Sex Positive Parenting, or We Don't Touch Our Vulvas At The Table

It happened yet again. As I was sitting at the table for dinner with my children, I noticed my daughter's hand fishing around under her skirt.

"We don't play with our vulvas at the table. Go wash your hands and finish your food," I scolded. She nodded, ran off to wash her hands, and resumed picking at her dinner instead.

Small children, they touch themselves. A lot. It's fascinating to them. And when you're a small child, you have no sense of shame or disgust or fear of your body. Your body is what it is. It does what it does. And everything that it does is kind of amazing, because you're not old enough for lower back pain. It's not sexual, it's just... fact.

The first time I caught one of my kids playing with their genitals, I said absolutely nothing. I was momentarily paralyzed with indecision. One thing I knew for a fact I did not want to do was to shout, "No!" or "Stop!" What good could that possibly do? Sure, I would be spared the awkwardness of catching my child playing with her genitals on the living room floor, but what kind of lesson is that? To fear or ignore your own vagina?

I thought about it almost constantly for two days, and of course she gave me a second chance to react.

"Sweetie, we don't play with our vulvas in the living room," I said. Which sounded ridiculous and strange, but nonetheless true. Why is everything with little kids "we" statements? "It's okay to touch your vulva, but people are private, and it's a private thing. The only places where you should touch your vulva are in the bathroom or in your bedroom. If you want to play with your vulva, please go to the bedroom."

And she smiled and did, without question, because compartmentalizing where you do certain activities makes sense to little kids.

"We don't eat in the bathroom, and we don't touch our vulvas in the living room," became the new mantra. And yes, eventually it became, "We don't touch our vulvas at the table."

I'm what some people call "sex positive." That doesn't mean I talk with my four year olds about how great sex is and how good it feels. It means I don't pretend it's something other than it is.

As parents, we lie all the time. About the Easter Bunny or Santa or the Tooth Fairy, about how long ten minutes is, about whether or not we remembered they wanted to have grilled cheese for dinner again, we lie a lot. But one thing I never lie about is sex.

I don't want them to grow up ashamed of their bodies or confused about what they do. I don't tell them about cabbage patches or storks, I make an effort, always, to be honest about human reproduction. Every aspect of it.

I've had talks with lots of other moms about having "the talk." I don't think my kids and I will ever have that particular talk, because they already know. And we talk about it often- kids are obsessive creatures. We read "Where Did I Come From?" and "What Makes A Baby" which together cover every aspect of the subject. We can talk about IVF and c-sections, because both of those are part of the story of their births, and we can talk about the fact that yes, mommy and daddy still have sex regardless. And when they're older, we'll start talking about contraception.

Because lying to your kids about sex helps nobody. Telling them that sex is "only between mommies and daddies" is a lie that leads to confused, hormone charged teenagers. Telling them that sex is "only something that happens when two people love each other very much" is a lie that causes hormone charged teenagers to confuse "love" with "lust," or "obsession." It leads to leaps of logic like, "If I have sex with them, we must be in love." Or worse- "If I love them, I have to have sex with them." And how many teenage tragedies are based on that misconception?

The truth is that human beings, almost universally, like sex. It feels good. And it's supposed to feel good. If it didn't, the human race would die out. The truth is that sex isn't special and magical just because it's sex. The truth is that you can have spectacular sex with strangers who's names you don't even know. The truth is that just because you can, that doesn't necessarily mean you should.

And that's what sex positive parenting really is. Not telling my kids lies about sex to keep them from behaviors I don't think are healthy. It's telling them the truth, the whole truth, and letting it sink in so they can make their own good choices.

It's telling them that sex is good, but that it's dangerous if you're not careful. It's teaching them to require their partners to use condoms, to buy their own condoms if they're planning on having sex. It's teaching them that while sex feels good, they can feel good on their own too. (Just not at the table.) That while sex combined with love is often the best sex- transcendent sex- that grows the bond of love and builds a closeness that is almost impossible to find otherwise, sex isn't always like that- even with people you love. That sex can lead to pregnancy, even with protection, so engaging in it is a commitment to deal with any consequences.

It's telling them they're not wrong, or sinful, or bad, if they have sexual feelings. Or even if they have sex. It's teaching them that sex happens, whether people always make good choices or not. And it's giving them the tools to ensure that when they're ready, they're smart and cautious and conscientious.

There's a lot of black and white comparisons when it comes to sex education. Some people think that once kids hit puberty, if they don't have a strong fear of sex they'll have as much as they can, as often as they can. There's a lot of abstinence-only sex education, based on telling kids, "SEX IS SCARY! DON'T DO IT!" and it's about the least successful program anyone has ever invented. In states with abstinence-only sex ed, teen pregnancy rates only go up and up and up.

Telling children the truth about sex isn't giving permission for them to have it- and this is the most important part- because nobody has the right to deny them permission for sex but themselves.

And that's the thing I try to keep in mind when I say things like, "We don't touch our vulvas at the table." Sex is something that ONLY happens when both people WANT it to happen. And that means that the only people in the entire world with any kind of say over whether or not my daughters have sex is them.

I don't get to tell my daughters they have to have sex, but I also don't get to tell them they can't. They're in charge. Your body, your decision.

I never want to be responsible for setting the precedent that another person gets to tell them what to do with their bodies, and especially with their sexuality. I don't want to be the gateway for a manipulative, potentially abusive boyfriend.

So I teach boundaries. Appropriate places. Hygiene. I teach my children that nobody is allowed to touch their bodies without permission. When we get in tickle fights and they say, "Stop!" I stop.

And when we talk about pregnant friends, we talk about uteruses and sperm and eggs.

And most of the time, it's not uncomfortable. Most of the time, I'm verifying information and the conversation lasts fifteen seconds.

And someday the conversation is going to be a lot uglier. Someday, we'll have to actually talk about rape, and explicit and enthusiastic consent, and contraception. Someday we'll have to talk about healthy masturbation and pornography and realistic expectations of sex and sex partners and body image and a lack of shame for their bodies. And those conversations are not going to be as brief or straightforward.

But I'm ready. Whenever that day comes, I'm prepared. Because the groundwork is there.

"We don't touch our vulvas at the table." It's absurd, but it's got all the important pieces. It's a micro-lesson in safety and consent and social propriety. I don't think I'll be able to say, "We don't lose our virginity in the back seat of a car after a Prom party," with a straight face, but I will be able to say, "We don't have sex without thinking long and hard about it first, and we certainly don't do it without being careful, and being safe, and being totally confident in the maturity of our partner and our ability to handle the repercussions if we get a disease or get pregnant."

Because it's true. We don't.

But I like that when that time comes, I'm part of the "we." Because if I can tell my girls, "we" have to be careful, they'll know that no matter what happens, I'm still in their corner. I've still got their backs. Even if "we" make bad choices, I'll still be there to help make things right again.

Three at Two

The cheerfullest birthday girl on the block

Today, my littlest little turns two years old.

I could tell you how time has flown, how much she's grown, but I don't want to focus for one second on the past. Right now, it's all about now.

On Saturday, we had her birthday party. It was planned and essentially thrown by DD and SI. One day, about two months ago, we had this conversation:

Me: "I should figure out what kind of party to throw RH!"
DD: "I know! It should be a Care Bears party!"
Me: "You guys had a Care Bears party. This is RH's party. It should have to do with what she likes. What does RH like?"
SI: "Green!"
Me: "Yup. What else?"
SI: "Green! It should be a green party!"
Me: "That's it? Green? How do you throw a green party?"
DD: "With green food and a green cake and green decorations!"
SI: "Green ICE CREAM cake!"
Me: "...that sounds like a pretty good party, actually."
DD: "Me and SI will throw the party, Mommy. You just make sure RH's diaper isn't stinky."

I could handle that.

And plan the party they did. I tried to tell them that people would rather eat apples and grapes than broccoli, but they proved me wrong.

I taught them to make bunting, and they made enough to decorate a full half the yard. And I tended to my job- sending invitations, and making sure all the food was to SI and DD's specifications.

Honeydew, grapes, apples, mini cucumbers, celery, broccoli, guacamole, green tortilla chips, green juice
And green flowers. I was told that was important.
Plus more of SI and DD's bunting!

Of course, no matter how clean her butt, RH was a bit of a pill. I'd just come home from five days away- and she was punishing me for it.

The first day back was a dream, she lay back in her chair and just stared at me, occasionally whispering, "Kiss!" or "Hug!" Mostly just looking at me like I was an angel who had descended from heaven to rescue her from the torments of going to the aquarium daily to see jellyfish with my parents.

She spent the next four days attached to me at the hip, screaming for no reason and demanding amounts of my attention she hasn't commanded since she weaned. She spent a lot of her party crying, as despite DD and SI's planning, I was still essentially on hostess duty.

But like I said, I want to focus on now.

I want to remember what she's like right now.

I want to remember the way she says, "I yike a hair! I yike a face! I yike a pwetty dwess!" every morning when I change her diaper, regardless of what I'm wearing or how I look. I want to remember the way she flails her legs while she's running, but keeps her head steady.

I want to remember how fearless she is. How she crawls under bushes or through the mud without blinking an eye. How she tries every new food. How she jumps into the water without hesitating, much to my terror, or how she leaps off chairs, or stairs, now that she's finally mastered the art of getting both feet off the ground at once.



I want to remember how she puckers her lips into a full on fish face whenever she wants to give a kiss, and how sweet and soft her little kisses are. I want to remember how despite being a monster truck, rolling over everything in her path, she is still gentle with animals, other children, and her toys. Most of the time.

I want to remember how she participates in conversations without having a clue what's happening. How she shouts, "Me too!" about anything and everything, and will not be distracted from being included. How she insists on what she wants, when she wants it, and I find myself acquiescing because I have no real reason not to in the face of her determination.

I want to remember how until two weeks ago, whenever she said, "I lub you!" she followed it immediately by saying, "Good night!"

I want to remember the way she sings, "Shoo fly, don't bother me," or the alphabet song, or "Ring Around the Rosie," with better pitch and timing than her older sisters, even if half the words are incoherent.

I want to remember how sassy she is. How much attitude she's got. How sure of herself, and determined to do whatever her sisters do, and to be part of any joke the adults are enjoying. I want to remember the way she laughs a sound like clinking china and announces, "I laughing!" as though it weren't impossible to notice.

I want to remember the unbearable softness of her skin, and the way her hair smells, and the way that her curls flatten against the top of her head when she's filthy. I want to remember how tidy she is, and how she refuses to eat with her hands if they might get messy. I want to remember being perplexed by how she could get scrambled eggs in her nose, and at the same time how she can finish a bowl of ice cream without spilling a drop.

I want to remember how she asks for something indirectly, like, "Mommy, ponies?" And you try to fill in the blanks, "You want to watch ponies?" And she acts like it was your idea. "Okay!"

I want to remember the way she counts. "One, two, fee, four, five, six, seben, eight, nine, tan, eleben, twelf, fourteen, fourteen, fourteen, fourteen, eighteen, twenny fee!"

I want to remember how if you sing, "Na na na na na," she yells, "Batman!"

I want to remember how serious she often is, focusing on on a task until it is complete to her satisfaction. I want to remember how she seems to study the world with fierceness and determination, cataloging causes and effects and storing them away. I want to remember how much she cares.

I want to remember how unfathomably cheerful she can be.

I want to remember how she sings the theme song to "My Little Ponies," how she dances happily, distracting herself from all else in the world for ages, spinning in circles and hopping, gesturing wildly. I want to remember how she sings, "Tomorrow." I want to remember that she'll go around the room, approaching everybody one at a time, saying, "I gonna eat choo!" until they say, "Oh no! Please don't eat me!" and moves on to the next person.

I want to remember that her favorite movie is "Wreck It Ralph," and I love that sometimes she tells me, "Mommy, I a bad guy!" with an angelic grin and dimples for miles.

I want to remember how her smile lights up like sun when she's happy, even if she's covered head to toe in green frosting and ice cream. Even if five minutes earlier she was sobbing her eyes out.

I want to remember how she curls up on my lap, how she pulls me to the floor to sit on me for no reason. How she calls out, "I lub you, Mommy!" from the back seat of the car, for no reason. How she wants to help me brush my hair, and my teeth, and god help me, how she wants to tear off toilet paper for me in the bathroom.

I want to remember the way her little hand feels in mine.

But I know I'm going to forget.

I look at her big sisters, not that much bigger, and no matter how I wrack my brain it feels as though their nearly-two-ness is already gone. I can't remember them. I've forgotten my own children.

Of course, I know if the two year old version of DD or SI ran up to me, I would know them. But it's not the same.

It wasn't intentional. I was just so busy, and so tired. When DD and SI had their second birthday party, I was already pregnant with RH. When they were two years old I was finishing my degree and running through the day with M gone from before dawn until late an night.

I can watch a video and go, "Oh, yeah, that's how it was." But it's still just not the same.

I didn't have the energy to really hold onto all the moments with my twins. And knowing that, running through milestones and chubby legs and baby curls a second time... it makes it so much harder to know how soon it's gone. And so much sweeter to see it happening.

I truly am enjoying things more this time around.

I don't ever want to forget this little girl.

Happy Birthday, my littlest favorite person.

Let's not get to the next one too fast.

Presumption of Innocence

On Monday, I had jury duty.

Jury duty is a pain the ass. It's a hassle, it takes all freakin' day, and if you're unlucky a lot longer.

Also, if you're really unlucky, it will give you a lifetime of nightmares.

I've never served on a jury. Every time I get called for jury duty, I spend all day in silence as judges and lawyers question potential jurors about their ability to rule on the case.

The cases are always horrific when I get summonsed. Last time, it was a death penalty murder trial. I wasn't anxious to go back on Monday and find out what new horrors were in store.

I sat in the courtroom as the judge announced what the charges were, and told us we'd all be sworn in to answer about being on the jury.

The charges?

"The defendant is charged with sexual assault by a legal adult (my stomach lurched as I glanced at the defendant, who was probably pushing forty) of a minor child."

The floor fell out from under me.

I looked at him, and tried to feel nothing. After all, it might be my job to presume he was innocent until proven guilty. I couldn't let myself think he'd actually done it.

The judge went on to explain the crime, which was committed four years ago. The victim was now ten or eleven years old.

When this man allegedly raped her (which the judge clarified as penetration of the vagina by the penis), she was barely older than my daughters.

I shook that thought off, too. Because I had to be impartial, right?

Out of the sixty some potential jurors there, thirty were called up to answer questions. I was second to last.

Being second to last, I got to listen to all the potential jurors before me answer their questions.

Before entering the courtroom, we'd all had to fill out a form. Included on this form was the question, "Have you ever been the victim of a crime?"

I had checked yes.

When the judge asked each individual juror about their "yes" answers, most declined. Approximately a third of the women, and two of the men, requested to speak about the matter privately. My mouth dried out. There are only a handful of crimes that, if committed against you, fill you with the kind of shame and guilt that makes it impossible to speak publicly. Not at all like the answers, "I was carjacked," or "I was mugged," or "It was a home invasion and burglary."

No, when you've been the victim of a crime, and you don't want anybody to know about it, that means that being a victim of that particular crime is shameful.

As person after person requested to answer the question privately, I got angrier, and more determined.

Finally, it was my turn. I smiled at the judge, wiping my sweaty palms on my knees and trying to keep my heart from pounding out of my chest.

"Mrs. Grover, it says here you've been the victim of a crime?"
"That's correct."
"What was that crime?"

I looked her in the eyes and kept smiling, trying to keep my voice even. "I was sexually assaulted, and stalked."

The defendants lawyers started scribbling rapidly on their notebooks.
"Did you ever go to court?"
"No."
"Were charges ever filed?"
"No."
"Did you report the incident to the police?"
"Yes."
"And why weren't charges filed?"
"Lack of evidence, I guess."
"What do you mean?"
"I waited too long to report the assault."
"I see. Mrs. Grover, will you be able to follow the law, and treat both sides fairly in this case?"
I looked at the defendant's lawyer. I didn't look at him. I couldn't.
"I believe so."

Behind me, I heard people shuffling in their seats. Another four hands raised. "I actually have something I'd like to speak to you about in private as well, your honor."

A few moments later, it was the lawyers' turn to ask questions. The defense attorney called my name.

"Ms. Grover, did you interact with the police?"
"Yes."
"Did they leave you with a positive of negative impression?"
"Definitely negative."
"Why?"
I took a moment before answering. "They didn't believe me."

The judge and lawyers left the chambers, calling people in one at a time to discuss their private matters. During that time the rest of us fidgeted, talked a little amongst ourselves. A few of the other jurors came up to me to talk, but didn't make eye contact, didn't say anything that was obviously on their minds.

After the last juror returned, we continued to wait. For over an hour, the judge and lawyers discussed which of us they wanted on the trial, which they didn't.

When the judge returned, one by one she dismissed jurors who had spoken with her privately. Then the man who had announced he worked with the Chicago Children's Advocacy Center, working with victims of childhood sexual abuse. Then, at last, me.

And the remainder of the jurors were told to come back in the morning for the trial.

Part of me was relieved. As I exited the courtroom, I finally allowed myself to believe he was guilty. An instant, overwhelming surety, now that I didn't have the obligation to give him the benefit of the doubt.

At the same time I felt a wave of guilt, that I could damn him so easily before his trial.

And then a wave of fury.

Fury, because statistically, one third of every woman in a randomly selected group will have been victims of sexual abuse. And that's what I had just seen in person, in that courtroom. And fury that when a problem is that embedded into our culture, that deeply rooted into what it means to be female, that dangerously ubiquitous, there is no such thing as a fair trial.

Not for the accused, and not for the victim.

When a crime is as common as rape, as horrifically and overwhelmingly common, maybe you shouldn't be able to dismiss all victims of that crime from the ability to be objective. To be reasonable.

Maybe when a crime is that universal, by eliminating everyone who has ever been sexually assaulted or who knows somebody who's been sexually assaulted, all you have left are deniers and apologists.

Maybe that's why so many rapists win at their trials.

Maybe it's not really a jury of your peers when nearly half of them are dismissed right off the bat because somebody did something to them against their will, and they were just the statistical one in that two minute window.

I was furious. I wanted to be on that jury. I wanted to prove to myself that I could be objective, that I could listen to the evidence and see what had really happened.

I wanted to prove to myself that I could maintain a presumption of innocence. That I could hold onto my own emotions and my own experiences and set them aside. That I could look at facts and accept that, according to the law, the words of a victim and the words of an accused man carry absolutely equal weight. That I could say the words, "not guilty," if the prosecutors didn't prove beyond any reasonable doubt that a grown man forced himself on a child.

But the fact is, the way the law is written it's almost impossible to prove guilt. Not unless there's video, practically, because unless the victim can prove a lack of consent, it's assumed that consent was there.

And that? That's bullshit. Top grade, refined, mass produced bullshit.

It was going to be an ugly trial, I have no doubt. Based on the barbs between lawyers, it looked like the defense was planning to attack the girl's mom- to point out that she was an illegal immigrant. And if she would commit a crime to stay in the country, who's to say she wouldn't lie about her daughter being raped?

Her six or seven year old daughter.

Now, I wasn't going to write about this. I wasn't going to write about it at all, because no matter how I scour the news I can't find even a note about this case. Maybe because Cook County has so many of them. Maybe because the news just doesn't care about a four year old case of non-English speaking brown people hurting other non-English speaking brown people. Maybe because the media is too wrapped up in the revelations about the Chicago Arch Diocese papers that document the decades of systematic protection of pedophiles in the church. Maybe the sexual abuse of boys is dominating our news, and there isn't a minute to spare for talking about yet another little girl.

But this case is too common. And too much like the one case in the news where nearly all the details are the same.

A seven year old girl, accusing a man old enough to be her father of sexually assaulting her, and him denying it. His defenders accusing the girl's mother of lying and manipulating her child for some twisted gain.

Does that sound familiar to you?

Dylan Farrow, after more than two decades, came forward to talk, somewhat obliquely but with boldness, about being sexually abused by her adopted father- Woody Allen.

And now Allen is talking with the New York Times, and they've said they may run his letter- chronicling his own defense.

And I can't be unbiased. I can't. I have to be honest- I would have been a terrible juror. Because even if the law failed to prove he was guilty, I would be just as sure that the law was wrong.

'Innocent until proven guilty' is important, it is the foundation of our justice system. But we don't afford victims the same pleasures.

We have already decided, as a culture, that women lie about being raped. That women manipulate men in order to hurt them. That they use their children as weapons. That children are liars, incapable of telling truth from fiction.

None of that is true.

But it's impossible to prove.

You see, one thing we know about rapists, as opposed to victims, is that they honestly don't think they're rapists. They don't believe they are. They just don't. They think rape only happens when you beat somebody up and tie them down leave them half dead in an alley.

They don't think that just waiting until somebody is asleep, or drunk, is rape. They don't think you can rape a wife, or a live in girlfriend. They think that if they coerce somebody into saying "yes," or trick them into saying "yes," or threaten them into saying "yes," it's not rape. Because they said yes.

Some of them think that sex is when a girl lays below them, unmoving and frightened while they get off. Some of them think that sex is when you've finally "worn them down" until they just can't say "no" one more time.

Some of them think that children are sexual beings, teasing them, taunting them, and their lack of a language for what is happening is the same thing as an agreement. That when they say, "This is our secret, okay?" and the child in front of them nods, it is an agreement.

They don't think they're rapists. They think this is what everybody does.

And just as most rapists don't believe they're rapists, most victims don't let themselves believe they're victims. Not at first. anyway. And how do your prosecute a crime like that? Where the victim doesn't want to admit they're a victim and the perpetrator doesn't believe they did anything wrong?

Do I know what the defendant did? No, I don't. But I believe the victim. Because she has nothing to gain from this. No victim has anything to gain, contrary to popular belief.

Have you seen what happens to victims? They're stalked and assaulted. They're pilloried in the public square, while the media bemoans the tragic loss to the life of the perpetrator. They have their houses burned to the ground. They get called sluts, liars, bitches, monsters.

For the rest of their lives they are burdened not only with the weight of what somebody did to them physically, but the emotional scars of the attacks of strangers, just for having been a victim.

Comments like, "Some girls rape easy," might be easy to shrug off because they're so common, but they shouldn't be. "Some girls rape easy," means "after you coerce somebody to have sex with you through alcohol, influence, threats, or constant nagging, some of them are willing to call that what it was in the morning- a lack of consent."

And that's good. It's good that more and more women are willing to "rape easy," which is to actually say the word RAPE.

And that is a fucking hard word to say. I know, I avoid saying it constantly.

Constantly.

And writing about rape? Talking about rape? That's kind of what I do. You'd be amazed how many months go by of organizing events, writing blog posts and letters, public speaking even, where I never use that word.

Typing the letters r-a-p-e makes my palms sweat and my heart race and my head swim. And I'm an advocate.

So no, I don't think I could have given that man a fair trial, by the rule of law. And no, I don't think Woody Allen is getting one now in the court of public opinion.

But that doesn't matter. It doesn't matter if a trial is fair if the court is completely biased from the start.

So I'll keep my fingers crossed the Times comes to its senses and keeps a lid on Woody's apologies to nobody. A confession would be news. A letter attacking a victim and her mother for just being another couple of crazy, malicious bitches?

That's just more of what we see every day.

I have no doubt that Woody Allen believes he's innocent. Just as most sexual predators do. They believe they're innocent because they don't understand what "consent" really is, they don't understand or believe that women or children who don't scream or cry or beat them with their fists during an assault really think they were raped.  They don't understand that their actions are predatory.

They think whatever they're doing is totally normal.

And the worst part is, they're right. It is normal.

That still doesn't make it okay.

My heart is with Dylan Farrow, with a little girl finally getting her day in court after four years, with every victim who's been accused of lying by somebody who thinks they're right.

Until we do something to change the way our culture treats victims of sexual violence, I expect that number to keep growing.

By about one, every two minutes.

Me and a Network

My post from this past week's Blogger Idol competition:

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The last big New Year's Eve party I attended was in 1998. A friend invited me- she told me she wanted to go but didn't know anyone. She didn't want to be alone with all the popular guys from school. So I offered to meet her there.

She never arrived, and it was me who was alone... looking out the basement windows with snow piled against them, wishing desperately for a way to escape. Part of me is still trapped, crying and puking but relieved to be alive. And ashamed of being relieved.

During the next nights I curled under my covers and listened to Tori Amos sing "Me and a Gun," a musical account of her own rape. Each time her breathless voice said, "I've never seen Barbados, so I must get out of this," my heart crumpled.

I'd never heard of RAINN- the non-profit she represented. I didn't know she'd taken her experience of being assaulted at gunpoint and turned it into something positive- a way to help other victims. A way to help me.

Eight years later one of my best friends enlisted in the military. I drove her to dinner from my apartment, biting my tongue. I had a speech I'd rehearsed- how it wasn't too late to change her mind. How she needed to be careful.

Instead I blathered vaguely about the dangers of the ultra-male military culture, how she needed to stand up for herself and refuse to be treated with anything less than respect. She smiled knowingly and told me she would be fine, and headed off to basic training.

After a year and a half, a comrade in arms slipped rohypnol into her drink while they socialized in quarters. She didn't know who, but it had to be one of the guys she worked with. People she knew. Friends.

Most rapists are not faceless strangers in dark alleys, evil men lurking in shadows. They're people you see every day. People who believe that they have more right to your body than you.

As the years pass I rely on the RAINN website. On the hotline for help in dark times, for information, for the pervasive attitude of hope.

I'm a member of the RAINN speaker's bureau.

The fact is that the only thing that can end sexual assault is a change in our culture. We live in a society where we ask a woman to explain her own fault when she becomes a victim. We live in a culture where we excuse rape in the media as "sex with an unconscious person" or "sex without consent," as though that doesn't mean the same thing.

This is rape culture. It's that nebulous thing that tells men they have no control over their sexual urges. That tells women our primary value is sexual, and that rape is our own fault. It's what allows entire towns to sympathize with a sexual predator instead of a victim.

Rape culture is what leads us to teach our daughters how to avoid being raped, without telling us how to teach our sons to understand the meaning of consent.

But there are blueprints for talking to boys about consent. The Good Men Project is a forum for sharing stories, ideas, possibilities. It explores what it means to be a man in an enlightened society. There are some incredible pieces that run on this site, a sort of Huffington Post for stories about a masculinity that don't promote sexism, misogyny, or rape culture in general.

The Good Men Project is a resource not just for parents, but for anyone trying to figure out what it means to be a man in the twenty first century. I might not be a man, and I might not have sons, but I care about the men in my life. I care about the harmful messages we as a society send. Not just to women, but to men as well. And particularly the messages we send that lead people to believe they are entitled to another person's body. Or that they are not entitled to assert their own will over their own body- that they are not allowed to say no.

Then there are a few spectacular mommy blogs out there as well that deal with the issues of changing rape culture with their own children. One of my absolute favorites is Renegade Mothering. The author, Janelle, writes about privilege a lot. White privilege, male privilege, economic privilege... and she has a son who is as much a victim of the culture of sexual violence as any girl. That is to say, the messages he receives are the same messages we all get- that boys are supposed to be tough, not have feelings, not empathize. That men should conquer and that women are prizes to be won.

If you read only one thing from her, it should be this. This story about how her young son is interacting with this culture. About how it makes her angry and sad, and how unfair it is that it is her own job to make up for all the failings of a culture that treats her son as weak for having feelings- that equates femininity with failure.

I am angry. And I am sad. But I no longer feel hopeless. When I listen to "Me and a Gun," I still feel the dropping of my heart into my gut. But I know I have the tools to talk to my children. To talk to strangers. To ask for help and to reach out and give back.

My friend and I, we're starting up our own non-profit. A support and research organization. A community. We're working together to make things better.

I've found my Barbados.

I want to help get us out of this.

Failing Wonder Woman

We're big superhero fans in this house.

I had dreaded that moment. I knew from the first time I heard the words, "It's a girl!" that the moment would come, and I prayed that somehow, magically, it wouldn't. That somehow my children would be impervious.

Yet there we were.

Looking up pictures online for Halloween costume inspiration.

An aside- I LOVE making costumes. And I LOVE making costumes based on existing characters. Here's my favorite costume I've ever done for M:

Naturally, I gravitated towards showing them my favorite kid-friendly comic book characters for their inspiration. They were delighted, exclaiming over every picture of adults in cosplay gear.

"Look! There's Batman!"
"Is there a picture of Superman hugging Supergirl?" Lo and behold, there was.
"What other Super Heroes can you show us?"

I pulled up a picture of a group of cosplayers dressed up as the Justice League.

"See girls? There's Batman, and Robin, and the Green Lantern, and Wonder Woman!"

SI shook her head. "No, that's not Wonder Woman. That's her sister."

I stared at the screen.

"Why do you say that?"
"That lady is too plump to be Wonder Woman.

Before I go on- I just want you to see the picture. The EXACT picture.

That woman? She looks amazing. And accurate. I stared at her and my heart fell.

"She's not too plump to be Wonder Woman. She looks fabulous! She looks great! She's a Super Hero!"
"But, Wonder Woman is... not so plump."

I stared at the picture again, and I bit my tongue.

I wanted to ask her if she thought the Green Lantern was too plump. Or Batman. But I didn't. I didn't want to drag my four year old into a conversation that involved criticizing people's bodies.

I wanted to tell her that drawings of people, like their beloved Disney Princesses or superheroes, aren't realistic. That people don't look like drawings, they look like people. But I didn't say that either. Instead I turned off my browser and announced it was bedtime.

While they brushed their teeth, I stared at the images of Wonder Woman that I myself had presented to them.

And I was ashamed again.

I keep Barbies out of my house for a reason. I don't want my children to believe that this is how people are supposed to be shaped. I don't want my daughters to believe that, because their thighs touch or their breasts swell or their waists exceed eighteen inches, that they are somehow flawed, broken, wrong.

I want them to look at their bodies with joy, acknowledge their humanity, and relish in the ability they have to use their bodies. In health. Not in shame.

But in my desperation to find female characters to share with them, characters of strength and courage, I have brought this into their lives. This expectation that to dress up like Wonder Woman, they have to match an invariably male illustrator's masturbatory ideals.

And it's not fair.

It's not fair to them, and it's not fair to me.

My twin daughters are four years old. "Fat" is a word that simply does not exist in their vocabulary. We say "plump" sometimes, and we occasionally refer to the baby's cheeks or bottom as "chubby," but we NEVER say "fat" in this house.

And I'm glad for that.

But I would like them to have some real women- not girls- to look at. Because while children associate themselves with other children, they look up to adults. They see adulthood as an end result- as a goal. They see the adults in their lives, real and fictional both, as benchmarks for success in life.

And as I wrack my brain to think of the female role models I've provided for them in books, and television, I am ashamed of myself for what I see.

Mary Poppins, heavily corseted.
Shelly Duvall, waif-like in her Faerie Tales.
Cartoon after cartoon of women with waspish waists and willowy limbs.
Batgirl, Wonder Woman, Super Girl...

And I ask myself- where is the diversity? Where are the short women, the broad shouldered women, the "plump" women? Where are there characters who represent beauty AND strength, and aren't meticulously cast as physically insubstantial?

And what messages are they getting, and where, that only forces them to see those inconsistencies with female characters? Because the male drawings of superheroes are JUST as absurd, JUST as unrealistic.

But they don't notice that.

All they notice is that Wonder Woman's sister is a little plump.

And already I have no vocabulary to explain to them that this is wrong. That their bodies, that every body, is capable of joy and activity, and equally worthy of whatever costume they choose.

And for the first time, I feel self conscious when they look at me. Afraid that when my children see my body, pouchy from the task of creating them, my children, they will dismiss it. They will deem me "too plump" as well.

And I am terrified that the voice in the back of my head that constantly says the same, that nagging voice we all have that wastes no time to point out our every imperfection, will shame me to silence.

And if I can't stand up for my own body, against the perceptions of my own children, they will only learn what they see.

Shame. Fear. Loathing.

I did this to them. Not just by bringing these images into our home, but by failing to point out from the first that these are FICTION. That nobody looks like Cinderella, or Tiana, or Wonder Woman.

I just hope there's still time for a little of the damage to be undone.

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!"

----

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

The Persistence of Memory

DD by night
photo by Phil Forsyth

Everyone remembers their first real nightmare.

Not the garden variety bad dream, but the first time they woke up in the weird dawn light, confused and eerily quiet, and they crept out of bed with forbidden footsteps to go searching for the one person who could convince you that everything was okay.

I remember. I was about three years old. I had a dream that my father and I were walking from our house to the Children's Museum. When we got there, the door was locked, daddy couldn't open it. Then, out of nowhere, a GIANT BUMBLEBEE came zooming towards us down the abandoned street. It flew towards my father, and he batted it away. Then it rushed towards me... and I woke up.

I tiptoed down the stairs to my mommy and daddy's room, and told my mom I had a scary dream. She grumbled something about being sorry, and groaned quietly as she looked at her bedside table. Then she murmured something about it being okay, and although the feeling of unease still hovered around me, the very real presence of my very real mother made the rest of the world feel more tangible. My nervous energy from dream began to fade.

Strangely enough, she later told me that her own first nightmare was about a bumblebee as well.

Recently, began to wonder how old most children are when they have that first real nightmare. SI and DD are definitely around the age I was for mine, and their imagination play has developed to a point where a nightmare seemed pretty inevitable.

They like to pretend they have scary dreams, but their descriptions of these dreams are always the same.

"Mommy? I had a nightmare."

"I'm sorry, pumpkin. What happened?"

"There was a mean radish, and it ate up all the other radishes."

In case you're wondering, that is a near perfect description of a scene from one of their favorite movies. (Seriously- check out 4:22.) It is the only "nightmare" they know.

Until last night.

Last night, I was up writing until nearly three am. I crawled into bed and managed to pass out from sheer exhaustion, despite the weirdness of not having M in bed with me. A mere four hours later, I heard my door creak open, and the sound of suppressed crying. I looked up to see DD, bedheaded and red eyed, standing in the door.

"Whassamaddahpunken," I managed to sigh out. Not my most comforting moment, I'm sure.

"Mommy..." she said, and broke into tears. I closed my eyes again threw my arm into the air, gesturing her into a hug, and she dove into the bed. She curled up next to me and cried into my shoulder.

"Sokaysweetie... sokay.." I yawned over her, and kissed patches of forehead between the curls.

I drifted in and out of consciousness while she clutched my shoulder and whispered, "I love you," over and over again. It must have been a doozy.

With a near Herculean effort, I opened my eyes again. The sun had risen over the top of the trees across the lake, the world was full of golden tones and the sounds of birds and crickets and toads.The light glinting like diamonds off the gently rippled surface of the water was excruciating.

"What happened in your dream, honey?" I yawned again.

"Mommy... Mommy... Mommy, I dreamed you and SI went away and you weren't going to live with me anymore." And she burst back into tears.

Now I felt like the biggest jerk in the world. Here I was, totally unable to achieve consciousness enough to comfort my daughter, and her nightmare had been that I didn't love her anymore.

"Oh, sweeite..." I hugged her as tightly as I could, and scooped her under the blanket with me.

"Sweetheart, I love you so much. I won't ever leave you. I'll live with you until you're all grown up, and then for as long as you want to live with me."

"I love you."

"I love you too, pumpkin."

"Me too."

"I love you."

"I miss Daddy."

"Yeah honey, I do too..."

Eventually I managed to get a bit more of the dream out of her. She couldn't cross a road, and I took SI into a river. Something like that.

And the thing is, this is something I know she's going to remember. Forever. She's never going to forget finding her way out of her dark room, sneaking out of the bed she and SI are sharing, waking me up and my useless mumbles. She's never going to forget being scared of whatever was in that dream that frightened her so much. She'll never forget how it felt to wake up and not know if I really had gone.

I hope I managed to make it, overall, a good memory. I hope she'll remember that I rubbed her back and kissed her cheek and told her how much I adored her. I hope she remembers that after a while, SI jumped in the bed with us, and the three of us cuddled and talked about going to get Daddy at Aunt Genocide's house tomorrow, and that there was laughter and smiles and I actually kept my eyes open.

I hope she remembers how small she was, and that I was there to comfort her.

I hope there's always someone there to comfort her.

Ridiculously Awesome

I know we haven't, but I like to imagine that we've all been at that same special point in our lives.

You know, the one where your old fat jeans became your regular jeans, and you didn't really mind because they were your fat jeans when you were 22 and you hade made two babies with your body since then...

And then your new fat jeans became your regular jeans, and that wasn't such a big deal, because you were kind of busy making another baby anyway, so you could deal with that.

...and then one day, your latest fat jeans are so tight that as you sit in the driver's seat you can feel the horrific sensation of your back fat being squeezed up behind your shoulder blades and smooshed into the seat.

We also all know that moment when
you realize that some days  "lunch"
is five twizzlers, a third of a  banana,
and twelve blueberries... right?

And then, you cry. Oh, how you cry. And you go out and get a new HIGH IMPACT SPORTS BRA OF DOOM and you relegate an hour every morning to getting yourself in shape.

But, it's easier said than done when you have three very very little people leaving half eaten bowls of goldfish crackers all over your house, and any attempt at a workout routine becomes "jump on mommy or howl in misery" time.

And then, you come up with the brilliant idea to DANCE!

So, you dance and dance and dance with your kids, hoping that this will magically whittle your waistline and you can give those fat jeans that made you cry the finger.

But it doesn't work so well, because while dancing with mommy starts out as being a good hour of cardio a day, it becomes mommy dead lifting thirty five pounds and then spinning in circles with a weight on her shoulder for half an hour, followed by another half hour of vaguely nauseated tottering to a beat.

Yes, we've all been there.

And so I began wondering, what do we do now? When we're still angry at our not-fat-day-but-regular-day jeans, when our workout routine has fizzled, and when we have just as little freedom to leave our homes and go to gyms or zumba classes as ever before?

That's right, folks, workout videos.

I began my hunt for the perfect workout video. It had to be dance based, to fool the kids. They would think we were still having dance parties, but we would just be having them with the movie.

I picked out the one I wanted. It was the P90X guy, so I figured it would work.

But I kept not buying it.

I kept going to the website, and hovering my cursor over the "checkout" button, and just not clicking, and I couldn't figure out why.

I asked M, "Do you think this is a good idea?" and he said, "I dunno... looks kind of sleazy..."

No. Just... no.

And that was it. He had hit the nail on the head. I couldn't bring myself to buy a video to watch with my kids with the goal being "sexiness," filled with testimonies of girls who finally felt "hot" in bikinis, with the never-ending rhetoric around looking like... well... the the people on the video.

I didn't want to send that message to my daughters. I didn't want to let them think that I was losing weight to look sexy, to look like somebody else's ideal. I didn't want them to think that there was a right way to look, and that was it.

Let's face it, they're my kids. They're going to have hips, and breasts, cuves everywhere. And if they're lucky and they've got some of Mike's shape to them as well, they'll also have AWESOME butts and maybe broad shoulders.

They certainly won't look like Jillian Michaels.

I wanted to lose some weight so I could feel good. So I could feel happy in my clothes, in my skin. So I could take a walk without feeling the telltale jiggle of having made three children in the lumps over my butt.

Gross, right? Exactly.

I wanted to feel good, and I know if I feel good about myself, I feel pretty much perfectly happy with the way I look. No matter what number is on the scale.

So, none of those "hot body" workout videos.

A few friends suggested specific dance workouts. Belly dancing, for example. I decided that we had to stick with something that my kids would recognize as dance- and keep in mind, they have learned from me that "dance" means "pseudo-rhythmic flailing, the occasionally hopping or kicking, and the intermittent jazz hands."

You know, this:



So no, it couldn't be African Dance for Beginners.

No, I needed a workout video that just kind of looked like dancing, with music that the kids could just distract themselves with and dance to without paying attention. Something with people who aren't all gussied up in greasepaint makeup and exposed, rock hard tummies. Something a little bit ridiculous.

And then... it hit me. Like a bolt of lightning. The perfect workout routine.

That's right... we're Sweatin' to the Oldies.

It took me ten seconds to find a GREAT deal on a box set of DVDs, and less than two days to have it in my hands. (Thanks, Amazon Prime!) But it took me more than a month of staring at it to put it on. Why?

Because it was utterly humiliating. I mean, Richard Simmons? REALLY? Could I look at myself in the mirror without shame? I mean, the man is the biggest running joke in... almost anything.

Really.

And then I told myself to suck it up and go sweat to some oldies with Richard Simmons, because if I just laughed through feeling ridiculous and dated and weird, then the kids would laugh too, and they would think that exercise was something fun and goofy that we all did together.

And really, that was the whole point.

And so, lovely readers, the kids and I have been doin' the pony with Richard Simmons for several weeks now.

And you know what?

It's kind of awesome.

First of all, the music is totally perfect. I mean, perfect.

Second of all, by the end of it the sweat is pouring off of me. Which feels pretty awesome.

I'm sore all the time. I also shower more regularly.

But the best part is, I have no choice but to keep going. Because now every morning begins with SI putting her nose in my face and saying, "Wake up, mommy! It's time for exercise!"

She doesn't care if I was up until after midnight watching roving hordes of Chicagoans take to the streets to celebrate winning the Stanley Cup.

She doesn't care if I was up until two in the morning reading all of "Bossypants" in one sitting and had idiotically started after she went to bed.

She doesn't care if I just ache all over and don't want to do it just this one morning please please please?

Photo from Nina Falcone

Best personal trainer ever. Instead of shouting at me that I'm fat and lazy and that I need to PUSH or
STRETCH or COMMIT- she just cries that she wants to do exercises with me. Please oh please oh please.

And so yeah, I drag myself out of bed, put on my HIGH IMPACT SPORTS BRA OF DOOM (of which there are now two), and do a million freakin' knee lifts.

And after about five minutes, the girls lose interest in exercising and instead sit on the couch, watch me, and quiz me on the weight lost by the rainbow of people, in an amazing variety of shapes and sizes, sweating along with Richard Simmons.

They squeal in delight whenever the fattest fat lady is standing next to him. "She has a plump tummy! She has a plump tummy!" they yell, and I say, "Yes! And she's exercising to be healthy!"

And they list all the people they know with plump tummies. The list always includes Poppa. "When we see Poppa in Greenbush, we will tell him he needs to exercise to make his tummy smaller!"

"Good idea! We can bring our movie, and you and me and Poppa can all exercise TOGETHER!"

"Yeah! And SI!" contributes DD.

"And SI," I huff through my unceasing kicks and the tune of "Mr. Personality."

Thanks, guy.

"And Grandmommy!" she adds again.

"Yeah," I wheeze out, remembering to breathe slowly despite my impulses to gasp for every particle of oxygen in the room, marveling at how hard it can be to balance on one foot with your arms straight out to the sides, despite being in motion.

DD always jumps in when it's "It's My Party and I'll Cry If I Want To." SI always does the cool down. We always smile and laugh and they constantly show me "new exercises" they've invented. Usually, it's some sort of bridge.

The hour that we're exercising together flies by. Every morning.

But the best part, the absolute icing on the cake, is this...

We've recently acquired a teenager. She's staying with us for a chunk of the summer, a friend of a friend of sorts.

Anyway, she's started joining me in Sweatin' to the Oldies.

And that kid? She can't keep up.

Every day I am outclassing a fifteen year old in my workout routine.

And that feels more amazing than looking at my reflection and not being grossed out by it.

Lunch: cherries, toast with goat cheese and a fried egg,
and cucumber/cantaloupe/parsley juice. That's better.

I also pulled my old juicer out, and began replacing meals (or those seven hour windows where I skipped meals) with fresh juice. My go-to breakfast these days is a beet, three carrots, and two grapefruit. In liquid form. I cut out most of the sugar, carbs, and cow-dairy in my diet. I switched to almond milk and goat cheese, and spent a few weeks taking pictures of every single thing I ate, that shamed me into making way better choices, and the habit of looking at something and thinking, "Do I REALLY want a picture of me eating this?" made a pretty big difference.

That said, I still took the kids out to Kilwin's for ice cream cones yesterday, and totally had a scoop of toasted coconut in a waffle cone. The whole point is to enjoy life, right?

In less than a month, I've lost about ten pounds, and I feel great. I'm trying to lose another twenty (I keep upping my goal) before I move forward on a breast reduction. I am definitely looking to go down to something in the first half of the alphabet in the cup size.

And the kids know it's not about how I look. To them, I'll always look the same. Like mommy.

It's about how I feel.

And I feel pretty damn great.

"Hey everybody! Come see how good I look!"

Third's First

Three days shy of one year old

Today, my littlest little one is one year old.

One whole year old.

Day one, and the light of my life

And I feel sadness, along with all my pride and joy and shock.

I'm sad because I know I haven't given my little girl as much of me as I gave her big sisters.

One month old and enamored with her sisters

I worried about that during the pregnancy- I knew that she would never experience having me to herself. SI and DD never really had that either- they always had to share me.

But with RH, it's different.

During the girls' first year, I took about 8,000 pictures of them.

Two months old and already full of smiles

That is not an exaggeration.

I haven't even taken a third as many of ALL THREE of my kids in the past year. Because I don't have the luxury of snapping photos of every amazing moment, of every outfit, every smile, every new food, every first.

I haven't even blogged the majority of those things.

Three months old, fat and sleepy

RH is amazing. She might not walk, but she talks up a storm. At one day shy of her first birthday, she learned a new word. She could already say, "mama," and "dada," but she can also garble DD's name... which she uses for both sisters indiscriminately. She says "baby" to her reflection, to baby dolls, to pictures of babies on boxes of diapers. She says, "Hi," "Hello," and "Buh-bye" while waving. She says "banana." And now? "Book!"

Four months old and full of wonder

She blows kisses. She gives sweet, tender little kisses with an adorable little "mwah!" sound. Every few minutes, when she's playing, she'll see me and crawl over as fast as she can, and bury her face against my skin. Like she's checking in, making sure I'm still there. Still warm and snuggly, ready to pick her up and rock her and sing to her if she wants me to.

Five months old and sweet as anything

At the table, she's a riot. When you're feeding her, she puts her fists up and bobs around in her chair like a boxer in the ring, bob and weave, bob and weave, bob and weave... as though she's going to get the plastic spoon of squash with a mean right hook. She LOVES to dance, which she does while sitting or in anybody's arms. She's incredibly social, and friendly, and curious.

Six months old and already loves books

She studies things. She watches and mimics. She is a remarkably serious baby.

Seven month old and growing teeth

But when she's on the changing table, and I give her loud, wet kisses under her chin, she laughs with a belly laugh that you just want never to end.

Eight months old and a lover of the great outdoors

Whenever the front door opens, she makes a break for it. She loves being outside and going for walks, or playing in the grass, more than almost anything.

Just like her sisters, she is absolutely and inseparably attached to her frog lovey. She holds it so tight, tighter that I think anyone has ever held a lovey, and then faceplants into it on the floor.

Nine months old and learning to share

Sometimes, when I rock her and sing to her, and feel her small body pressed between my arms and my chest, it's all I can do not to cry. Because I can't believe that this has happened- that she has grown to this wonderful little person who looks so much like me and bizarrely so much like my father-in-law.

Ten months old with a mind of her own

And I can't believe how soon it will be that she has the strange, hard feet of a three year old, stomping through my house, and the long, curly locks of the little girl I haven't yet met. Who I long to meet, and can't bear the thought of replacing this sweet, sweet baby.

Eleven months old and on the move

One year ago, I spent the night in agony as she tried her best to rip her way out of my abdomen, alien style. After I saw the incredibly long, chubby infant with ancient eyes who stared and me as though I had somehow insulted her by forcing her into the world, I became a mother all over again. Everything changed again. Everything was amazing again.

One year old and the life of the party

Today, RH is a whole year old.

At a wedding on Saturday, she and the bride became BFFs

I still haven't taken good pictures of her nursery, all the work I put into it to show you.

I still haven't finished it.

My three favorite girls

I don't play favorites with my kids, not intentionally. I don't give RH the attention her sisters got when they were her age.

But I love her just as intensely as I have ever loved another person. I revel in her babyhood in a way that I never did with DD and SI. I long for it to somehow last long enough for me to drag out the same number of perfect moments that I had with her sisters, when they were infants. But it can't be, and it won't be, because my family is different now than it was a year ago.

The SuperMommy clan

Now, we are a family of five.

Happy Birthday, littlest one.

We're crazy for that baby

I love you more than I can say.