test

Staunch Democrat Finds Herself in an Anti-Obama Ad

Thu, 13 Sep 2012 07:54:48 GMT

The other morning I woke up to some surreal information: “I think I just saw you in an Obama campaign ad!”

For a few heady hours I was under the impression that my image appeared in an ad supporting President Obama in the upcoming election. This was not entirely unlikely in that I am a stock photography model for an agency that specializes in regular “mom types.” This agency sells those images to various other agencies and occasionally my likeness pops up in TV ads, brochures, and websites – always to my surprise. So while this news wasn’t shocking, the subject matter was certainly of a grander nature than that PTA pamphlet I was pictured in.

However, later that day my friend located the ad online and delivered the bad news along with a YouTube clip.

It was not a spot supporting Obama. It was paid for by the Republican National Committee (RNC) and was meant to show average Americans appearing disappointed by the state of the country. The camera lingers on my face while the voiceover intones; “Now you DO have the power… the power to make a change.”

I am cast as a disgruntled middle-class Democrat who appears to be considering a switch to the Republican side of the fence. I watched in silent dismay, feeling like my identity had been robbed.

Then the calls and messages began to come in:

“You’re like the poster child for liberals,” a friend said. “How did this happen!?”

“I thought I was having a bad dream this morning!”

“Even my dog was flabbergasted when he saw that ad!” wrote another.

“You’re going to have to be your own spin doctor,” one suggested.

As a childbirth educator, women’s rights and maternal/childcare advocate, teacher to urban pregnant teens – I could not possibly be a more inappropriate face for the RNC’s ad campaign.

A further irony is that a primary part of my livelihood has been eliminated due to Republican budget cuts when I taught pregnant teenagers about childbirth, newborn care and FAMILY PLANNING. “There is no part of my work or personal life that is inclined to support any Republican candidate,” I wrote in reaction to the ad on YouTube.

I started to wonder if the RNC was not entirely truthful when they procured this stock image. The stipulations of image usage specifically state that they may not be used for “pornographic or defamatory purposes.”

But how do I actually define “defamatory” purposes? I mean, barring pornography what could possibly defame me as an individual other than representing me in a way that is completely at odds with my very being?

Consider this blog to be my statement protesting the usage of my stock image in support of the Republican National Committee’s message. If I have any legal grounds for action against the party, please let me know, because those guys picked the WRONG Democrat to represent their misguided message.

Boys and Their Guns

Thu, 16 Aug 2012 08:00:00 GMT

The other day I was at a playground watching my friend’s son gather a swat team of boys while he shared his collection of toy guns and rifles. The team was assembled; the boys hashed-out the game rules and began their dramatic enactment of a siege or coup that I didn’t bother to understand.

What sparked my interest was when a dad of two involved boys came over with fire in his eyes. He firmly scolded the boys for touching the toy guns and demanded they put them down and leave the game. Not so surprising — I’ve seen that before in the playgrounds of Jersey City; we’re a pretty liberal, peace-loving group of progressive parents for the most part. Yet, what was noteworthy to me was seeing those boys’ heads hang so low with disappointment they nearly scraped their chins on the wood chips. “Oh, you don’t allow them to play with guns?” I asked, stating the obvious. He tersely shook his head with an emphatic and silent “No.” And within that tacit response I felt a wave of judgment roll its way toward me for my assumed involvement.

“Does this happen to you a lot?” I asked the ring-leader’s dad once the coast was clear.

“In fact, it does,” he sighed. “Mostly in New York and Jersey City playgrounds where parents are more liberal-leaning politically, I get some push-back when we bring our arsenal to the park,” he explained. What does politics have to do with it, I wondered. Can you be “politically correct” and let your child play with toy guns? Does anyone even strive to be “politically correct” anymore? How do OUR political and social leanings filter through to child’s play?

For these answers I went directly to the best source: parents themselves. Using my coterie of parental comrades via the Jersey City Family Initiative, I polled parents of boys, asking what their feelings were on gun play.

What I heard was a very similar refrain, essentially paraphrased by: “We were opposed at first, then realized there was little we could do to stop it.” In case after case, it appeared that most little boys shared what one mom called the “gun gene” whereby any protruding object could be transformed into a weapon of sorts. For example, a bitten sandwich, a hand, a stick, a pretzel, even a 3-D peace sign could make an acceptable makeshift rifle.

One mom who has worked in the school system for years said conclusively, “My experience is this: if a young male child can make a gun, he will.” She went on to use her students as an example, “In my high school art studio I have to hide the staple guns -– guess why? A student will literally walk up to the basket where they are stored, pick it up and immediately hold it like a gun in the air and shoot.”

Another mom pointed out that though swords and light sabers are more socially acceptable than guns, they actually do more physical harm as kids tend to hit each other with them. But swords alone did not satisfy her son. She added that he “would shoot with his fingers if he had nothing else. I found that as soon as I gave him a toy gun his interest in guns and shooting decreased dramatically.”

This comment made me wonder about the two brothers who had to stop their game in mid-delight. Will that act (and many before and after) unwittingly create a lust for the forbidden – and how might that father respond to such a notion? You could say that he was justified in being annoyed; perhaps public spaces are not the place for such activities. One parent offered that she never brought guns to the playground for just that reason “they were meant for home use.” Good idea, but the dad in this story says that organized team gun play is his son’s absolute favorite recreational pastime. “And I would rather have him running around creating survival strategies than playing a video game,” he reasoned. “Guns were demystified in my house. I know for a fact that I would have obsessed over them had they been forbidden.”

Regarding “gun deprivation,” one mom of a now-adult child reported that she and her son’s extended family were all adamantly against gun play. “He would make his own guns out of whatever he had on hand, but we all discouraged it,” she explained. “This same boy just finished his first year at West Point and we are all scratching our heads trying to figure out how this happened.”

A psychologist mom in the group weighed-in with some more philosophical points. “There may very well be an instinct (whether hormonal or early evolutionary-survival) to be able to hunt and be the defender/protector/aggressor. Alternatively, it may be a way to defend against feelings of vulnerability, especially given the messages in our culture about wars and fighting. So it seems that gun play may be linked to competition and aggression in a very deep-seated and complex way.”

She continues, “Otherwise, I think it is harmless, or may even serve some purpose for the child, especially if the gun play is folded into a story line rather than used with no context, if it is just one of many forms of play, and if the investment in gun play is mild to moderate.”

So there’s a vote for moderation with a possible anthropological explanation. But does that appease a parent who considers banning gun play just part of an enlightened behavioral lifestyle? It’s kind of like saying, “We compost, we recycle, we are civil libertarians, we don’t support war –- and as a result, we don’t approve of gun play.”

I think what’s interesting to note is that nature vs. nurture creates an inner parental conflict sometimes. It reminds me of when artist Art Spiegelman and his wife gave their daughter trucks and trains to play with, so as not to foster sexist forms of assumed gender play. They threw their arms up in exasperation when they noticed she had wrapped a fire engine up in a blankie and was giving it a bottle.

There are many parents who have had to grapple with their own leanings in order to yield to their child’s needs and forms of expression. “When my firstborn was a toddler,” one mom recalls, “I used to be super judgmental of the older boys on the playground whose parents let them play guns or weapons, thinking the parents just weren’t ‘progressive.’ Yeah, I was that parent.”

And though she observes that there is a lot of social pressure to discourage gun play now, she too concedes that, “Male children just have the need to shoot stuff out of oblong objects.”

I think it’s understood and widely accepted that there is no evidence that links toy gun play to homicidal behavior, or that it leads down a slippery slope to shooting spree rampages. I’ll let this dad offer his seemingly accurate observation, “Shooting guns is satisfying for many. Boys like toy guns beyond belief; perhaps it satisfies some primal urge for noise and action. When I was young, the more real the gun, the better it was. Many people who played with guns managed to avoid being mass murderers.”

I think most rational parents understand that playing cops and robbers with toy pistols does not lead to nefarious and anti-social adult behaviors, yet there is a sense that the parents polled have all learned something from their children: We are wired in a particular way that defies logic and up-bringing, including all the good intentions you may have for us.

While there are many nuances in the gun play arena (“Nerf only — not assault rifles,” “Okay to get as gift — not okay to buy,” “Don’t shoot at someone not in the game,” “Home-only — not public play,” etc.,) ultimately the choice is highly personal and I’m not sure we can apply a “right or wrong” edict to this example. If your child is a reflection of you and you’re a dyed-in-the-wool pacifist, you may dismiss the “gun gene” theory and instill a kinder, gentler type of play despite your son’s protestations. The examples presented here offer wisdom that comes from the older parent, perhaps saving you the trouble of finding out for yourself, or giving you further inspiration to stick to your guns on this topic.

Are You Dad Enough?

Sat, 16 Jun 2012 08:05:00 GMT

There’s a media storm kicking up so much dirt and dust right now that I can barely see my Facebook timeline. Hundreds of posts have appeared over the past 24 hours about TIME magazine’s provocative cover photo AND story – which appear to be two separate issues of debate and contention. ??Allow me to describe: We have an unlikely depiction of an “attachment parenting” mom nursing what appears to be a 7th grader. Okay, he’s not quite 4, but with clever art direction the sense is that of an older child breastfeeding from his willowy and attractive mother. Red flags and alerts everywhere: “Sexualizing breastfeeding!” “Unrealistic illustration!” “Inappropriate sensationalism!” If you get past the cover image then you have a cover story titled Are You Mom Enough? Witness the journalistic bottom of the barrel: pitting moms against one another via their parenting approach. Every sensible woman on the planet has had her fill of the “Mommy Wars” including the idea that SOMEONE out there is doing it better than she is: with a flat belly, no less. So I’m wondering where are the inflammatory cover stories about the dads’ inner struggles? Imagine the father who walks home from the bus in his leather-soled brogues and wistfully watches a soccer game already in progress. Is he wondering if he’s “man enough” to ditch that last conference call and coach Little League every Tuesday? We simply don’t hear anything in the media about the paternal conflict. I know it exists and have seen it here in Jersey City – more and more stay-at-home dads who rearranged life in order to be a full-time caregiver. Maybe it’s simply not in a man’s nature to hold his decisions about parenting against his brethren of other fathers. Should the media take a cue from this silence and create the new-fangled “Daddy Wars?” What might they look like? “Dad Enough” custody: How about the divorced dad protesting that the average U.S. court thinks that one day per week and every other weekend is an adequate amount of time to spend with his children? In general, fathers get the short shift of child-rearing as seen by the courts. The expectation is that he will be the breadwinner, paying child support and spending almost no time raising his child, let alone seeing him. Every other weekend is 4 days per month; even with that one day during the week the total gives a father no opportunity to get involved with sports or homework or the general rhythm of school life. Yet this edict is handed down case after case in most states. Fathers have to fight for their right to parent. Are you “Dad Enough” to fight for your right to FATHER? “Dad Enough” paternity leave: Since when does the fact of not giving birth make you any less of a parent? Whether you’ve adopted or you’re a birth dad, you should be given a reasonable amount of time off from work to accommodate the changes that have beset your household. Because a dad is not hormonally linked to his offspring the time it takes to simply get to know and adore that baby takes longer. Many fathers require an adjustment period into their role as “father.” Corporate America tells you it does not honor your new role by requiring you to return back to work swiftly, or worse, accept that you’re home but constantly pester you with demands throughout your “vacation.” Are you “Dad Enough” to turn down the noise and surrender to fatherhood with your full attention? “Dad Enough” attachment parenting: Do fathers even play a part in the philosophy of attachment parenting? If so, do they snicker behind one dad’s back saying, “Wow, does Jim EVER not have that baby glued to his chest? I wonder if he’s lactating yet?” In general, men don’t get openly critical about other dads’ involvement or lack of involvement in their child’s life; but that doesn’t make them immune to scrutiny by others around them, not least of which their own family should they be co-sleeping or teaching baby sign-language, for example. In terms of attachment parenting, Dr. Sears says, “Babies need loving responses from Dad, too, along with the special comfort and fun only a father can provide. Fathers also help to nurture their babies by loving and supporting their wives. Attachment parenting does not work as well without an involved and nurturing dad. The father creates a supportive environment that allows the mother to devote her energy to baby matters.” I’d love to see the TIME magazine story that delves into the deeper issues of “fathering” and how today’s man comes to terms with his role as provider and parent. Men are not immune to the judgment put forth by their friends and family either. If they choose to put their career on hold or even join a preschool co-op, they may have to defend those choices – just like the moms feel compelled to defend theirs. Yet we hear so little about that conflict and are unaware of the possible judgment that comes from those who disapprove of one’s choices. Instead all the focus is on the mothers and how badly or bravely they are taking on their role. That whole “Tiger Mom” story in the news last year gave moms a chance to ridicule the overly-strident mother and give themselves a pat on the back for being lackadaisical. Whether media-invented or not, these dialogues give us a reason to reevaluate and hopefully commend ourselves for being outside of the perceived misdirected parenting technique. As Dr. Sears says, “Nothing matures a man like becoming an involved father.” And I couldn’t agree more. Maybe it’s with complete acceptance that men straddle their role as provider and nurturer. The inherent conflict isn’t as strong because that expectation hasn’t been skewered and dissected for the past 40 years in philosophical debate. Women will continue to endure invented media “wars” over what’s best for their children and if men can escape the accusations, I suppose that’s all for the better. But I’m hedging my bets that an impending “Daddy War” is about to erupt — but I don’t want to know what that TIME cover photo is going to look like. ————————————————————————————————————————————————————- Special thanks to Chris Carey, “Man of the Mini-Van” blogger, for giving me the “Dad Enough” idea and supporting the Mamarama ethic.

The Business of Better Sex-Ed

Sat, 19 May 2012 08:05:00 GMT

“So, when your daughters are 15, are you going to take them to the gyno and have them put on birth control?” my friend asked me recently over a shared omelet.

Before I could sputter a response, she went on: “I remember when I was in 9th grade, this one girl – you know, the type who lived in the modern section of town, with a tree growing out of her glassed-in foyer – her mom hauled her off to the gynecologist for birth control pills when she was 15.”

I nodded, trying to picture a tree growing inside the house.

“Yeah, everybody knew about it at school – it was a really big deal. We were all kind of shocked and scandalized.”

“I could see that,” I said, finally.

Because I teach teenagers about pregnancy and birth, there is an assumption that my own kids will reap the rewards of my endeavors and won’t be likely to follow in the same teen footsteps.

In fact, I do sometimes speak about the pregnant teens with my own daughters. They can hear my concern and sometimes frustration with their situations. I’m open about what I do, yet I wonder sometimes what sort of effect this has on my own kids — good or bad.

Once, at a school event one of my daughter’s classmates heard me say that I had leave in order to teach. He innocently asked, “What do you teach?” and my daughter cut in abruptly saying, “Don’t tell him. Do not tell him, Mom!”

Later I asked if she was embarrassed by my work – or if it was just “too much information” to share with her male classmate. She confessed that it’s kind of an unusual job and that when boys hear “pregnant teen” and they can only think one thing: Sex.

“Oh,” I said, deflated. “Well…that’s okay. I understand; you can’t get pregnant if the sex part never happened.”

Will my experience working with these teens somehow deter my girls from engaging in risky behavior? I overheard my younger daughter saying that she does NOT want to be a teen mom. She wants to have fun as a teenager and be able to babysit to make money; not take care of her own kid for NOTHING.

How would my daughters even be exposed to such ideas if I were not bringing them home in my satchel containing a pelvis and baby doll? They’re not watching Teen Mom on MTV – so really I am the sole source of bad-outcomes from poor choices. What might they learn in school that could prepare them for what’s ahead? Is it all the parents’ job to enforce knowledge and preventative measures? For many parents, just talking about menstruation is complicated enough. How do we navigate the terrain of pregnancy, STIs, and the emotional ramifications of teen sex? How does it make it parents feel when we hear that most middle-school boys are getting their sex-ed from internet porn?

When we look to programs that are put in place in our public schools, our country has a pretty abysmal track-record. In terms of teaching health and sexuality or providing resources for pregnancy and disease prevention the U.S. lags far behind other developed nations. Even here in Jersey City, where the sobering reality of such negligence is evident in the hallways of nearly every public school – abstinence-only programs are still state-mandated and a part of the current curriculum.

In fact, it’s axiomatic that the entire “abstinence” philosophy for American teens has done far more harm than good. Sure, we’d like to urge teens to “wait until they’re older” or in some cultures to “wait until marriage” but it’s abundantly clear that these suggestions fall on deaf ears. What we are left with is a deficit of realistic health and sexuality programs and a rise in teen pregnancies and sexually transmitted infections.

In the very popular “No Second Chances” video which has been used in abstinence-only courses, a student asks a school nurse, “What if I want to have sex before I get married?” To which the nurse replies, “Well, I guess you’ll just have to be prepared to die.” And she’s serious.

What kind of a message is that to impart to impressionable teens? I’d be appalled if my own daughters were taught such antiquated and fear-mongering dogma. But with an out-of-touch curriculum they might very well get the message that to have sex before marriage is basically like playing Russian Roulette (a line lifted from “No Second Chances.”) How about teaching some common sense and responsibility instead?

A few weeks ago, The New York Times ran an excellent article on one unique sexuality program at a private Quaker school in Pennsylvania. The teacher not only educates teens on the “perils” of teen sex (pregnancy, abuse, disease, reputation) but on anatomy, biology, and even recreational sex. The class of older teen students has a forum in which to discuss the emotional components to their sex lives as well as a place in which to learn the surprising fact that an estimated 70 percent of women do not orgasm through intercourse alone. Imagine imparting that knowledge to a high school senior? This teacher is working so far outside the box that he is a complete anomaly to the sex-education world.

In most sex-ed classes the word “pleasure” is never even allowed to be uttered. To imply that sex, before marriage and during high school, might be something enjoyable for teens would be tantamount to giving the car keys to a toddler.

Back to my friend’s brunch question: Would I haul my kids off to the gyno for birth control pre-emptively? It’s not something I can really think about when they’re this young and seemingly innocent. But before long this topic – along with the others swirling around the simple notion of birth control – should hopefully be part of our long-car-ride-without-radio chats. Keeping an open dialogue about sexuality and all that it entails is probably the best way to move closer to preventing life-altering events from occurring under our noses.

Some years ago, when the “Octuplet Mom” was in the news, my daughters and their friend made a home video of what it might look like to birth eight babies. I posted this on YouTube and though it was met with warm hilarity by most, I remember one man saying that these girls were all going to be pregnant by the time they were 15. Normally I don’t respond to such goading – but I couldn’t help firing back a missive stating how very wrong he was. To my knowledge, there is no evidence that shows that the MORE you know about pregnancy and birth, the MORE likely you might be to become pregnant before your senior prom. I think it’s evident that for most American preteens and teens – less knowledge is creating far more problems than we could ever have foreseen.

Michelle Fine and Sara McClelland summed it up powerfully in a 2006 study in The Harvard Educational Review: “At its core [abstinence programs are] a betrayal of our next generation, which is desperately in need of knowledge, conversation and resources to negotiate the delicious and treacherous terrain of sexuality in the 21st century.”

When will our state government face facts that in the void of abstinence programs (largely diminished by the Obama administration), something positive must be implemented. Brushing teen sex under the rug is just another form of “abstinence” – that’s abstinence from good judgment.

Camping With My Ex-Husband: An Exercise In Tolerance...

Wed, 02 Dec 2009 08:45:00 GMT

“You’re going camping with your EX HUSBAND?” my girlfriends squeal. “Are you crazy?”

I shrug it off saying simply, “Well, it’s a tradition now…”

My ex-husband, David, and I have been separated for over three years, so each summer when I announce that we’re going camping again folks continue to find this a surprising curiosity.

Neither David nor I wish to forfeit our annual camping trip with the kids, so we’ve agreed to uphold the tradition as a family. While everyone applauds us for being so “progressive” for divorcing peacefully and without lawyers, they can’t quite wrap their heads around our yearly camping ritual. Our two daughters look forward to this trip each year, yet even they recognize that the act defies logic in divorce-land. “Mommy, no one else’s divorced parents go on vacation together!” Ultimately, everyone looks at us like we are some modern version of “Same Time, Next Year” minus the sex.

Is this ritual an act of rebelliousness? As though we’ve set out to prove that harmonious divorce is indeed attainable? How it’s perceived depends on the friend or my mood in conveying the story. Friends’ and families’ confusion aside, it really feels more like an act of love than defiance. We still enjoy each other’s company – in limited doses, of course; we have history, mocking nicknames and in-jokes that give us a foundation. And then we have our daughters. By getting along with one another we set an example for them that will impact their perception of their parents and divorce forever. Perhaps our annual tradition is about the simple fact that while I accept the death of the marriage, I’m not comfortable allowing our friendship to die.

Our camping custom began when a close friend talked David and me into joining her at an annual folk festival near the Berkshires. She painted a picture we could not resist: open farmland, lush mountain backdrop, tons of stuff for kids to do, great live music. I loved the idea; as a gal who feels naked without a pedicure, I feel it's beneficial to challenge myself with disagreeable circumstances (i.e. port-a-potties) occasionally. Besides, I had made a promise to myself that I would do for my children all the things that my parents would never have done for me. My folks were about as likely to go camping as they were to don crocheted bathing suits.

From the start I was struck by how different this “folkie” culture was from the brass-knuckle Jersey City vibe (land of corruption and buried toxic waste). People were simply nicer. There were more hugs and smiles; straight men wore skirts (and I don’t mean kilts); and every stage had an American Sign Language translator signing along to the music. While the food vendors fell short on burgers and French fries, there was plenty of tofu scramble and fresh beet juice to go around. And I liked all that. My kids ran amok and begged for henna tattoos, I became an expert at contra-dancing…and my husband and I never stopped bickering like we were Ralph and Alice Kramden in Birkenstocks.

Five summers have passed since that first trip when we endured a vicious summer storm followed by the maelstrom of our own unpleasant break-up. Somehow, with the help of “exit counseling” graciously suggested by his therapist, we were able to sort through our anger and blaming issues. Eventually we became friends again as we had been long ago, when we met as students in art school. Living apart was good for us. Though we were not interested in starting anew, we were able to rediscover a particular appreciation for one another. We felt proud; we felt like we had this divorce thing down.

By the time this year’s festival came around, I was in a serious relationship with a man who not only applauds my efforts to maintain this tradition with my ex but doesn’t even ask to tag along. David, in dating mode, was busy pursuing a young woman who was playing hard-to-get. He had been regaling me with the details and I had been helping him interpret her cryptic text messages. We left for this summer’s journey on a glorious blue-skied day. I couldn’t wait to get on the road, but when I got to David’s house he was not even close to ready. I took a deep breath and reminded myself that I had presumably rediscovered my appreciation for him.

For one, I acknowledge that David is far better at packing than I am. He’ll take a box that I’ve declared full and magically fit ten more items inside. Now he was taking forever to rearrange our gear to fit in and on top of his Toyota SUV. Over and over he packed and re-packed, using bungee cords to secure bags to the roof rack while I stood to the side breathing deeply. As an added annoyance, our diabetic cat had chosen to pee all over the box of bungees and some other camping items that were stored in the basement; the acrid stench of cat urine permeated the entire car. A neighbor walked out of his house and just shook his head at us. He had said good-bye about two hours earlier and couldn’t believe we hadn’t budged an inch closer to the Saw Mill Parkway. Finally, David was satisfied with the over-stuffed car. Before I had a chance to click the first car seat into place, he announced that he was going to take a bath before we headed out.

A bath. Not a shower, not a quick spritz-off. A full-blown, luxurious soak in the tub.

After fuming silently for a moment, I stomped up the stairs and declared that I was going home and that we should leave in the morning. “At this rate we’ll be upstate after nightfall,” I yelled through the door. “And who wants to set up a tent in the dark?” The girls started crying and I felt like a heel. Reluctantly, I agreed to leave that night -- but not before hissing, “Could you please get a move-on!?”

It was no use breathing deeply now. Just a short time in close proximity to my ex brought me right back to the same irritable dynamic we had always had with one another. By the time we buckled in to his SUV – or what I was now calling "this nausea-inducing Hummer imitation" – my temper was hovering near the danger zone.

Finally, long after dark, we pulled into the farm grounds. The pervasive smell of manure was calming and familiar. But in the midst of setting up our campsite, David got a call from Ms. Hard-To-Get on his cell phone. I was annoyed that David and his technology were already breaking the spell -- we hadn’t been breathing manure for five minutes yet. Now here he was, trying to hammer in stakes and yammer away at the same time, phone awkwardly jammed in the crook of his shoulder. “Why are you on the phone?” I barked at him. “It better be a family emergency. There is NO GOOD REASON to be on the phone right now!” You might assume that my irritation came from some residual jealousy or discomfort with my ex's verbal mating dance, but you would be wrong. I supported his efforts to find a girlfriend "less complicated" than I – just not in the middle of pounding tent stakes.

Finally, we rolled out our sleeping bags and squeezed ourselves into the mildewy tent, kids sandwiched between us. We fell soundly asleep, ignoring the unforgiving ground beneath us.

By morning, in the rising hazy sun, it became clear that we were among many campers with young children, and they all seemed to be crying in unison. Our nearest neighbors included a father who was, incredibly, singing “The Wheels on the Bus” over his wailing baby. It pushed both David and me over the edge of sanity. We had an “in-the-trenches” type of solidarity in that we both find crying babies intolerable. Forgetting our previous day’s irritability and conflicts, we were silently pleased to agree on something.

David and I quickly fell back into the darkly comic banter that had been our primary interaction when we were married – and that had always shocked our friends. I think it's safe to say that my ex has never ceased to simultaneously entertain and annoy me, and this summer’s camping trip reminded me how entertaining his subversive sense of humor can be. For example: My friend’s teenage daughter sits in our kitchen tent puzzling over our container of kosher salt.

“I don’t get it,” she muses. “What exactly makes it kosher?”

“If you look closely,” David explains, “You’ll see that each grain is circumcised.”

Later, he grills me about my boyfriend’s camping abilities.

“Well…he’s more of a purist,” I explain. “He would never do car camping like this; he prefers hiking to an isolated area and sleeping out on a rock under the stars.”

David, not liking the ruggedness of this image, says: “Oh, yeah, I get it; he walks out of the woods with a baggie of feces and a ‘Leave No Trace’ t-shirt on.”

This irks me, but I can’t help laughing. Later I trot off toward the contra-dance tent where I dance with an armless man.

“Dancing with an armless man,” I consider, while grasping this stranger’s torso. It sounds like a metaphor for an imperfect marriage.

Twirling in the dance tent to Zydeco music, I catch sight of my girls doing their own foot-stomping off to the side. I’m thrilled that this experience is still a part of our lives and that they are comforted by their parents’ camaraderie. I wonder if it’s beneficial for them to see, firsthand, why their parents are not exactly a great match for one another – yet also see that despite this fact they can remain friends and enjoy each other’s company occasionally.

Clearly, we have lost a partnership as defined by marriage; but we managed to salvage a friendship as we define it. Our alternative approach to divorce is evidence that we can create our own rulebook. If a side effect is the positive message it sends to our daughters, then that is really what this annual camping trip is all about: smelly tent and kosher salt included.

"Hey kids, it's time to read The Bible!"

Thu, 19 Nov 2009 09:30:00 GMT

"Mommy how old were you the first time you DID sex?" my precocious seven-year-old asked. I burst out laughing and before I could answer, my eldest stepped in and said, "Oh! I know - just do the math! I'm nine so...counting pregnancy - it was about ten years ago."

This made me laugh even harder. I managed to side-step the question but I did explain that not everyone has sex in order to make a baby. That answer prompted this question: "So, how long do you have to DO sex for? Like just a few minutes? How do you know when its done?"

Oh brother. I really backed myself into a corner here. Sex-ed and The Bible. I'll get to that in a moment. I tried to describe to them - without getting too graphic - that it's not a painful chore to "do sex" and that it needn't be over-with in a matter of minutes either. This mystified them. The questions came up because we were reading our "Isn't It Amazing" book which explains how babies are made and covers the mechanics of sex in the process. I want my girls to know what happens on a clinical level but discussing the emotional components to sex is definitely trickier. My friend said to me later, "Why didn't you say - it hurts a LOT - like getting stabbed with a knife - until you're 21." He thought I ought to be lying to them in order not to foster a premature curiosity.

But my whole agenda is 'knowledge is power' and sex-ed, along with menstruation, goes in that category. But where does The Bible come in?? you may wonder.

Recently, I took an idea from a respected home-schooler. Her feeling was that it was important to read The Bible in a secular and educational way. After all, there are countless stories and references in The Bible that have spilled forth into world culture for centuries. When you don't KNOW where these references originate it creates a gap in your education and certainly your literary knowledge. I prefaced our reading (an age-appropriate illustrated Old Testament hard cover) by saying - these stories are very, very old; but you'll see as we read them there are all sorts of references in today's stories, our language and even movies. No sooner had we zipped through Creation when we were upon the case of Cain and Abel. I didn't remember this part (as though I even cracked a bible open other than in a motel room night table) but after Cain slays Abel, God marked Cain with a scar or stain on his forehead. I looked at the girls who were wide-eyed at the violence of that tale. "Who ELSE has a permanent mark on his forehead that we know of?"

"Harry Potter," they gasped.

"That's right; so you see, J.K. Rowling did her homework and knew what stories she could allude to from The Bible itself."

The following day Bebe was reading about the Tower of Babel by herself - before we even got to our nightly ritual. "Oh, I get it," she said, "When people say, 'Stop babbling and speak English' it goes back to this story about Babel and everyone speaking in different languages!"

Hurray!

Doing nightly bible reading makes me feel a bit evangelical or Mormon-y. So to balance out the religious side of things I spice it up with the sex-ed for 7 - 10-year-olds book. That somehow makes the whole thing line up with MY particular belief system - as oddly subversive as it sounds.

How Do You Talk To YOUR Kids About SEX?

Thu, 22 Oct 2009 08:02:42 GMT

" />For months, I’ve been attending workshops at Babeland, the women-friendly, sex-positive shop in New York City. In addition to the very popular workshop “Art of the Blow-Job” the store has an on-going “Sexy Moms Series” which I recommend to all parents.

Wednesday night’s free workshop was about “Raising Sex-Positive Kids”. Personally, I could hardly wait for this one and with good reason. Though I spend a lot of time exploring sexual intimacy in adult relationships and I’ve put a great deal of effort into teaching my children about the mechanics of menstruation and birth, I still falter on the topic of sex in general. Part of me wants to keep my girls innocent and unaware of such realities and perhaps another part does not want them to experience that hideous moment when you realize your very own parents had to perform this task in order to create YOU.

But I have to brush those reservations aside, as that is my repressed upbringing instilling such prudishness. The cold fact is that if you do not speak to your children about sex they WILL learn about it in other ways outside of your control or approval.

Last week’s workshop was led by Amy Levine, a certified sexuality educator and sexologist (I love that title) who counsels adults on all matters of sexuality. For this workshop Amy, an articulate and adorably petite powerhouse, commanded the room, asking us to define what it is that we hoped to impart to OUR children about sex and to consider what we would have liked someone to have told US about sexuality.

This got the wheels turning and many adults confessed to having issues on both sides of the spectrum. Some came from households where sex was perhaps too openly encouraged and many came from families where the topic was verboten.

One of the points Amy made clear was that discussing sexual issues should be an on-going positive dialogue with our kids; not “the talk” kind of monologue. She pointed out that there are plenty of “teachable moments” in our lives that give opportunity for meaningful discussions. For example, what children see on TV, in movies or at school in addition to their questions about commitment, relationships, and body-image are all moments for exploration. All of those topics tie into the concept of “sexuality” in a broad and encompassing way. If you hear your child using the word “gay” as a derogatory adjective you can take that moment to discuss what the word means in our vernacular and how you feel about using demeaning terms. I remember the day my daughter asked, “Why does Zoe have TWO moms??” which caused me to launch into an explanation about gender roles and the notion of same-sex relationships being a part of our society.

This leads to another important point Amy made which is identifying your own values and beliefs then practicing the messages you want to share. This takes some time and thought to consider what you feel needs to be explained and what tone you will take. How will you actually address the definition of a “blow-job” when it’s posed to you by a curious sixth-grader who heard it at recess? What message do you want to deliver about homosexuality? Are you prepared to explain not only the mechanics of sex or masturbation but the notion that those activities evoke pleasurable feelings?

You can’t expect to have all the answers and it is perfectly acceptable to say to your child: “You know, I’m not sure how to answer that,” or “That topic is kind of uncomfortable for me; let me think about and we’ll talk later.” There are plenty of great age-appropriate books available to help guide you and your child through many of these topics. Certainly what a six-year-old should know is far different from a twelve-year-old. However, that a six-year-old should even know anything about sexuality was a bit of a revelation for me. I realized that keeping open communication, on ALL topics, is absolutely necessary for fostering a healthy relationship with my girls; and that communication has to include "sex".

When I tested the waters the following day, my older daughter took the invitation to discuss questions about sex with a solemn nod. My seven-year-old child, however, looked at me with a curled lip and simply said, “Ewww.” She found it somewhat distasteful to discuss the topic with her own mother; however cool and fun she may find me (by her own admission). “Though”, she reasoned, “My friends' parents don’t know anything about sex and relationships because they’re all MARRIED.” Eureka! A teaching opportunity right there in front of me. And in the cozy comfort of their loft bed I stepped into the realm of imparting sexuality wisdom and acceptance one small moment at a time.

http://www.sexedsolutions.com/index.html

Recommended reading:

http://www.sexedsolutions.com/youngpeople.shtml

The Sexy Mom Series is jointed sponsored by New Space for Women’s Health and Park Slope Parents.

Birth: The Surprising History of How We Are Born (an essay based on Tina Cassidy's book)

Wed, 16 Sep 2009 07:35:00 GMT

Ever wonder WHY it's so hard for human beings to give birth? I mean, why does it have to be so difficult and carry on for hour after painful hour? Why have we worked hard to devise methods of pain relief and surgical procedures to "deliver" women from this burden? Is it something to truly be "delivered" from, as the term originally indicated?

One thing that is helpful to know, is that as Homo sapiens, we have a difficult time birthing because our pelvises are so narrow. Any wider, like our chimpanzee cousins, and we'd be knuckle-scraping. Most mammals for that matter have a much easier time birthing simply because their pelvises can accommodate a baby more readily. But another side effect of our Homo sapien physique is a large cranium. Big head, big brain. So, as we got smarter and started to walk upright we had a conflict of larger head and smaller pelvis - thereby making birth difficult, yet certainly not impossible.

For centuries, birth was something women did either on their own, or with the help of womenfolk...sometimes a specific woman known as a midwife, which literally means "with woman". Midwives were revered, and/or feared, in societies all throughout Europe. They were often said to be witches and sorcerers and thousands were burned alive during witch hunts. When a baby was born in the middle ages, even up until the 18th century or so, its outcome, good or bad, was the responsibility of the midwife delivering the baby. So deformities, what we know as birth defects, and so on were the fault of the midwife, for which she would be blamed, or driven out of town, or sometimes executed. On the flip side, if she did something remarkable, like when midwife Louis Bourgeois delivered Marie de'Medici, the Queen of France, the first male heir to the throne in more than eighty years, she became a luminary in Parisian society.

But even then, in the 17th century, a celebrated midwife like Bourgeois was at odds with the physicians of the day. Birth was something you could count on, and delivering a baby without killing it or, more importantly, the mother, could be a lucrative business. Midwives often worked for bartered goods, or returned favors, or sometimes a small amount of money. A doctor, on the other hand, promising a safer setting and medical experience would charge usually triple the amount of a midwife in the late 19th century. Physicians had the ability to spread bad word concerning midwives. Tales of botched births and maternal deaths drove those who could afford it to chose a doctor over a midwife, who certainly had no medical training.

However, a skilled midwife's knowledge came to her from years of practice and from traditions handed down from generations of women. Doctors in the 19th century were teaching other doctors birthing techniques when they had never even witnessed a birth before. They were frequently taught on dummies, and birth was seen as mechanical and required aggressive intervention. Use of forceps and butchering women's perineums, among other things were common practice. So was the notion that lying flat on her back with legs strapped to stirrups was a good idea. But far worse than mere inexperience was that during this century physicians knew nothing of bacteria and contamination. It was entirely common for a doctor to examine a corpse then go straight to an internal exam of a laboring woman. As a result, women frequently died of septic bacterial poisoning, or "puerperal fever". Midwives in contrast, never did internal exams. There was no point...a baby is either IN or it's out. In the mid-19th century doctors considered it an insult to suggest that they wash their hands at all. There was one genius I must mention here, however: Ignaz Semmelweis of Vienna - who as far back as 1847 - discovered microscopic proof of the origins of the disease causing these deadly fevers. He wrote, "Puerperal fever is caused by conveyance to the pregnant woman of putrid particles derived from living organisms. Consequently must I make my confession that God only knows the number of women whom I have consigned prematurely to the grave." No one believed him. Semmelweis died in a state-run insane asylum.

Even into the 1920s not all physicians washed effectively or wore gloves, so childbed fever remained a killer, accounting for as much as 40% of maternal fatalities in American and European hospitals. So, it's not so long ago that birth was still considered a dangerous affair. Again, dangerous mostly because of a medicalized approach to labor. Midwives were still having good luck at home births, with rare fatalities overall. Yet, homebirthing was really for the very rural poor. In fact, by 1949 most states, including California, had outlawed midwifery completely. So for a few decades in the 20th century birth became a standard hospital procedure, where women were often knocked out by drugs in what's known as "twilight sleep", delivering unconsciously, then waking to a swaddled baby they had no memory of birthing.

It wasn't until the women's movement in the 1970s that birth came back into the hands of women. Home births and midwifery became popular again in certain circles - most notably in California. Ideas came from European doctors like Fernand Lamaze, that our notions of pain and birthing were in our heads, so to speak, and that through breathing techniques and support, women could manage their labor pains and be present and active.

At one point in the US there were hundreds of thousands of midwives and that number has dwindled to a mere 6,000. Less than 10% of American births today are delivered via midwifery, where in Europe almost the opposite is true. In Germany, it is a law that a midwife be present for all births, even those where a procedure like a Cesarean section is being performed. Yet, American women feel safer in a hospital setting with a physician presiding. "Oh, birth is dangerous," they say. "You never know what might happen." And just as in the 19th century, doctors meddling with things they didn't need to meddle with (i.e. internal exams) we have the same sort of intervention that goes on in a more sophisticated way.

As a result, more births in this country are done by Cesarean section than any other country in the world (except maybe Brazil, which runs a close race with us). The C-section rate is going from 30% to about 50% in many hospitals. Why is this bad? Why not eliminate the difficult part and cut straight to the chase, as it were?

* * * * *

Five hundred years ago, in a little Swiss town, a woman labored for days, to no avail. The thirteen midwives who had been called in to assist could not help. Her desperate husband, an illiterate pig-gelder (that's one who neuters pigs) approached the local authorities and asked permission to slice open her abdomen to retrieve the baby. After first saying no, they finally said yes. And so Jacob Nufer went about his dangerous business, delivering a large healthy son. Not only did both patients survive, but the child lived to be seventy-seven and the wife had several more children, including twins, all vaginal births.

The tale is believed to be the first written record of a mother and child surviving a cesarean. There is a common assumption that the cesarean section was named after Julius Caesar who, legend has it, was cut out of his mother's womb. However, that act at that time would have surely killed her. Caesar's mother, we know, survived his birth and died only after he invaded Gaul. The more likely explanation is that the surgery was named generically after the rulers of Rome…as the operation in Germany (during the First World War), for example, is called a Kaiserschnitt, after the ruling kaisers.

Today, cesarean sections are such a routine operation that nearly one out of every three babies in developed countries arrives in this manner. One of the highest C-section rates on earth is in Rio de Janeiro, where 90 percent of wealthy women would rather pay for the operation than put their vaginas at risk. Pregnant women who schedule surgery even if there's no medical reason for it are now known as "too posh to push." (This unfortunate term was popularized by none other than "Posh Spice" Victoria Beckham, for electing a C-section for no particular reason other than convenience). This notion, of scheduling an unnecessary C-section is becoming a popular trend. Once doctors had to invent a reason for performing this operation when there was not a medical imperative, but now it's starting to become almost as routine as scheduling a pedicure.

I was discussing the topic of C-sections with a med-school student. We considered the nagging issue about why it is controversial that so many births, especially in America, have gone in the surgical direction and why that is considered, only by some, to be negative trend. She, as a future doctor, wanted to understand if there was a concrete medical argument against C-section and for a good old-fashioned vaginal birth.

I have to answer this in two separate ways: Medically speaking, if a C-section is not warranted (as in the case of a life-threatening emergency), is this really a bad thing for mother and child?

There is not enough evidence to show that a baby, being born via a surgical incision straight to the uterus, is at any long-term disadvantage in a physiological sense. This reminds me of a film I saw once where a group of chicks were shown hatching from their eggs. In one group, a human stepped in and peeled away the shell for them. In another group the chick was left to its own devices…pecking, resting, struggling and pecking some more. The process is slow and laborious. But in the group where the shell was peeled away for the bird, 7 out of 10 chicks died. The conclusion is that there was a specific benefit for a hatching chick to go through the process in this manner: whether it was an issue of lung maturity or a final stage of muscle development or avoiding general physical defects, the fact is: "Yes, there is clearly an evolutionary benefit for this birthing process to unfold as it does."

Could it be, that human babies too, benefit in some way from the process of birth…from the compression to their malleable cranium, from the squeezing of their lungs which must be prepped in order to take their first breath of air, from any number of factors that are too difficult to measure, like perhaps a tendency for disorders such as asthma or allergies?

These are open-ended questions that we won't know answers to until the medical community decides to truly study the effects of C-section on our population. What is known, however, is that babies born via C-section are at risk of being nicked by the scalpel and sometimes do have a more difficult time with initial breast-feeding attempts. Mothers too are more likely to develop postpartum depression and serious placental abnormalities which can impact future pregnancies. Just the risk alone of enduring major abdominal surgery puts the woman in a compromised position for the same reasons that ALL surgery is risky. Recovering from a C-section is far more rigorous than recovering from a vaginal birth, where women tend to feel better after just a few days, or sometimes the following day. Full C-section recovery, in contrast, takes about six weeks, frequently with some complications involving infection and difficulty healing.

On the other side of the argument is what a normal vaginal birth gives the mother. There are many women who feel that their ability to birth is in some way indicative of their success and power as a woman, in her most primal sense. (Much the way some men feel their ability to impregnate a women is a symbol of their prowess and strength.) When women are denied this opportunity they often feel they have failed. Many women I have spoken to who have ended up with a C-section have a sense of disappointment or sorrow about the event. While women who have felt in control of their birth (with little or no medical intervention) are conversely empowered by the experience. What is significant about being empowered by birth is that this often sets the tone for how confident one will feel as a new parent – arguably, the most trying time of self-doubt and confusion.

This is what natural childbirth hinges on: The sense of profound accomplishment in a very arduous endeavor. Birth, in a natural way, can often be ecstatic in the true sense of the word, "out of one's body", and that probably is how most women might describe their birth experience. And that experience is one that can change your life forever.

That seems to be what many doctors forget as they typically attempt to "deliver" the woman from her suffering. Physicians are trained to respond to pain as a state which must be treated; pain is a natural response to crisis, to physical abnormality. In this way, the medical community does not value the pain that is inherent to labor. Once a doctor said to me, at a dinner party, "I don't get it…if you broke your leg you'd want morphine to get you through….why on earth would you want to endure pain during labor, when we have drugs to take that away?"

The issue is one of understanding that birth is not a medical emergency. It is a physical process; it is something that women "do", not something that has happened to them, like a puncture wound or fractured bone. For over a century doctors have tried to come to the aid of, and "rescue", women from her terrible station in life to "suffer through labor" (see the bible for that one).

In the early 20th century "twilight sleep" which actually made a woman forget her labor, became incredibly popular. By administering a drug called Scopolamine, which was basically an amnesiac with morphine, a woman in labor could be made to fall into a semiconscious state and emerge hours later with a baby in her arms – remembering nothing in between. However, once under the spell of Twilight Sleep, the doctor would bandage her eyes with gauze and stuff oil-soaked wads of cotton in her ears so her own screaming would not wake her up. Later on, it was acknowledged that giving a woman any drug, whether a gas or a narcotic would render her baby equally anesthetized. These newborns did not always breathe immediately, and there was a great risk of postpartum hemorrhaging.

With the advent of "spinal" anesthesia and later "epidural" anesthesia (the difference between the two is just how much of the body they numb) women seemed to have the perfect answer to removing the pain of labor, remaining completely awake, and not affecting the condition of their baby in any way. Today more than 90 percent of American women call for the needle in the back when pain becomes too intense. The woman remains completely conscious – though often she feels relaxed enough to nap during labor.

God's gift to women? Perhaps. But once again, there are drawbacks. Women hooked up to epidurals are more likely to need artificial hormones (such as Pitocin) to keep contractions strong. They are also more likely to have their blood pressure drop; develop a fever and have greater risk of needing episiotomy or vacuum extraction to get the baby out. If you can't feel your extremities, it makes pushing difficult. No one wants to admit that epidurals lead to more cesarean sections, but the fact is, they do…. mostly due to many other complications which cannot be directly connected to the epidural alone. For example, if you are numb from the waist down, you cannot move around and are generally lying on your back. This position does not assist the baby in moving through the birth canal. When the baby stalls, things get complicated and C-sections are often called for.

Nevertheless, epidurals have a virtual lock on hospital pain relief in the US, anyway. Somehow, women all over the rest of the globe manage to give birth without them. In Japan, the epidural rate is about 1 percent. In the Netherlands, doctors do not offer epidurals because such pain relief is not part of the natural process.

In North America, pain relief is so socially acceptable that it is virtually expected. Even if a woman has refused an epidural in a typical hospital setting, nurses will continue to push for her to get one so that basically she can rest comfortably, watch television, talk on the phone and generally not be pacing, moaning or otherwise being a high-maintenance patient.

"Why do they push epidurals?" asks Kate Bauer, of the National Association of Childbirth Centers. "It makes the patient easier to manage. At the root of everything, there's money to be made. I'm sure many think they're doing a great service to women by offering the epidural and relieving them of pain, but it also helps them to cut back on the nursing. You've gone from the human touch to this: Give them the epidural and watch the monitor."

Almost no one is complaining….but I come back to my earlier point: Taking the experience away from the woman has its distinct drawbacks, though many women are more than happy to be 'delivered' from the rigor of birthing. In the end it becomes a very personal decision and more about a psychological comfort level - whether that's fully-loaded medical intervention, or the comfort of home and your bathtub.

ReCapping My LunaPad Talk at Babeland; (eco-friendly lube to plugs)

Thu, 13 Aug 2009 08:05:00 GMT

I arrived early for Babeland’s "Eco-Sexy Earth Day Workshop" which focused on natural lubricants and dildos made from natural materials. Let's face it, if you're going to go GREEN you may as well go whole-hog, and Babeland does not skimp on eco-friendly alternatives. Even traditionally leather harnesses and restraints were offered in vegan-friendly nylon (though it was pointed out that "floggers" do not work well when not made from good old-fashioned leather).

Dallas, our dildo-demonstrator, showed how the hand-blown glass dildo was nearly impossible to break and how it could be heated or chilled to suit your fancy. She spoke about wooden and stainless steel dildos as well, and how more vibrators are on the market that you can re-charge; just like your cell phone! Babeland makes playing with toys easier on you and the environment.

After her informative sex-toy talk I was set to speak about alternatives to menstrual accessories; not as racy but extremely relevant. The store was crowded with mostly women including a wonderful group of young feminists from SUNY New Paltz who were all adorably eager and enthusiastic about this evening’s workshop. They had money left over in their group budget for a field trip so this is exactly where they chose to be: Babeland, Sex Toys For A Passionate World.

I began by letting my audience know some of the stats on our menstrual contribution to the environment. About 14 billion pads, tampons and applicators are flushed into our sewers or thrown into landfills annually – just in North America. With every woman getting her period about 400 times in her life that’s about 15,000 pads or tampons per lifetime. And we MOMS worry about DIAPERS in our landfills! We’re creating a mess ourselves.

In addition to the impact this has on our environment consider that tampons and pads are basically made from trees! Wood pulp goes into pads (just as toilet paper is not cotton but wood-product) and tampons are made from a little bit of cotton but mostly rayon which is again, wood-pulp. Then these items get bleached with chlorine so they are white and pristine looking. When we put tampons in our very sensitive vaginas some of the toxins may be absorbed – and who needs that? Lastly, there is something that women don’t think about much with tampons, but because they are designed to “absorb” they also absorb too much of our own natural humidity. When this occurs it upsets our delicate internal balance, which can lead to yeast infections.

Looking into the group of very young faces I decided to illustrate my point further.
“Have any of you ever heard of a tampon called ‘Rely’?” I asked. They solemnly shook their heads, though one older woman gave out a low whistle of recognition. “Rely tampons,” I explained, “were aggressively marketed to women in the late 70s as the answer to all your menstrual problems. They were made with revolutionary polyester beads that allowed the tampon to hold more than 20 times its own weight. The ads boasted, ‘they even absorb the worry’.”

Well, what scientists didn’t count on was that Rely tampons’ super-absorbency upset the natural viscosity inside a woman’s vagina. Because the tampon dried you out removing it would create tiny abrasions on the vaginal walls. All this conspired to make a perfect environment for bacteria to breed and then enter the bloodstream sending women into toxic shock. Toxic Shock Syndrome (TSS) caused many deaths, comas, severe sickness and occasionally resulting in digit-amputation for scores of women who tried this new “wonder-tampon”.

The tragedy cost Proctor & Gamble over 75 million dollars in lawsuits.

“I say this to you now, because although Rely tampons have long been off the market, Toxic Shock Syndrome is still a threat to women who regularly use tampons,” I went on. “This is why there are recommendations to NOT sleep with tampons inside of you and why there are guidelines about using the correct absorbency level.”

The crowd was dead silent and captivated. My props were laid out before me and it was the perfect segue into showing a wonderfully all-natural – un-tainted by chemicals alternative to tampons and pads.

I showed the panty-liner, pads, and other accessories that LunaPads has created and perfected over the years. They are soft and colorful and best of all – let your body breath while wearing them. LunaPads even makes their own panties and thongs with a built-in mini pad for light-days or for back-up with a DivaCup. The DivaCup, I went on to explain, can be worn for up to 12 hours and holds up to 2 ozs. of menstrual fluid. Imagine not having to worry about changing your cup for hours on end; and never having to worry that what you’re putting in your body can harm you. DivaCups are made from medical-grade, hypo-allergenic silicone.

“And may I point out how much money this saves you?” I said with a flourish. It’s true when you think that washing your pads and using a cup will save you hundreds of dollars a year and has a very low-impact on our environment; what’s holding you back?

For many women, it’s a psychological leap to get over thinking that their menstrual blood is somehow unsanitary or disgusting. There is an urge to throw it away as quickly as possible; or to not see it in a cup. I encouraged the women present to feel the flannelly softness of the pads and imagine that against your skin instead of a plasticy panty-liner. They were all extremely UNskeptical which finally made me inquire, “How many of you have ever used a DivaCup or a reusable pad?”

And I kid you not, ALL the young women from SUNY raised their hands, in addition to more than half of the other women present.

I burst out laughing and said, “Well, I guess I’m preaching to the converted; everybody enjoy your gift bag samples and feel free to ask me questions!”

Death and Dying On Time: Personal Account of My Dad's Death

Sun, 02 Aug 2009 07:45:00 GMT

One summer day, when I was about twelve, I woke up and realized that nothing felt right. The day went on and the feeling of unnamed dread persisted, but I had nothing to pin it on. That night, my beloved cat was hit by a car and killed.

I thought about that day yesterday as I lay in bed staring at my gauzy mosquito netting. What does the day look like when you know your dad is going to die? It looked sunny and clear with no indication of anything out of the ordinary. Why was I so certain it was today?

Just like that summer day when I was an almost-teen, the predetermined knowledge seemed to be set in stone. I called my brother to confirm my hunch and he reported that dad had had a very bad night. I suggested visiting and he agreed, adding, “Check in every hour or so first.”

I had one major errand to do first and once that was completed I could head over to my family’s house and visit with my dad. I imagined that while there he’d die peacefully, perhaps while holding my hand, just like you see in the movies. But I quickly put the discomforting thought out of my head and drove into Manhattan to meet “Allan the ticket guy”. I was about to purchase two tickets to All Points West via a stranger from Craig’s list. Any doubts about his credibility were dashed as I deemed him honest and authentic through our emails and phone calls.

We were to meet in Union Square at noon; then I would drive over to the next task of the day. To Do List: 1. Pick up All Points tickets 2. Visit dying father 3. Get girls to swim practice. It all seemed rather perfunctory and unemotional – but that was how I could best process the impending event.

However, a major kink in the plan came in the form of Allan-the-ticket-guy carelessly leaving his cell phone at home. Arriving in Union Square and scanning the mob of folks reveling in the perfect summer day, he knew there was no chance of finding me. Meanwhile, waiting patiently for Allan’s call, I had parked my car then wandered around the neighborhood awash with memories of my dad.

When Bebe was small I worked just off of Union Square at a perfect little slacker software company. They let me bring my baby to work, and when she got older I recruited my dad in the form of free childcare. For my retired father this was a great way to hang out in New York and to spend time with his daughter and granddaughter. My dad was never much of a New Yorker – affecting more of a “tourists” viewpoint and agenda. But now he was a fixture in the local playgrounds, chatting with the Barbadian nannies. He was a regular in the children’s department of Barnes & Noble and he knew all the local bathrooms equipped with changing tables. Sometimes while Bebe dozed in her stroller my dad would just people-watch in the park; which amounted to girl-watching mostly.

I’d join him for lunch and he’d say things like, “Look-it all these broads! Don’t they ever wear bras??” He’d actually mimic the noise of what bouncing breasts might sound like, “Buh-loomp-a-loomp”. I’d roll my eyes in annoyance, just like I did in the Vatican [see Sicily blog].

Once he noticed the Virgin MegaStore on the south end of Union Square and cried out, “The VAGINA MEGA STORE? What kind of a name is THAT?”

“Dad, it’s VIRGIN, not vagina,” I explained peevishly. He’d also marvel at the giant billboards and their ambiguous photographs. “Is that a naked boy up there? Or a flat-chested lady?”

Despite these sexist and occasionally questionable remarks it was great to give my dad something productive to do and to give my daughter additional time with her grandpa. Each day, worn out from a day out on the town, the two would stroll into my office. My colleagues tolerated them both despite complaining once, “Do you think you can keep your dad from wandering into our meetings?” My dad could not imagine that guys in shorts and flip-flops could possibly be doing any legitimate work.

Back in the present, Allan took the train back home, grabbed his phone and explained his tardiness, apologizing for the blunder. “Just stay there,” he said, “I’ll be right back in fifteen minutes.”

How could I explain that my dad’s life hung in the balance and I sort of had more pressing demands ahead of me? But I said nothing and agreed to wait for him.

I paused at the door of my dad’s favorite diner and recalled all the breakfasts he enjoyed there as part of his babysitting routine. All in all, that was a really great time for my father and for us in adapting to my role as a mother. I was no longer that smart-allecky teenager traipsing through Italy on her dad’s dime. I was an adult with a small child and my own responsibilities and achievements.

Eventually Allan showed up and we exchanged cash for tickets. We chatted for just a few minutes but the nagging feeling that I needed to get somewhere quickly pulled me to my car and up Third Ave.

At this point I phoned my brother. “I’m running behind schedule,” I explained. “My noon appointment was an hour late.”

“Well…he might not make it till you get here,” my brother said.

The shock of those words hit me like a brick. “Please don’t say that,” I cried. “I’m driving there as fast as I can!” I hung up and panicked at each stoplight, at every slow truck and lazily strolling pedestrian. I called my friends saying, “Oh my God! I ran an errand before going to see my dad die and now I’m going to MISS IT!??? Can this be happening!?? Why did I do it in that order!???”

Everyone calmed me down and said, “Come on; your brother can’t predict the time of his death…just hang in there and for god sakes slow down.”

At some point on the highway I felt a sense of calm. I had a thought that seemed to come out of nowhere which basically said, “It’s okay that you’re not there…best to remember him the way you did; vibrant and ridiculous in New York City. Maybe it’s harder for him to depart if you’re hovering close and tethering him to this material world.”

Okay.

I heard the message loud and clear, then watched the red speedometer needle drop slowly down to safer territory.

Fifteen minutes later I burst through the door of my family’s house. A hospital aide sat in the living room with her hands folded. My brother emerged from his anti-chamber (the den). “Well??” I said, a little too loudly, “Anything new??”

“He died, Jayne,” my brother half-laughed. “He died about five minutes after you called.”

The shock of that statement was a punch to the gut. I ran up the stairs half-expecting my brother to have been joking. I wish I hadn’t seen my dad, withered and white; mouth open wide like a broken hinge.

I stomped outside and sat in my hot car. I called my boyfriend and left an anguished message….”How the fuck?? Why did I go to New York first?? Why was Allan so goddamn late?? If he wasn’t late; if he had BEEN there at NOON I would have been here on time!”

On time for what, I wondered. I walked back in the house and my brother seeing my distress said, “He was asleep from the morphine; besides, you said good-bye the other day when he was way more coherent.”

And that was true. Just two days before this, I brought my girls over and we all took turns saying good-bye and holding his papery-skinned hands. For some reason I asked Bebe to sing “Moonriver” with me; and thankfully she put up no resistance. We sang together, quietly but clearly, the song I have sung to my girls for years; the song that always puts them right to sleep.

I should feel grateful that this particular good-bye was a genuine and poignant one. That I wasn’t there for the “moment of passing” is really immaterial. It was pointed out to me that many, many people have experienced the bedside vigil only to step out for a much-needed shower or cup of coffee and have missed the actual death by moments.

As I spoke in turn to my friends that day, I was made aware of how many of us have lost our fathers - and lost them FIRST, as women nearly always outlast the men folk.

So my farewell was not played out in the script of my mind as I might have written it. But, birth like death, is beyond our control and we have a difficult time comprehending its will. In the end I came to peace with the frazzled day and had to believe that somehow this ending came just as it was meant to be.

Divorce and Modern Love

Sat, 18 Jul 2009 06:50:00 GMT

Last Wednesday I got divorced and did not get published in The New York Times. Not that the two had anything to do with one another, but there is a connection if I may explain:

That morning, I was at the county court house trying to parallel park at a meter. As luck would have it David, my near-ex, was parking just a few cars away from me, and I bummed a few quarters from him.

“Put it in the settlement,” he joked without a smile.

We arrived at the court house in order to put the final seal on our divorce. Since we decided to do it ourselves (or more precisely I did it all myself) we paid a minimal fee, had no attorneys involved and had no need for so much as a mediator. Over the years people gave me all different advice about our approach – but most felt it couldn’t be done.

“You can’t get a divorce without a lawyer! Not when you have kids and a house!”

It kind of reminded me of all those who said, “You can’t give birth at home! Not without a doctor or drugs!”

Yet, here we were – getting a divorce without so much as even dialing a divorce attorney’s number. I confess, I dragged my heels about the whole thing, taking months to complete the task. It wasn’t due to emotional reasons but because I couldn’t bear to fill out all the forms or sift through the pages of legal documents. Some pages had to be notarized, there were zillions of copies to be made – it was all confusing and boring. Eventually a court date was set and our case was to be heard before a judge. David joined me, though he wasn’t required to, in case I had forgotten his signature on some key document.

We waited together on a bench, chatting about our lives in a general sense. I was fighting a lingering cold, so I was anxious to get this all over with. Finally we were permitted to enter the court room and we both decided to sit on the first bench, which was ominously marked “PRISONERS”.

And so we sat and continued our conversation. Each time I coughed David instinctively pounded my back – which gave me a surprising pang of sentimentality. I remembered that when we first dated I liked that he automatically patted my back if I was coughing. It actually helped alleviate the spasm and made me think he was a caring and sweet guy.

Not that he wasn’t a caring and sweet guy – just that I interpreted that action prematurely, perhaps. In any case, we patiently waited our turn before the judge. I warned David a few times to spit out his gum – a courtroom no-no – but he didn’t listen. When we were called to the table the first thing the bailiff did was make him spit the gum into a tissue. I saw the judge snicker when I scolded, “Didn’t you learn ANYTHING from Judge Judy??”

She quickly went over our paperwork and had us agree aloud to some of the divorce and custody terms. It was fairly simple and we exchanged glances and chuckled a few times. In the end she said, “Well, I can see that you two get along well, and believe me, I don’t find that too often here, as you can imagine. You’ve agreed upon a very even split and it’s clear you’re placing your children as a priority. They’re very fortunate.”

We smiled and nodded in agreement.

She added, “Okay then…any questions?”

David raised his finger up in the air.

“Uh…are we divorced yet?”

She laughed and told him to be patient, the papers just needed processing.

We left the prisoner pew then sat together again on the hallway bench; eventually our documents were completed.

Then David did something unexpected. First he joked, “Is this the part where we kiss?” as though it was a wedding ritual in reverse. He gave me a hug and said, with a note of sadness in his voice, “Well, thanks a lot…it was nice being married to you. Please invite me to your next wedding, okay?”

I felt something rise in me -- a wave of sentiment and melancholy. But I refused to give it any strength…I pushed it away telling myself that it was ridiculous to get maudlin over a mere piece of paper. Yet, aren’t we similarly moved by the act of marriage? The couple’s connection is no different before the words “I do” escape them, yet the moment the deal is sealed, we have a surge of emotion. Perhaps I should have allowed myself a moment of silence...of bereavement or grief. I ignored my feelings reasoning instead that things were long past that stage; this was a mere legal technicality.

I didn’t have time to theorize; I was anxious to get home and nap before going about my day.

Once in bed, surrounded by my books, papers, and laptop I turned off my phone and closed my eyes. I had not stopped thinking about my essay submission to the Times and was expecting an answer this very week (based on the timeframe dictated in their return email message). The story I submitted was about my unusual relationship with my ex; specifically our yearly ritual where we go camping each summer at a folk festival. In fact, the story debuted here (in these very pages) and was met with unanimously positive feedback: “This story should definitely be published somewhere,” my readers gushed.

The original version I wrote was perhaps too heavy on the humor and light on the insight. So I worked and re-worked it in order to give the piece a stronger purpose and more specific intent. My good friend, who is an editor herself, gave me technical advice and professorly suggestions. In re-writing I came up with a line that rang so "emotionally honest" it seemed to sing right off the page and into the impressed ears of Times' editors: “Perhaps our annual tradition is about the simple fact that while I accept the death of the marriage, I’m not comfortable allowing our friendship to die.”

This essay submitted to the “Modern Love” column was, in my estimation, perfectly suited to their parameters: “Ideally, essays should spring from some central dilemma the writer has faced in his or her life. It helps if the situation has a contemporary edge, though this is not essential. Most important is that the writing be emotionally honest and the story be freshly and compellingly told."

What could be more “contemporary” than going camping each summer with my ex-husband?

My story, heartfelt and amusing, seemed like an absolutely perfect fit. I only saw, in my mind’s positive projection, a return email starting with the words “Congratulations”. I imagined telling friends the good news; I pictured David’s family reading my words over bagels on Sunday and thinking, “Hmm, she has quite a flair for snappy dialogue.”

That day, with my divorce finally sealed, I thought, “Wouldn’t it be incredible serendipity to have my story accepted today?”

So when I awoke, an hour later, bleary-eyed and still congested, I blinked dumbly at my inbox. There was an email from Daniel Jones, Modern Love’s chief editor. I thought that negative submissions were ignored and only positives were responded to – so with a pounding heart I clicked open the email and read the first line, “I’m afraid we’ve chosen not to include your essay…”

I was stunned. I knew that submitting to Times was shooting rather high and that thousands of writers, both amateur and professional, submit essays to the Modern Love column; but I was so sure - so thoroughly confident – that my words would be selected.

The day went on and I could not shake off the funk. Friends thought I was having a reaction to the divorce proceedings but I was simply profoundly disappointed. Perhaps the combination of the day’s “losses” made me think of my father’s recent death. Though I had expressed no outward display of grief I felt a hole in my core that day.

Similarly, on this day of unexpected bereavement, I felt that hole ripping through me again. Now the void contained pieces of parental mortality, marital demise, and a published dream dashed. I knew I’d rebound and attempt other avenues, but as my editor friend observed, “You deserve to feel crappy about this for a little while.”

And so I did and probably will continue to do so until my words find their way into print elsewhere.