashed in a drawer, alongside a journal full of magazine cutouts of Keanu Reeves’ face. What would it have taken for someone to empower you for the transition ahead?

If I could rewrite that chapter in my life, I would have my mom speak proudly about the things that were to come. I felt her apprehension about what my body was doing like a shameful punch in the stomach. There was no getting out of it, I was turning into a woman. It was going to yield a crabby disposition, uncleanliness, and pain. And, oh by the way, “I’m so happy for you.” What the fuck?

I can say now, with complete wisdom, that she didn’t lie to me. All that jazz was true. Patience is sparse, blood is messy, and cramps hurt. The message from my mother and society was to accept it and then pretend it’s not happening for the rest of my life. Cover it up. Be a woman. What I wanted to hear so badly was, “Yeah, it’s hard. But it’s important and this is why…”

Becoming a woman means that your body will now remind you of what is most fundamental. Even if you want to forget, each month, your body will urge you to look inside yourself. Every message that we are berated with about being a beautiful, clean, untarnished, desired body, is thrown on its face by the cycles of womanhood.

The beginning of many women’s cycles starts with bloating and the discomfort of uterine tremors. These contractions assist in the shedding of the uterus lining, but they also effectively cause you to clear your schedule, slow down, and say “no”. I have learned that writing “just say no” on my calendar, during the first days of my cycle, is one of the best ways I can love myself.

There is nothing like a period to get you in contact with your body.  Whatever parts of you, that you’d rather ignore, demand hands-on attention.  I was using tampons before I was fully aware of the anatomy of my own vagina. That seems a little crazy, considering the logistics. With the progression of time, the blood that returned each month drew my focus to a place that no one wanted to talk about. Staying hygienic and tending to my menstrual needs guided me into having a relationship with my own body.

Surprise, surprise…  it wasn’t until after childbirth, that I understood the significance of fertility. Now as a mother of four, I covet those feelings that arrive with the release of an egg. I am passionate and creative with a force. It is this phase of my cycle that I love relating to the moon. When the albedo glow of the sun reflects back at us as a growing crescent, we too are able to construct new things, to grow into new ideas and give our energies to these endeavors. We wax like the moon, creating a literal new life within us,  or manifesting expressions of the life we lead now.

I couldn’t find poetic evidence that I wanted to scientifically connect us as women to the lunar phases. The electromagnetic forces that control our ocean tides have not conclusively been found to affect our ‘lady-tides’. However, our moon plays a vital role in circadian rhythms. The sun’s energy that reflects back to earth in our night sky does have an effect on our melatonin levels. This hormone doesn’t just make us sleepy, it also regulates our cycles! Boom, connected.

As our body’s hormones subside, and we prepare to expel the unfertilized egg, the world tells us that we are unbearable. I remember the first time my mom blamed my emotions on my period. I felt enraged that someone would tell me that I didn’t know how I felt like my own feelings couldn’t be trusted. PMS is a fucking superpower. Not allowing your body to slow down and rest? Cramps take care of that. Refusing to physically connect with “shameful” parts of your own body? Nothing a repeated bloody crotch won’t fix. And last but not least; Denying your self-worth? Not standing up for yourself? Pretending it doesn’t matter?? Post Menstrual Stress will dump those undealt with uglies right into your lap. The tears and angst come out like a torrent of unresolved disputes, and everything you stuffed away during the past 25 days has “better out than in” written all over it.  

When day one of my cycle comes, I don’t say “Gee whiz! This will be fun!” but I do have a deep respect for a process that has reconstructed my view about the woman body I live in.  I figured a lot of it out on my own, and that’s okay. I know now that early conversations about our bodies lead to young women who value sex in a safer way. Knowing our self-worth creates a clearer picture of what we want (regardless of what he wants). This kind of self-esteem, to speak our minds, is a virtue we can learn as girls.

I can’t wait to tell my daughter to trust her woman-self; her growing, changing, communicating body is a marvel. We know how to handle a fair share of shit. And, I can’t imagine that would be half as possible without the wonderful mechanisms of our menstrual cycles.

-Emily

OVERWHELMED BY LIFE- Tackling the Never Ending "To Do" List of Motherhood.

You know that feeling when you haven’t vacuumed for a while and a piece of dried up dinner bit gets stuck to your sock, then you walk around with it for a long time, aware of the little lump it creates with each step, mildly annoyed, but not motivated enough to do anything about it?

That’s the place I’m in right now. There are lots of little figurative bits creating frustrations, but I struggle to find the energy to work on them. The sum of their parts has proven great enough to stymie me.

My daughter has had her pacifier for too long. We took it away for a week. It started out well enough and then promptly ended when she started waking at 1 am and screaming uncontrollably for 2 hours. Do I have the energy to fix that? Maybe if it were my only problem, but as it stands now, no.

My oldest son is noticeably neglected feeling, and it’s affecting other parts of his life. When can I fix that? In between the diaper changes, breakfast making, lunch making, and morning grooming, or do I tell him he can’t play with his friends after school because he has to hang out with his mommy instead? And, what do I do with the other two kids who will pitch inevitable fits because they’re not in the mix?

My husband is noticeably neglected. How to keep my eyes open past 8:30 pm, so that we can talk about something other than all the shit we need to work on?

My youngest son has started having tantrums and retreating to the stairwell closet when I refuse him a pre-dinner snack or a post-dinner dessert. We both know he’s not going to eat shit if I cave. And, he’s been telling me he wants a new mommy before he slams the door to the closet. This was the kid that liked me the most, as far as I could tell.

At all times, at least two out of three of my children do not like meat, beans, cheese, eggs, or rice. Wtf am I supposed to cook for these people??

I’ve had a big kid home sick from school for 3 of the last 4 weeks, thereby removing the bulk of my beloved, and entirely necessary for my sanity, toddler naptime respite, my only personal time. Can you say angst?

I’ve been allowing myself to derive too much of my self-worth from social media responses to this God-forsaken blog, and that’s a recipe for depression.

I’m tired.

I think I have to go back to work, and I  don’t wanna.

And like 10 other things.

Deep breath. And another. And another.

On adequate sleep, and maybe with one or two less kids, these things wouldn’t feel insurmountable. Getting laundry done, tidying the house, and making all the food for all the people seems like the only stuff that can make the list. How in the hell are we supposed to do that AND be good moms? No, really, I’m asking… how? Somebody tell me, please, cuz I’m at a loss. Being a housekeeper is a full-time job. I can’t not feed the children. They have to wear clothes. There’s nowhere to cut the fat from, cuz motherhood is notoriously fat-free.

I don’t want to just get by with “good enough.” I don’t want to have to choose between spending time with my son and cooking dinner. I don’t want to collapse into a chair and scroll through Instagram, instead of tackling the challenges in my life, because it’s the only thing that’s underwhelming and requires nothing of me.

Let’s talk about this. Let’s have a dialogue about how women are supposed to pull off the ever-growing, downright unrealistic, expectations of us as mothers, while also working out, eating well, and maintaining friendships. 

For me, for today, I’m just going to pick one thing and chip away at it, moment by moment, with quiet resolve, reminding myself that my childhood hero, Wonder Woman, was only as real as her invisible jet. Cuz that’s all I’ve got. The rest of the list can wait, neatly folded up and tucked into my back pocket, because it simply has to. I can’t be all things to all people, but I can be one thing in each moment, and through the powers of intention and mindfulness, I can do my damnedest to make those moments count for something.

-Angi

GOOD WOMAN- Challenging the Stereotypical Definitions of Good Men and Women.

Like anyone else, I have idealized the occasional Hollywood face. Depending on the storyline, or character, the actor or actress may have the power to creep into my heart and nestle into the corners of my outlook on society. Case in point, me crying through all of The Force Awakens because Daisy Ridley was a fully clothed, bad-ass, female Jedi, cast as the main character. This Star Wars movie even passes the meager “Bechdel” test;  two women, whose character names are known, speak to each other about something other than a man. Oh. My. Gawd. If you’ve never heard of this test, you will be disheartened at how many of your favorite childhood movies don’t come close to passing it. The incredulousness I felt about the portrayal of a strong woman character was lost on my 10-year-old daughter, who thankfully lives during a time when women and people of color are cast as heroes and heroines on the screen.

For me, the magnitude of fictional characters has transcended beyond the limits of amusement. During my formidable years, I yearned for that black dad off of The Cosby Show. He came home every night, didn’t yell, had money, and was clearly adored by his family for his sense of humor. The show made me have amicable feelings, ones that I had to rearrange upon hearing that Bill Cosby had a looooong line of women declaring him a rapist. I wish that I could say I was raised an informed feminist, but I wasn’t, and I felt pity at first for the fictional character I knew, played by a real-life man who did insanely wrong things to real women. Breaking up with Kevin Spacey and Louis C.K. won’t be nearly as hard.

While ranting and raving about the significance of having our entertainment craftily entwined with our worth, I have come across plenty of dismissive glances. Leave it to the budding feminist to tear apart our leisure ventures and turn pleasurable lounging into an activist movement. The caricatures that two-dimensional women are portrayed as seem to be the “phantom” that Virginia Woolf claims “is far more difficult to murder than a reality.”  Yes, women are set at some disadvantages in life, but obviously, we have the capacity to construct ourselves separately from the images that Hollywood portrays of us… right??

The contagious empowerment of the woman voice is ablaze across all social medias right now with definitions of what a good man is and is not. “Toxic-masculinity” is being passionately discussed alongside the explicable difference of healthy masculinity. Testosterone that knows no bounds is scary. “Good men” know this. And I have to stop here because it struck me that we own this phrase, “good men” and know it well and can speak of it without assuming audacity. But damned if I can’t clearly imagine a bunch of men throwing around the expression “good women” without clearly defining what that is.

I challenge you to ask yourself even, what is a “good woman?” Is our quality defined along the same guidelines as men; loyalty and bravery? Is each sex admiringly sorted into the confines of JK Rowlings Gryffindor-house definition? (I regress to admit Harry Potter is a huge Bechdel-test failure…) A good woman is pulled apart by differing definitions of what she should be.

I know intrinsically what a “good man” should be. Aside from the very obvious, obtaining consent before performing sexual acts… a good man is loyal to his family and partner (if he has them) or, at the very least, to his friends. If he is loyal to his country, that is coined as ‘bravery’, which is narrowly distinguished on the big screen as brandishing a weapon and slaughtering opposing races in the name of glory, guts, and God.

But the flesh and blood ‘good man’ is brave and loyal in many other ways, like: learning something new, humbly facing humiliation, assisting the weak, or acting selflessly for the common good. A good man’s strength is displayed by his quiet ego, he listens before he speaks, and is naturally generous with his time and possessions. I could go on and on because I graciously married a living example (insert emoji with heart eyes here).

It is easy to proclaim a man “good” for having the attributes of a mother; sorting dirty laundry, making meals, changing a diaper or wearing a baby. Can the same be true for a woman who hustles like a stereotypical dad; dependably providing for the family, making individual sacrifices to forge a profitable career, keeping the bad day at the office confined to the office, relinquishing free time to be spent by the desires of the household...? Not likely.

Before you tell me that a good woman “fears God and submits to her husband”, I ask you to read some Naomi Wolf, or Carol Gilligan, then we can talk.

“...reclamation of moral authority could well lead women to make lasting social changes along its lines, and have faith to call those changes God’s will.  Compassion might replace hierarchy; a traditionally feminine respect for human life might severely damage an economy based on militarism and a job market based on the use of people as expendable resources. Women might recast human sexuality as proof of the sacredness of the body rather than of its sinfulness, and the old serviceable belief that equates femaleness with pollution might become obsolete.”

We, as women, are depending on one another (finally!), as a collective force, to challenge very old and wrong ways of thinking. The ‘here and now’ momentum that has given way to women speaking out against sexual harassment, male-entitlement, and toxic-masculinity, is setting the stage for a universal definition of a “good woman”. I see her holding up her head high as a living example for girls. She proudly has a body and speaks without shame about the functions of that body. She “can show you how to be strong, in the real way” (“Steven Universe” by Rebecca Sugar) and be a HERO to both girls AND boys. She can influence other women by embracing their unique differences, and still cherish what we share as human beings living in feminine vessels.

This week I hope to stop and appreciate the attributes I see in women that define them as “good”. We are often narrowly described as beautiful by many standards, but let’s “speak beauty when we see it” by broadened standards. Speak strength, even when butted up against failure. Speak support and community over judgment. Speak a love for yourself. You are the living embodiment of what a good woman can be.

-Emily

LOSS- WATCHING A LOVED ONE TRANSITION.

My mom called yesterday to let me know my grandmother had officially stopped taking in fluids and hadn’t eaten in several days. I’d just finished brainstorming for this week's blog post, complete with witty bits I was anxious to put into form. I realize that the impending loss of a grandmother isn’t exactly a trending Google search, but, it’s what’s on my heart. My initial topic would have to wait, as my mind was now preparing itself for the inevitable events about to unfold.

As I made my final pilgrimage to the nursing facility, memories of past final farewells flooded my mind. The dim lighting, the soft soothing music, the heaviness of a stuffy room being heated to ensure comfort. I feel slightly anxious about what I may encounter. What do I say? Will she hear me? Does my presence even matter at this point? My adult daughter and I make our way down the wheelchair lined hall and into her room.

If you’ve ever laid witness to a soul taking leave from the body, you know what I mean when I say it’s an experience that has no comparison. The first time I saw this I was 19, with no idea what to expect. I’d received the call while at night school, driving 30 minutes back home in just enough time to join my family as they ushered my grandfather from this life into the next. It’s a ritual I’ve now seen repeated many times, among my relatives, and can only be described as life-changing.

Over the course of days, and in the final hours, a transformation takes place. When the departure begins, you can almost see the life escaping in tiny, palpable increments. Where there was once a thriving human, face full of expression, there remains what appears to be a malfunctioning vehicle. Broken down and exhausted from the battle between the course of nature and the innate will of the body to continue doing what it’s always done.

This is the struggle I find taking place within my grandmother’s frail almost translucent skin. During these long hours, I can’t help but wonder what’s happening in her semi-conscious mind. Is she remembering life as a small child? Being young and in love? The countless hours we’d spent playing Chinese Checkers after school, while she’d cared for me, day after day?
Maybe she’s thinking on what lies just ahead- the promise of unimaginable beauty and eternal happiness. She seems to be attempting to focus on my face, through tiny slits and trying to articulate a thought. Intermittent twinges of pain occur, followed by restful countenance.

My mom is there, as she always is, reassuring her that she is loved and that we understand her love for us. She is able to translate what sounds like a foreign language to my daughter and me. While we stand around, uncertain of what we should be doing, she moves with distinct purpose, because this is her purpose.

All my life my mother has made a practice of being compassionate towards the elderly. Anywhere we may have been, she’d stop and engage in conversation with someone who she knew would otherwise go unnoticed. I would never refer to my mother as a social butterfly, but when she’s around old folks, her wings spread. She shines when making the forgotten feel remembered. And they remember her. So naturally, she knows exactly how to care for her dying mother.

My daughter is wrought with emotion at seeing this display of kindness. “Mom, I can’t. I can’t even think about this happening to you, what will I do?” I tell her that “we just do,” that it will be natural for her as well because, like me, she too has been learning by watching. We joke about sharing a room in our final years, since we are, after all, only 17 years apart. We decide my younger children will have to do the heavy lifting. The day wears on, and the time comes to say goodbye, as I must get home to pick up my kids from school. I hold her hand one last time, wondering how long she can continue fighting, and marvel at the strength of the human spirit. Her frustration with her earthly body seems to be subsiding, and acceptance is settling in for all parties present. I won’t get to be there for her last breath. I won’t get to see her spirit take flight. But, I take comfort in the certainty that she is ready to see the place she will make her eternal home.

-Shelley

ARE YOU AFRAID OF FEAR? How to be less afraid and more honest.

It’s November.

I have no idea how this happens; it just keeps happening.

Every year we arrive here and my head is left spinning at the speed with which time sprints past, leaving me staring out my windows at the blur of what I think may have been an entire year that escaped inside of one breath. I mean, I’m fairly certain I blinked and June became October and then… Here. We. Are. Waist deep in the colors (Vibrant reds! Fiery orange! Luscious purples!) and scents, (Fires burning! Freshly fallen rain on pavement!) and sights, (The leaves! Misty mornings followed by clear night skies riddled with stars!) and all the feels that are fall. Even writing the word makes me want to abandon all responsibility, escape to the coziest spot in my house, cuddle up with a book in front of a fire for hours on end, and drink tea (Or wine. Probably wine. In a mug.).

And of course, we are all listing off all the things we are grateful for one day at a time on whatever social media platform we find most affirming. (Or feeling guilty that we are now a full week behind on that #gratitudechallenge we swore we would do this year. Just me? Oh.) The relentless pursuit of authenticity is kinda my jam, so I am most sincere when I say I am deeply thankful for this beautiful/crazy/brutal/amazing life we live. I believe with my whole self that the practice of gratitude is essential to fully experience being alive. And without hesitation, I readily admit to “hater” status when it comes to all the things/peoples/corporations/consumer-obsessed-culture-vultures who insist on the practice of skipping Thanksgiving. I am still waiting for a response to the email I sent in 2015 demanding Starbucks create a Thanksgiving-themed cup. But amidst all the pumpkin spicing the shit out of, well, everything, I’m gonna pause here just one minute to call bullshit on myself while you watch. (Ahem. **clears throat** While you read.)

About 11 years ago, whilst I voraciously pursued perfecting the art of parenting, at the potential expense of my first child, I came across a blog post about Halloween and FEAR. Written by a beautiful soul whose voice and perspective I deeply admired (and still do!), my world was rocked as I poured over her exquisitely articulated expression of her disdain for Halloween. “Why,” she implored, “would we choose to celebrate fear as a national holiday?” As I read, I could hear the voice in my head (one of many, perhaps) chanting a resounding, “Yes!” “Yes!” And again, “YEESSSSS.”  To most of what she had to say. I hated fear. Along with anger, and disappointment (and a few choice others). I was convinced that fear is a “bad” emotion. My only reference for fear was a long list of experiences that inextricably linked fear with pain. Pain was to be avoided at all costs. Soooo, I found it quite easy to whole-heartedly agree with the writer’s perspective. Halloween celebrates fear. Fear is linked to pain. Pain is bad. Therefore, Halloween is bad. We just stopped celebrating it.

These days, around here, we still have an interesting relationship with Halloween. We are basically 0 or 100 mph. It’s all or nothing. Over the years we have vacillated from one extreme to the other, occasionally pausing somewhere between the two. We have both skipped it all together and spent hours meticulously planning and creating elaborate homemade costumes our children don with pride (in full character, of course.)

At this juncture, I would venture to say that we have been released from the grip of our previous overly-ambitious parenting selves, lightened up a bit, and embraced trick-or-treating, pumpkin carving, dressing up in costumes, all in the name of fun, rather than fear. If we were sitting at my favorite coffee shop having this conversation, I would probably say, “I’m done hating fear. I’m okay with pain. I think I have evolved.”

And here is where I have to call myself out.

Because my relentless pursuit of authenticity is actually really important to me.

And because deep down in the place where all the voices are quieted and stillness is actually possible- in my gut - I know the truth. The truth, my truth, is…the fear, of fear, is still very real.

I don’t want to be afraid. I want to be fearless. I want to face my fears with bravery and conquer them with intensive behavioral therapy (and perhaps the occasional liquid courage). I want to be who I know myself to be. Bold. Fierce. Free.

And sometimes I am.

Sometimes, I am not.

I am both/and. We are both/and.

We are not bold before we are timid.

We are not strong before we are weak.

We are not brave before we are unsure.

We are not fierce before we are fearful.

We are not free before we are able to recognize our chains.

We cannot conquer our demons before we know what they are; whence they came.

We can only truly know joy; deep down in our knower joy, to the depth of which we have met its predecessor. Pain.

I am afraid of pain. Especially the emotional variety. (For reasons we may explore another time.) Knowing that about myself, owning the painful pieces of my story gives me a sort of emotional permission, if you will, to experience the pain of life without being swallowed whole by it. I can be afraid of the thing. Then the thing happens. I am vulnerable and brave. And I survive.

We survive. Hell, we may even thrive.

But if we don’t see the fear, if we ignore it or worse, pretend it isn’t there, we miss out entirely on the invitation to walk through it to the other side. And what if? What if on the other side of that fear/pain/insecurity/weakness/anger/self-doubt/fill in the blank here_____, is a version of our life more beautiful than we can fathom?

So far, my survival rate of painful experiences is 100%.

Am I still afraid of pain (Especially the emotional variety)? Yep.

But I am also bold/brave/fierce/joyful/strong/self-loving/free/ Fill in your blank here_____.

It’s November, again. And I am afraid. But I am less afraid than I was before. Less afraid; more honest. More authentically me. More grateful. Most importantly, I am more alive.

-Tawni