#WhyIStayed, How the Vanity Fair #LiftTOUR is Helping, And How You Can Too

I had this one really bad date, once. Back before M and I got involved.

I'd been out with him once before, and we got into a petty argument about nothing after dinner... which he'd paid for.

I was, as I now understand, a pretty sheltered girl. I'd grown up in a liberal, progressive environment. While I knew sexism and misogyny existed, I'd never really been the subject of either.

He said something about me shutting up, because he'd paid for dinner. And I said something back. Something probably loaded with snark and that may or may not have implied that there was no way in Hell I was having sex with him that night, if ever. Even if I had invited him over to my place for a cup of tea.

And then he grabbed my hair and yanked me halfway across the room.

Like I said, I was sort of a sheltered girl. I was in shock. I was in total disbelief. Who did he think he was? A lifetime of wrestling with my sisters (who fought DIRTY) kicked in on instinct. I elbowed him in the stomach, punched him in the face, turned and kneed him in the crotch, kicked him in the knees and took off running. I locked myself in the bathroom and didn't leave until I was sure he was out of the apartment.

It wasn't until later that night that a song I'd learned back in middle school started running through my head ad nauseum. It was a self defense mantra somebody had put to music- in a cheery rhythm, the vocalist croons, "Eyes, knees, groin, throat!" to remind you where to hit your attacker to cause the most pain in the shortest period of time, so you can get away. Yes, it was a real song.

I was, in retrospect, ridiculously lucky. It was a second date. I wasn't involved with him. I could walk away.

Most women who discover they're dating abusers aren't so lucky.

Reading the #WhyIStayed feed on Twitter has been harrowing, but in many ways more uplifting than I could have imagined.

Here are women, spurred into a kind of action by the Ray Rice video, coming forward and talking honestly about domestic violence.

There are a few things you need to take away from #WhyIStayed.

The first is that women in abusive relationships aren't just victims of physical violence. They're victims of emotional manipulation as well. Most abusers threaten self harm, either explicitly or otherwise. Their victims feel guilty for not helping them.

The second is that leaving is often the most dangerous thing a woman in that situation can do. A woman is most likely to be murdered by a boyfriend or husband, and then most likely to be murdered if she's in the process of leaving.

We've normalized it. "If I can't have you, no one will!" We've practically romanticized it. And it's terrifying.

Many women, when they fight through the guilt and fear, face other challenges to leaving. They don't have control of their finances, which means they will run away from shelter and food into homelessness. Many have children, who they risk losing to the custody of their abuser.

These are real concerns.

When Janay Palmer says she doesn't want to press charges against her husband, this isn't just Stockholm Syndrome. This is self preservation.

She now has an abusive husband at home, without a job. Things are no doubt about to be much more dangerous for her. And while she may stay with a man who hits her, who abuses her in inexcusable and unforgivable ways, we cannot judge her. This is a man who has the money to post bail if she did press charges, who could kill her or take her kids. Those are real concerns she must negotiate as she decides how to extricate herself from a situation that she knows better than anyone else.

Leaving is hard, and yet, it is achievable. But only with help. With tremendous, collective help. It takes the help not just of a good friend and supportive neighbors, it takes a massive community to help women get on their feet and start a new life.

This week, I was fortunate to get an opportunity to attend a Vanity Fair event, to benefit Dress for Success. I was planning on going anyway- I was going to write all about breasts and taking care of them- after all my sex positive posts, it was a no-brainer for me to talk about body positivity and bra fittings. The fact that Vanity Fair was donating bras to Dress for Success was icing on the cake.

But then the Ray Rice video broke. I didn't watch it. I'm not going to watch it. And although it was on my mind, I didn't dwell on that one horrible turn a long-ago second date took. Instead, I started thinking about the day, six years ago, I spent volunteering at a Dress for Success showroom. I helped sort clothes. Anything too old, anything stained, anything that didn't look brand new and fashionable and professional went on to be donated elsewhere. The showroom gleamed. And everything inside was free.

I talked to one of the women helping us volunteers keep things organized. She told me she'd been in an abusive marriage for eight years, and it was seeing her children get hurt that made her leave. She told me about the homeless women who come in, the women fresh out of jail and living in shelters, who are treated with respect and dignity, as customers and not as charity cases.

That woman's voice was in my ear all week.

Dress for Success is part of the massive network out there to help women get out of abusive relationships. It's a non-profit that provides women with professional clothing to wear, not just on a job interview, but to work. To get them on their feet. More than clothes, Dress for Success provides career development tools as well.

And Vanity Fair is partnering with Dress for Success to donate brand new bras.

As often as people donate new and gently used clothing to organizations like Dress for Success, underwear is rarely part of the gift. And a properly fitting bra can do wonders not just to make you feel comfortable and supported, but to help you feel in control of your body, and your life.

I say this as somebody who has a nearly impossible time finding bras that fit. (Seriously, YOU try finding yourself a comfortable 34 or 36 J. Yeah, I said J. On top of being freakishly huge, they also grow out of my neck. That is not a joke. My chiropractor should be paying for my bra purchases, these boobs probably pay her mortgage.) Truly, a good bra is like magical armor.

The Vanity Fair LiftTOUR is going across the country through the end of October, fitting women for bras (for free), and giving them the opportunity to donate a brand new bra to a woman in need. When you donate a bra, you have a chance to write a note of encouragement, tie it to the bra with a ribbon, and be certain that whatever woman becomes its owner feels empowered and encouraged.

I'm honored to have had the chance to help Vanity Fair and Dress for Success reach out to women in need.

Join up with Vanity Fair and Dress for Success when the LiftTOUR comes near you. Help women in need become empowered and independent.

There's more you can do that reading an endless stream of #WhyIStayed tweets, feeling overwhelmed and helpless. You can partner with organizations working with women to put an end to their domestic violence.

Those two things I wanted you to take away from the stories of survivors- remember them. Remember that victims must choose the time to leave carefully, and that when the time comes they need mountains of help. They need villages upon villages.

You can be part of that.

Thank you.

Take Me Out To The Ball Game

A windy day for a ball game

You may have noticed that the blog has been relatively quiet this summer.

There's been a lot going on for the SuperMommy family. A week and a half in Minnesota, a few trips to Michigan, me- traveling solo not once but twice in the course of a single season.

But so far, one of my favorite of our many chaotic excursions has been our trip to Target Field in the twin cities.

M is from north of the twin cities, and he's a big fan of the Twins. Which normally I don't make fun of him for, being a Pirates fan, but the last couple years have been nice. The kids love going to baseball games, but this was the first time we've been to one where the kids really paid attention.

DD sat next to me the whole game, double and triple checking which team were the good guys (that would be the Twins, in white), and which team were the bad guys (that would be the White Sox, in grey. You can see how confusing this is for a four year old.).

It was a really exciting game. The Twins held onto a lead for the first couple innings, then the Sox tied it. And then it was just time to bite our fingernails and root root root for the home team until they had a killer inning and tripled the score.

So I did what any self respecting baseball fan would do when they have their four year old daughter trapped in the glow of a tight ball game. I taught her to heckle.

"Swing, batter batter batter!" she shouted. The little old ladies two rows up from us turned around, grinning.

"Hey, batter batter batter! SWING! Batter batter batter!"

Aunt Engineer joined in the fun. "Hey DD- say, 'We want a pitcher, not a belly itcher!'"
"We want a... what is it again?"

And two innings later, "WE WANT A PITCHER! NOT A BELLY ITCHER!"

RH got in on the heckling, too. "Hey, badoo badoo badoo! SING BADOO BADOO BADOO!"

RH in sparkly shoes and Batman pants, ready to rock the ball game

But maybe my favorite bit of heckling the kids enjoyed was when DD and SI screamed together at Paul Konerko- "Hey Paulie! Go back to Bronzeville!"

Sad though I am to say, the Twins have taken the spot of "favorite team" in the girls hearts, stolen right away from my beloved Pittsburgh Pirates.

I harbor no ill will. Sharing in the jubilation and misery of their father's team is something I never experienced. Poppa kindly shielded me from becoming a Mets fan, and I will forever be grateful. Instead, I formed a lifelong abusive relationship with the team from my first home town, where my father took me once in a while to attempt to reconcile that the Pirates were actually the good guys, when they were... well... pirates. Even after we moved to New Jersey and the Mets were so much closer, even when we moved to Detroit during Cecil Fielder's prime... my love lay with the Pirates.

And that's kind of what baseball is about. Blind faith. Unfathomable and illogical loyalty to a team who plays whether or not you're watching, who trades you favorite players and falls apart at the end of August.

It's about falling in love with being in the ball park, and reveling in the insanity caused by a stomach full of ice cream and pretzels, and the smell of spilled warm beer.

I remember vividly when I was about their age, my father's best friend taught me to heckle the players. Somebody on the away team had been caught corking their bat earlier in the season, and under Alan's careful tutelage I leaned over the rail at the old Tiger's Stadium and screamed, "PUT A CORK IN IT!!!"

I had no idea what I was saying. And yes, I recognize that in general, being the loud, screaming, oblivious fan in the stands is not something you want to do. But there is something magical about the belief that if you scream loud enough, and clap hard enough, and heckle thoroughly, you can actually help your team win. You can be part of the victory, or the defeat.

It's addictive. And glorious.

We're taking the kids to another White Sox game this month. I know, we live on Chicago's south side, and they should be our team... but M is a Twins fan, and being a Pirate's fan makes me entirely sympathetic to the Cubs, so if we must pick a Chicago team, it's going to be Wrigleyville any day of the week. But there's never a bad reason to go to a baseball game, and teaching the kids to heckle with delight is as good a reason as any.

Slowly but surely, they're learning the rule. Maybe next year I'll teach them to scream obscenities at the ump.

Okay, maybe I'll save that for when they're in high school. Or college.

M and the twins watching the Twins win

For now, I'm happy to keep taking them out to the ball game, buying them peanuts and Cracker Jacks, and root root rooting for the home team.

So long as it's not the White Sox.

Holding On

This month, Chicago has been experiencing a traffic problem.

Let's be honest. Chicago is always experiencing epic traffic problems.

But this one is pretty significant. They're rebuilding a number of the on and off ramps of the freeway that runs straight through downtown.

This isn't the best idea in the world. Honestly, having a giant freeway run through the middle of your downtown isn't the best idea to begin with. (Says the Urban Planner who's never used her degree.) But I was relieved, and secretly hoped the ramp from 55 South to 90/94 West was one of them. Even though it is the ramp I rely on the most to get almost anywhere. I use that ramp to get to Costco, to get to my friends' homes up north. To get to the kids' swim school.

I use it constantly, and to have it under construction would be an enormous pain in my ass.

But I want it changed.

Almost exactly a year ago, I found a woman there. She had appeared, face down and unconscious on the road, and I stayed with her until I could get her into an ambulance. She was old, and she didn't speak English, or Spanish, or any other language me and a young doctor who also stopped knew to ask.

And I think of her every time I pull onto that ramp.

Every time I go to Costco, or swim lessons, or pick somebody up from the train station. Every time I go to the chiropractor. Every time I take the kids to a friend's house. Every time we go to the deli for dinner. Every time I take RH to her neurologist. Every time I go to the movies.

Almost everywhere I go, I have to take that ramp. And every time I do it, I think of that woman.

I cannot think of her without worrying.

What happened to her? What brought her there? Does she have family, who are keeping an eye on her? Has she since wandered off again? Is she still alive?

I just don't know. And I have no way of ever knowing.

That freeway ramp and that woman haunt me.

I picture her teeth- so strong and white- with grit from the road stuck in them. And I picture her eyes, pupils contracted to pinpricks, darting around in the blaring sun. I picture her stiff white hair. The odd texture on the heavy sweater she wore, despite the blazing heat.

She is part of me now, in some ways, I suppose.

I know nothing about her, except that one day in the heat of last summer, she appeared on the freeway and she went to the hospital, giving me a thumbs up. Even though I knew she was frightened and alone.

Did her family find her?

Where did she come from?

I wish I knew who she was. I wish I could bring her a bouquet of flowers and squeeze her hands and give her a thumbs up.

She is a stranger to me. She will always be a stranger to me. But I feel responsible for her. And I feel sorry for her. And I feel protective of her.

I am struck that there are seven billion people on this planet, most of whom I will never meet. Most of the people on this earth don't speak my language, don't share my culture. Most of the people on this planet are as different from me as that woman. What do I have in common with an eighty year old woman, probably from somewhere in the far east of Asia, who doesn't speak English and finds herself, as if by magic, collapsed in a heap on the pavement of the freeway? But I care about her. I care about her so much it hurts me.

For the past year, every time I've seen a strange face on the news, crying over a tragedy in a faraway place, I've pictured her face, pressed into the road, her papery hand gripping mine.

We have more in common than I thought, me and her. We were both there. We were both here, on this earth, together. And if for no other reason than that, I left my car running and the air conditioning blaring while my confused children sat on the side of the road for half an hour and I held her hand.

I care about that frightened old woman. And while she might not have worried about my well being, she held my hand. She didn't want to let go. She wanted me to be with her, near her. She trusted me. Even if I've been long forgotten, for half an hour, that woman cared about me, too.

All it takes to understand another person, to sacrifice for them or empathize with them, to carry them with you in your heart, is a moment. A moment where their humanity is exposed to you, and yours to them. I try to keep mine on my sleeve. To remember always that we are all lost and in need.

To see in everybody the fear and confusion that asks only for a hand to hold. And I try to be there to offer that hand.

I would like to be there with a hand to hold.

And every time I drive up the ramp from 55 to 90/94, I am overwhelmed with the guilt that I just let her go, and I never found out if she was going to be okay.

I hope she is.

And while I hope they do demolish that ramp and build a new one, I also hope they don't. To be reminded so often how frail life is, and how important it is to be there for other human beings... it's humbling. And I'm grateful to be humbled so often.

I just wish I could see her face again.

Book Review: Eating Wildly

A few weeks ago, I had the amazing opportunity to read Ava Chin's new memoir, "Eating Wildly: Foraging for Life, Love, and the Perfect Meal." I wish I'd had the time to post about it sooner, because I. loved. this. book.

Not just because I've had the pleasure of getting to know Ava online, and not just because I'm kind of hooked on memoirs right now. No, this book is a delight for a whole host of reasons.

Number one? Food. Oh, the food.

You may or may not recall, but I'm a little bit obsessed with food. And my obsession pales in comparison to Ava Chin's.

She tells the story of coming to terms with her childhood and her mother through the lens of food. But not just any food, foraged food. Each section of the book, each part of Ava's story about her estranged father and self-pitying mother, is paired with a recipe for the foods that recall the events. Foods made with her own foraged finds. While I cringed when she unearthed a big fat spider in the process of picking wild mushrooms, I couldn't help myself but wanting to run into the parks near my house and go searching for edibles.

I read this book right after clearing out my garden plot, and immediately regretted tossing all the "weeds." What if those were the perfect ingredients for Ava's grass pie?

This isn't just a book about food. It's a book about learning to accept the flaws in your life and yourself. Using the beautiful metaphor of wild plants, Ava walks us through a familiar urban wilderness, teaching us to learn to know things not just as they are at one moment, but in all their life stages.

I might not end up making a grass pie. I might not even end up cooking morels- although you can bet the farm I'd eat as many as I could find in a heartbeat. But there is one thing I'll definitely be cooking.

My back yard is home to an enormous mulberry tree. Ava's mulberry story is tied to her relationship with her grandmother, and in particular with the end of her grandmother's life. The grace and beauty and dignity of that woman sticks with me so strongly, that now I can't look at the tree behind my house without thinking of her. When the berries come, I'll be cooking from Ava's book, and contemplating the sweetness of life and love along with the berries, plucked from the wilds of my own back yard.

Mulberries

Definitely do read this book. It's truly a delight. And check out Ava Chin's website!

Becoming Invisible

Probably my mother's 30th birthday.

When my father was just a few months younger than I am now, he tried to throw my mother a surprise party.

She was turning thirty, and although she has never been the sort of person who particularly cares about that sort of thing, thirty is kind of a big deal. It signals a farewell to a specific kind of youth and identity, and as my six months younger father cared quite a bit about that sort of thing, he wanted to do something memorable.

He put a lot of work into the party. He invited dozens of people, all of whom were thrilled to come and celebrate my mom- who would never in a million years organize anything like it for herself. And as my father was not exactly competent when it came to party planning, he delegated most of the food related tasks to other people. But one thing he did do was order cheesecake from a local bakery.

He placed his order for a dozen cheesecakes, in a variety of flavors, to surprise his wife who loved cheesecake. Their friends would bring food, potluck style, their friends' children would play with me and my sisters, and my mother would experience a spectacular thirtieth birthday party.

That was his plan. But in the early spring of 1987, a terrible flu spread through the city of Pittsburgh. The morning of the party he collected the cheesecakes, and the phone calls started coming in. All but three guests, or their children, had started puking, and couldn't come. My father cancelled the party, and he and my mother celebrated her thirtieth birthday quietly, packing as much cheesecake as they could into the freezer and living off the rest for the rest of the month.

I was completely oblivious to these events. I was three years old, and my memory of my mother's
thirtieth birthday is that my parents smiled a lot, that my sisters and I got My Little Ponies, and that the house was unusually clean.

Now, I feel like I understand my parents. Why my father, at my age, would have wanted so badly to do something special. I understand why my mother, at my age, with three children the ages of my children, would go out and buy them presents for her birthday.

I understand how helpless my father must have felt to make one day, any day, about her. And I understand how much the gesture must have meant to my mother.

Now, I get it.

My father very much as he is in my memory

When you stay at home all day, when your job is your children, life is only about you if something terrible happens. If you get very sick, or injured, if you lose a loved one. The only way to make something about you is for you to make it about you, and let's face it... nothing saps the fun out of any happy occasion like sitting down with your kids and forcing them to make cards for you. The easiest way to make sure you have a good time is to make sure they're happy. And that's why my memories of my mother's birthday involve a stuffed purple pony hopping on the dining room table.

As I near my thirtieth birthday, I think about this. I think about my father as he was then, barely thickening around the middle, wearing faded blue jeans and subversive t-shirts. I can see his wide smile, his deep dimples, his bright eyes. I can picture him at my age, just as clearly as I can picture him now. He looks like a stranger, or a distant cousin. This memory of him feels nothing like my father the entity, the man who, for me, defined men. But from my memories, I can put him together, like a puzzle. These aren't just images from photographs, not just remembrances of pictures of him twenty five years ago. These are the flesh and blood imprints he made in my mind.

But not my mother. I can picture the photographs of her, yes, but no matter how I wrack my brain I can't see her as she was when she turned thirty years old.

I can see her hands, rolling cookie dough into balls, dropping them gracefully onto a pan. I can see her wedding ring clear as day, and her fingernails, and her wrists.

I can see the backs of her jeans as she walks ahead of me down the sidewalk, the tail of her shirt hiding her back pocket as she pulls out her wallet to give me money for the ice cream truck.

I can see her bare legs in front of her on the porch floor, her ankles crossed and a train of ants walking across them. They look like my legs.

I can see her silhouette at the bottom of the stairs, casually warning me to give up my attempts to somersault down to the living room.

I can see the barrette in the back of her hair as she sits at the table.

Mothers with their children

But I can't see her face. I cannot assemble these pieces. My mother is an invisible force of nature, a supernatural entity made of love and discipline and constant presence.

I looked at my father. I studied him, this person I loved, who lived with me but who's comings and goings from a mysterious place called "work" carried the weight of disappearances and reinvention. I never had to look at my mother.

I was always confident that she was there. Maybe not in sight, but near by. If I screamed she would appear. If I misbehaved she would reprimand me. If I was suddenly scared or hurt or sad, I could run to her and wrap my arms around those blue jeans and her elegant hands with their narrow wrists and simple ring would run through the hair on top of my head, and her voice would echo from the everywhere of motherhood.

I can hear her voice, my thirty year old mother, but I can't distinguish the words. It's a hum that fills the universe, that permeates every fiber in existence, that rumbles through my bones and soothes them. I can hear its cadence.

At thirty years old, my mother was invisible to me.

Now I am her. Like my father, these birthdays matter to me. I don't know why exactly, but they do. Superficial, I know, but I feel it. And like my father, I feel helpless to give this event some kind of meaning. I sympathize with him so much, this twenty nine year old father of three. I understand him.

And I believe I understand my mother. But to me she will always be something of a mystery. No matter how closely my family parallels hers, no matter how similar our struggles and joys and the mundane details of our lives, no matter how much I understand her as she is now, I will never be able to put my feet into her shoes and sympathize with her life the way I do my father's.

And in a way, this makes me feel closer to every mother. To every other woman who has been a shadow, an omnipresent force in their children's lives. To every stay-at-home parent who's children don't bother to look at them when they come or go, who rush past and ignore them because they will always be there. It makes me feel closer to them, and at the same time it fills me with a grief so deep I can hardly name it.

I am this vibration, this mysterious force. And in my own ethereal, faceless way, I will also be erased from my children's memories, continuously replaced by the constantly changing, constantly aging face before them.

In my memories, if I must picture my mother, I see her now. Maybe a little less grey, maybe somewhat thinner, but still- as she is now. Familiar glasses. Familiar lines on her face. Not the slender, black haired twenty-something girl I know she was.

That girl, that young woman, she is somebody I will never know.

I feel the grief that I have already lost part of my mother forever.

I'm there for her, she doesn't need to look at me.

Maybe it's just me. Maybe I was the only child so self centered that they never bothered to look up, but I doubt it. I see it in my own children who once stared forever at me unblinking as they lay swaddled in my arms, and now run past without so much as a glance when I remind them to wash their hands or hang up their coats.

Maybe it isn't turning thirty that bothers me. Maybe it's losing myself in motherhood. Maybe it's the fear that I'm already gone, replaced by this ghost who's voice will soothe my children's memories, long after I've died.

And while I mourn this former me, I am filled with a guilt and a joy so great they bring me to tears.

I have always wanted to be this thing, immortal and benevolent and profoundly loved. Loved until I dissolved into the enormity of the word, until it absorbed me and replaced me with the all powerful phantom caring for every child, every person, with a fierceness so raw and so bold and yet so constant that they disappeared into it.

I have always wanted to be a mom.

Learning the Ropes

Last week, the Blogger Idol judges joked that our next assignment would be erotica. Of course they were lying, but we didn't know that. It made me want to go back and revisit a guest post I did over the summer, unfortunately, it seems the link is broken! So here it is again.


This was originally published on The Toy Lady Writes A warning to parents, aunts, uncles, etc... this is undoubtedly TMI. Proceed at your own risk.

And if you Blogger Idol judges are reading, maybe next time you'll think twice about asking us contestants to write about sex!

------

Shhhh...

There was no doubt he'd been in a sex shop before. There's something about being a twenty something man in the United States which implies going into sleazy porn shops and sad, alcohol free strip clubs is a right of passage.

We'd been dating for a long time, or what passes for a long time when you're just out of your teens, and we were feeling experimental.

"Want to go get a new toy?" I asked, my eyebrows wiggling. He grinned back. "Oh yeah!"

But it wasn't to the dimly lit Rod's Basement I took him, it was our friendly neighborhood feminist sex shop.

He'd walked by dozens of times, and never realized what was inside. the friendly, blue and white picture of a comfortably fluffy bed didn't register. "I thought this was like a Linen's N' Things," he muttered as we walked under the "Early 2 Bed" sign.

The inside was clean, spacious. Along the wall ran a shelf covered in the merchandise- available to pick up and test out before you buy.

The walls were covered with slogans, with posters for local feminist pornos and staff recommendations for anal beads and nipple clamps. There wasn't a single picture of a naked woman, bending down and wearing outrageously long fake nails. There were hardly any pictures at all. After all, feminists sex shops are about sex- not about using exploitative images to turn on repressed men.

He circled a display of packies, he eyes popping out of their sockets. A cheerful woman in a short, spiky haircut and Rivers Cuomo glasses walked up. "Can I help you find something?"

I could almost hear the saliva evaporate from his mouth. I stepped in.

"Yes, we're looking for some new toys."

"Excellent!" she beamed. "What kind of stimulation are you looking for? Clitoral? G-spot? ...p-spot?" She gave him a conspiratorial grin, and he blanched.

"I think clitoral, to start." M gave me the kind of look that kills.

"What?" I asked, "Do you want us to get something aimed for a prostate?"

The friendly sex shop worker chuckled, and pointed to the corner nearest the door. "Over here, we have a wide variety of bullets and accessories."

"Perfect."

He stared at the vibrating eggs and gelatinous cock rings, and shook his head.

"I have no idea what any of this is."

Well, tonight's going to be fun, I thought. "I'll pick something out. Why don't you go sit in that chair? It looks comfortable."

Gratefully, he speed walked to an oversized armchair next to a coffee tabled loaded with books, and avoided eye contact with everyone.

The store clerk led me around the store, and we talked about the strap-on harnesses, about which ones were intended to attach to the thigh- obviously designed by women- and which weren't, but could be useful with a packie. She showed me their latest selection of glass dongs, the outrageously expensive hand crafted silicone vibrators that recharged batteries by sitting on their sleek, contemporary stands.

I picked out a vibrating silicone ring and a dildo shaped like a seal, and joined M.

"Ready?" I asked him. He didn't respond. He stared at the pages of the book in front of him. A beautifully illustrated how-to guide, filled with detailed pen and ink drawings, titled, "The Art of Fisting." One broad, clean page displayed two women, one with her hand inside the other up to the wrist. The other depicted two men, in a similar pose. All four characters looked happy, the women's bodies realistically rounded, one of the men without hair and wearing glasses.

I patted him on the shoulder and dragged him up to the register. He glanced over his shoulder at the titles still laying open on the table, "The Smart Girl's Guide to Porn," and "The Multi-Orgasmic Man." The woman behind the counter beamed.

"Ah, that's a wonderful book, isn't it? Really fantastic stuff, if you're willing to take the time to learn." He goggled at her.

As we left the store, he leaned and whispered in my ear.

"I've never been in a sex shop like that..."

"No kidding," I snarked at him.

"Did you see there was a porn selection?"

"Oh yeah, ever seen 'Bend Over Boyfriend?'" He gaped at me.

"Anyway, when you feel like picking up a flogger and some silk rope, let me know."

Less that two weeks later, he was dragging me into the store again, to enroll in the frequent buyer's program. It was all I could do to keep him from setting up a registry when we got married.

He never went into Igor's Dungeon again.

All About DMER

When it comes to D-MER, there's a lot you can't see

During my second pregnancy, I had few to no worries about breastfeeding. I thought I'd been through it all with my twins. One perfect nurser, one vicious crocodile. I'd had clogged ducts and infections, I'd supplemented my preemies with both expressed milk and formula, I'd nursed exclusively for a few months, and they weaned themselves at almost ten months.

I might not have been the world's foremost breastfeeding expert, but I thought I had a handle on things.

Then came baby #3.

As the exhaustion of pregnancy wore off, and as I recovered from my second c-section, I simply couldn't get a handle on nursing. She was terrifying, she would root and latch poorly and then tear herself away, and in the first weeks I was a sobbing, hysterical wreck. But I reminded myself day after day, things would get better. They did with my little crocodile, after all.

Until, one night, it happened.

I was sitting on the armchair in the living room, watching my two and a half year old twins playing. The baby was in her swing. It was a perfect domestic scene.

And then it wasn't.

I felt hairs rise on the back of my arms, my shoulders hunched into my neck, my vision went flat and fuzzy. My heart pounded in my chest like I'd just run a marathon. I gasped for air, and the world seemed to funnel down into a tiny black spot before my eyes.

I screamed.

Then I felt the familiar clenching in my chest, my milk let down, and everything returned to normal.

My husband stared at me in shock. "What happened?"

"I think I just had a panic attack," I told him. I put my hand on my chest and felt my heart racing, and slowly returning to normal. "It's time to feed the baby."

The next day, it happened again. I was making breakfast for the twins, and a rushing sound filled my ears. I dropped my egg covered whisk onto the floor, and burst into tears.

For nearly a minute, the world spun. Then again, my milk let down, and the world came back into focus.

The third time it happened I thought I was ready for it. As the panic set in, I told myself, It's okay, this is only going to last a minute, in just a few seconds it'll be over... And it was. As quickly as the feeling came, it left. And I nursed the baby.

As the days passed, they came more and more frequently, until every single time my milk let down, it was preceded by a thirty to ninety second panic attack. I screamed, I sobbed, I collapsed on the floor. I couldn't control it. But I kept telling myself it was okay because they were so brief.

And each time, I began to fear that this time, this one, it would last forever.

I mentioned it to my doctor and he told me I must have PPD. I mentioned it to a lactation consultant, and she gaped at me blankly. I went to a La Leche League meeting, and while the women there sympathized, they had no idea what was happening to me. When I called a doula friend of mine, desperate for help after five months of near constant panic, she referred me to a website about something called "DMER."

Dysphoric Milk Ejection Reflex.

I read every word on the website, flooded with relief that I wasn't alone, that this was a real thing, a real problem, that I wasn't simply going crazy.

In general, women experience happy emotions when they're breastfeeding. The hormones that accompany the let down reflex cause feelings, connectivity and security and joy- euphoric sensations. But with DMER,  you get the opposite.

It was temporary. After the ejection, after the milk came in and the baby latched, the good feelings came too. I learned to connect with that feeling, to find it despite the exhaustion of ten to thirteen full fledged micro panic attacks each day.

It took the constant support of my friend the doula, my husband, and all my friends to keep me going. Each time I had a panic attack, my husband would bring me a glass of water and rub my shoulders and let me know it was okay.

I soldiered on through the DMER, and nursed my third child for just over ten months.

It was an incredibly difficult time, mostly because of how little awareness there is for the condition. It's terrifying and confusing to have such a wonderful thing, feeding your baby, cause your stomach to knot up in dread. Especially because once it's happening and the nursing is going well, everything is absolutely fine. It's just that tiny window, that one minute eternity.

Not all DMER is the same. Some women experience depression. For some women, it's a mild feeling of unease. But all of us deserve to know that what's happening is physical, that we are experiencing a real symptom of a real condition. You deserve the knowledge that there's nothing wrong with you, or with the bond between you and your new baby.

Make sure you family knows what's happening. They're support will keep you going. See your doctor, and ask them about your treatment options. The most important thing is education- just knowing what's going on with your body is half the battle to managing it.



For more information about D-MER, please visit d-mer.org.




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My Daddy Snores, and Other Avoidable Bedtime Catastrophes

DD and SI testing out mattresses

(This is a sponsored post. I was given the book I review, but all of the opinions are my own.)

You probably don't know this, but sleep health is sort of a pet issue of mine. From the time I was about eight and a half until well into my adulthood, I suffered from severe insomnia.

And I mean SEVERE insomnia.

By the time I was ten my mother essentially gave up on forcing me to go to sleep. Eventually, she tucked me in on the couch, handed me a collection of Ray Bradbury short stories, and poured me a shot of Peach Schnapps that she directed me to, "Sip slowly." Which I did.

I think her intention was to relax me and ease me into sleep. Sadly, it didn't work.

I completely covered the wall at 16

By the time I was in high school, I had a nighttime routine. I'd lay in bed for about an hour, listening to quiet music and meditating (my father's attempts to help had been guided meditation techniques). After my CD had ended, I'd lie in the dark feeling frustrated. Then I'd get up and ransack every recycling basket in the house for magazines, catalogs, and newspapers, and cut every single eye out and tape it to my wall.

Creepy? Sure. I'm not making excuses.

After that, I'd lay down again, and switch CDs. Sometimes, I managed to fall asleep. When I didn't, I'd put on my shoes and sneak out of the house. I'd wander around the neighborhood, pilfering roses from the house at Ferdon and Granger, and leaving them on my friends' doorsteps. I walked past the frat houses, through the quiet downtown, swing on the swings at Burns Park Elementary School...

And when the sky started to get that hazy, pre-dawn look to it, I'd walk home, climb into bed, and fall asleep. Just in time to be shaken awake for school the next day.

I tell you all of this because I GET IT- sleep is important. It might sound like I was having a blast, but I suffered through my insomnia. Not sleeping? That's a big deal. Not sleeping well? It's almost as bad. Sometimes, it's worse.

A few weeks ago, I was lucky to attend a Sleepy's event, with Nancy Rothstein, Sleep Ambassador and author of "My Daddy Snores."

Nancy Rothstein has written a children's book about the importance of sleep. More importantly, she's likable book about the importance of sleep. My kids LOVE this book.
written a funny, engaging,

It's a silly tale of woe- poor Mommy can't get any sleep because Daddy snores. The illustrations are
adorable. And eventually, Mommy has HAD IT and takes Daddy to the doctor- and the doctor cures Daddy of snoring.

There are three, yes three, incredibly effective takeaways for kids from this short picture book.

1. Snoring is a curable condition, and going to a doctor can make it stop. This is great- kids have no filter, and the admonition of children is a HUGE motivator for adults. I might not be able to approach my father in law and say, "You should really see a doctor about that snoring," but my kids sure can. Because kids are awesome at just saying things like they are, as they see it.

Bouncing on beds with balloons

2. Sleep, healthy sleep, is important. It's worth fighting for, it's worth working for, and it is its own reward.

3. Going to see the doctor when something isn't quite right about your body is okay. This is a big problem in our society- this machismo regarding our health. Unless we're bleeding out of our ears, we don't want to see a doctor.

My kids love this book- and they play-act around it regularly.

"Mommy! This picture is of Johnny the Spider! His daddy snores! His daddy snores SO LOUD! They need to go to a doctor so everyone can sleep!"

It's pretty cute.

So Ms. Rothstein, the Sleep Ambassador, handed out a few spectacular tips for improving your night's sleep.

1. Turn off your devices. The light emitted by televisions, computer monitors, your phone, your kindle... those are are blue spectrum lights. Those are lights that confuse your brain about the time of day and throw off your circadian rhythm. The only color light that doesn't? Red. Which is bad news if you don't particularly like sleeping in a dark room, but great news if your kids are obsessed with pink and want a pink nightlight. That pink nightlight will be less disruptive to their sleep than a white or blue light.

2. Almond milk! That old wives tale about a glass of milk? Not so great for sleeping, as it turns out. But almonds are loaded with compounds, like theanine, that aid sleep. So replacing a pre-bedtime glass of milk with almond milk? I've been doing this at home and I can tell you- it works.

3. Bedtime music. Some music keeps you awake, and some helps you sleep. So what helps you sleep? Sounds that are somewhat unfamiliar. When your brain starts falling into familiar patterns, it wants to complete them- keeping it awake. But unfamiliar sounds... I think this is why so many lullabies are written in minor keys. We tend to associate so much of music (particularly kids' music) with major keys- those minor tones can sound discordant. And that's good- that will help them sleep. So cue up the creepy lullabies- they're better for bedtime than Twinkle Twinkle!

Baby on the move!

4. Yoga! Doing yoga before bed relaxes your mind and body, making it easier for your mind to make the transition. There is so much literature that opposes working out before bed, and there's a lot to it, but a simple, relaxing yoga routine before hitting the hay can help make the transition to unconsciousness a lot easier.

5. Consistency! It might seem like the number on the clock isn't that important, but it is. A rigid routine has lasting effects- it's almost Pavlovian. So make sure you start your bedtime routine at the same time every night.

6. Last but not least, your mattress. Ms. Rothstein pointed out that we spend a full third of our lives sleeping. So why would you choose to spend all of that time on a mattress that didn't help you sleep? People balk at dropping a few thousand dollars on a mattress (I am still balking), but she's right- you really can't put a price on high quality sleep. I could spend $2,500 on a good mattress that would keep me sleeping better for ten years, or I could spend $100 a month on the xanax that frequently helps me get to sleep, for a total of $12,000 over the same time period. That's a pretty simple cost/ benefit analysis.

With all that said, I have definitely started bugging my husband about the quality of our mattress- which is more than ten years old, crushed on one side, and has NEVER been terribly comfortable for me. So that's definitely happening in the not too distant future.

And I am taking the bedtime routine for my kids more seriously. I know the long-term consequences of poor sleep personally, and if I can help my kids avoid them?

Awesome.

There they go, just a walking down the street. Singing Do Wah Diddy Diddy Dum Diddy Do.

I'm delighted to have another guest poster in the Telling Stories series! Today's guest poster is
Angela of Momopolize. She writes about her four sons as well as life with Lyme disease and Lupus. Sometimes serious, usually humorous, always honest. I'm honored that she is sharing her story with us on Becoming SuperMommy today.


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This school year, we had a dilemna. Are Eric and Greg are old enough to walk home from school alone? After going back and forth (and back and forth and back and forth), we decided yes. Since we live less than a mile from the school, we do not have bus service. Up until this point, someone has picked them up every day. There are walking paths and sidewalks the entire route home and there will be 4-5 kids walking together. No big deal, right?

Today was the first day of school. They were very excited about the big walk. As the day progressed, scenarios went through my head of things going wrong.

What if they forget they are supposed to walk home and stand out in front of the school waiting for me. The other Moms will think I forgot to pick up my kids on the very first day! How embarrassing will that be??? Yeah, my first “worry” was what others would think, not safety. Mom of the year here.
One of the paths goes near a busy road. What if they are goofing around and go off the path? What if they get too close to the road with the cars whizzing by?? At least my SECOND worry was safety. I redeemed myself. A little.
What if Eric and Greg get in an argument? They have reached the age that arguments between them usually turn physical. I pictured them rolling around in the grass, wrestling and punching as their buddies cheered “Fight. Fight. Fight.”
What if they get lost? They could be wandering through the woods hours later in the dark. We’ve walked that way many times so that thought was most ridiculous, but it was still a thought.
I finally calmed my fears by deciding to walk half way to meet them. That was a good compromise for the first day. I knew they wouldn’t be happy to see me intruding on their “big boy freedom” but that’s ok.

At dismissal time, I strolled out of the house thinking of a good response to the “why are you here, Mom?” question when I met them. “It’s just such a pretty day, I decided to walk also.” That wouldn’t really be convincing as I had sweat dripping from the 95 degree heat. Oh well, stalker Mom it is.

I got half-way to the half-way point when it dawned on me – there are two different ways they could walk home. We hadn’t discussed which way they were going to walk. If I picked the wrong path, I would miss them completely and they would go home to an empty house and think Mom didn’t even care enough to be home to see how their first day went. I turned around and walked back home. At least they won’t know I was helicopter Mom now.

Twenty minutes after dismissal passes and they still aren’t home. Common sense told me dismissal takes longer than normal on the first day and the kids aren’t going to sprint home, but I still wondered if one of my premonitions had happened. To the car I go. I drive to the end of our street and as I turn onto the next street, I see them. Almost home. Not on the route I was walking on to meet them, of course. They were happily walking on the side-walk, grinning from ear to ear. I thought about slouching down in the seat and backing down the street back to our house so they wouldn’t see me, but it was too late.

They walked over to my car and, as predicted, Eric says “What are you doing?” I sheepishly respond, “just checking.” He gave me the one eyebrow raised look that I know too well. As they are standing in the road by my car talking to me, I realize that THIS moment is probably the LEAST safe moment of their walk. Way to go Mom.

After the friends go to their houses, Eric and Greg sprint home. They get to our driveway faster than I can drive there. They race to see who can get on the video game system the quickest as they yell “we don’t have homework, but YOU do!”

I guess they really are ready to walk home alone. It’s me that isn’t.

I Heart Kate

You may remember about a month and a half ago I told you about my friend Kate. This is a post about her.

Kate is awesome. She's funny, compassionate, interesting, smart, creative... so many adjectives I could use to describe her. Since the first time I met her, I've enjoyed her company tremendously.

Her daughter is right in the middle between my kids, so when they get together it's a like a flock of adorable. Really, it's too cute.

So Kate is green and earth-friendly, all about sustainable living. It's kind of a passion of hers. And as part of her efforts to protect the environment and live a sustainable lifestyle, she and her husband got rid of their car. Only public transit, bicycles, and the heel-toe express for them.

One day, Kate got into a bike accident. It wasn't bad, she banged up her head a bit, but she got up and walked away.

But a week later, she started having migraines. She started experiencing strange disturbances in her vision. The migraines got worse, so bad she couldn't function. She took her year and a half old daughter to a friend's house for the day, so she could rest.

A short while later, her friend found her on the floor. Conscious, but completely unable to move her body or speak. Kate had suffered an severe stroke.

The next week was, to put it mildly, terrifying. She had emergency surgery to remove the clot, which had nearly severed the cerebral artery where it attached to her brain. She was on and off of breathing tubes, CAT scans showed the bleeding continued, the doctors put a drain into her head. She had a direct to stomach feeding tube inserted, as well as a tracheotomy. To say that Kate is lucky is putting it mildly. That lady has an entire crew of guardian angels watching over her.

Nearly three weeks into the ordeal, this image popped up on facebook.

She was back, her sense of humor completely undiminished. I don't think four words and a picture have ever made me so happy.

Kate spent more than three weeks in the ICU. She is still in a rehab facility, getting hours and hours of physical and occupational therapy a day. But she's getting better. REALLY.

Her trake has come out, and she's eating solid food. In fact, she's well enough that this past weekend, her doctors gave her permission to make the trip out to her brother's wedding.

She's remarkable. And her recovery is remarkable. And everything about it fills me with relief and joy.

Every time she posts a picture on instagram of another awful hospital meal, filled with genuine joy that she can EAT IT instead of another bottle of Jevity (yuck), my heart soars.

It used to be she only took pictures of her "Kate Face," which could easily be confused with Bitchy Resting Face Syndrome. Now, she's grinning in every picture.

Each time Chris updates us on her progress, I am overwhelmed by gratitude.

I see everything she's going through, from brain surgery to physical therapy to recovery transitions, and I see in her me and M, just seven years ago, and I just want to wrap my arms around her and her family and squeeze them so tight and tell them how unfathomably glad I am that they are whole. That Cora has her mommy, that Chris has his wife, and that Kate has her life.

That said, they really do need some help.

You might recall that I have an intimate understanding of how expensive brain surgery can be. It's no joke. And although she and her husband Chris get by just fine normally, that's as a dual income household. Kate hasn't been working for two months, and it's likely to be quite a while before she's at full strength, working from home as a graphic designer LIKE A BOSS with a toddler running around.

Insurance covers some, but not all medical expenses. But it doesn't cover childcare. It doesn't cover the income lost when half of a dual income family is in the hospital. It doesn't cover transportation costs for a family without a car, let alone one that can accommodate a wheelchair.

If you can, PLEASE! Donate to the I Heart Kate Medical Expense Fundraiser.

Give what you can.

Spread the message around to everyone you know.

As Kate says, ALWAYS WEAR YOUR HELMET. And in addition to that, take any injuries seriously. See a doctor when you have frightening symptoms, like crippling migraines and vision problems. Or, in M's case, like weakness on one side of your body but not the other.

Never be afraid of seeing a doctor early. The worst that can happen is a waste of time. There are so many worse things.

Please- donate to the I Heart Kate fund.

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I'm afraid I don't have any photographs of me and Kate, but I do have a video where I Gangnam Style past her in my back yard. So there's that.

Danger for Moms Who Read

Today I'm delighted to have Debra Kirouac of Just Jack sharing a story for my guest series! Deb works as a communications specialist for Save the Children, an international nonprofit helping children worldwide. Debra spent six years as a contributor to the Fairfield County Weekly, writing theater reviews, conducting interviews with celebrities, and writing funny (at least she thinks so) stories about her three year old terror toddler.

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If you ever want to get a toddler’s attention, try reading something on the couch near them. Nothing piques a child’s interest more than seeing their mother relaxing and enjoying herself. I’ve noticed my son will sit in a trance-like state while watching his shows on Nick Jr. as I putter around the living room, sweeping up his cast-off snacks. I could burst into flames before him and his eyes would not flicker with recognition or even look my way. But if I attempt to read a sentence in a book, magazine, newspaper or even a leaflet, his sole purpose in life is to destroy my reading material: “Screw Nick Jr.! Mommy’s trying to read!”

The other night, while we sat and watched an episode of Franklin for the eight-thousandth time, I pulled out my autographed copy of Nora Ephron’s I Feel Bad About My Neck. It had been a long day at work and I was hoping for a few moments of “Me Time.” In the book, there’s a chapter on the realities of raising children – a very funny chapter -- but just as I got to the funny part, I felt thirty pounds of toddler weight collapse onto my pubic bone and lower abdomen with the force of a bag of bricks. The pain was exquisite and my yelp for help amused Jack so much that he did it again. He also managed to grab my book (again, this was autographed by the late Nora Ephron) and took it out of its dust jacket. I managed to hurriedly put it back together again before any pages were ripped, but when he calmed down and I re-opened it, the jacket had been placed upside down over the book. Ay dios mio!

As I tried to read a few more words, my crazed critter squeezed between my back and the couch, demanding I give him a “backpack,” which is his way of saying “piggyback.” I explained to him that Mommy was trying to read a funny essay, but he seemed immune to my pleas.

Suddenly his hands wrapped around my neck with a strength that belies his age, and I began to gasp for air. Being held in a chokehold by your towheaded toddler doesn’t lend itself to book reading… or magazine reading…or newspaper reading…or leaflet reading.

I tossed the book aside before he tried a half-nelson on me. I knew this was a good time to body slam him against the couch, which I did repeatedly. No mercy! Unfortunately, this only served to amuse him, of course, and he came at me with the ferociousness of a feral cat, his eyes crazed, his mouth sputtering toddler-isms that sounded like a cat in heat. What the heck was he saying? Who was this wild child?
So to moms of toddlers everywhere: don’t read your prized autographed books in the presence of your pre- pre- pre- pre- pre- pubescent progeny; there’s practically no point.

And learn Greco-Roman wrestling before they do!

Well, That Took A Turn

No ifs, ands, or butts.

DD and RH gobbled their eggs as fast as I could dish them out. SI picked at her, soaking up as much maple syrup as possible with her pancakes.

I grinned at my children. "Good job, DD! You're eating so much!"

"I am a egg eating machine!"

"You ate so many eggs!" SI piped up. "You have a chubby butt!"

DD looked around, as though she could see her butt from a seated position by glancing over elbow. "I do? Mommy, do I have a chubby butt? Like RH?"

Crap. Body image. Why do I have to keep calling the baby "chubby butt?" Shit shit shit shit shit...

"Um, yeah, you do. And that's great! You have a perfect butt!"

"My butt is chubby?"

"What about MY butt?" SI pushed back from the table, and hoisted her skirt up over her underwear.

"You also have a perfect butt, sweetie."

"Is it chubby?"

"I don't know! But there are lots of perfect kinds of butt! Chubby butts, and flat butts, and heart shaped butts..."

"Heart shaped?" DD perked up immediately- she is very aware that there is no more perfect shape than a heart. Particularly if it's pink.

"Yup. Like upside down hearts.

"That's silly!" she giggled.

"It is."

"What about balloon butts?" SI asked.

"Yes, there are balloon butts. Daddy has a balloon butt!"

They both laughed.

"And daddy's butt is perfect," I added.

"What about butts with heads?" SI asked, grinning mischievously.

"Yes, there are definitely butts with heads." I refrained from naming names.

"What about butts with arms?" she asked again.

"I don't think I've ever seen a butt with arms..."

"I have!" DD jumped in. "I've seen a butt with a hand on it!"

"Well..."

"A butt with a hand!" SI laughed so hard she nearly fell out of her chair.

"Who has a butt with a hand?" I asked.

"Aunt Genocide!"

"She does?"

"YES!" they both dissolved into giggles again.

"Who's hand is on Aunt Genocide's butt? Is it her hand or somebody else's?"

"Somebody else's." DD said seriously.

SI nodded. "It's daddy's hand."

"Daddy's hand is on Aunt Genocide's butt? I think I need to have a talk with daddy."

"Why?"

"Because it's not okay to put your hands on people's butt."

They both froze, staring at me.

"Why?"

"Um... people are private, and they don't like it when other people touch their bottoms."

"But I like touching butts," said SI.

"I know you like touching your butt, but-"

"RH likes touching HER bottom!" DD yelled across the table.

"Yes, and that's okay. But it's only ever okay to touch somebody else's bottom if you ask first."

They looked at me like I was crazy. I had to admit they were onto something.

"If you want to touch somebody's bottom, you have to ask first. Say, 'Can I touch your butt?' And if they say yes, then you can touch their butt."

They nodded solemnly.

"And nobody can touch your butt unless they ask you first. Unless," I added quickly, "unless they're helping you wipe your bottom after you went to the potty. Then they don't have to ask permission, because they're already doing you a favor."

"Okay, mommy."

"Let's watch Sesame Street, okay?"

"Yay! Sesame Street!"

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Somebody please tell me I'm not the only one having these ridiculous conversations with my three year olds?