I’m trying to wrap my brain around just why it is that when a male teacher has sex with his teenage student it’s usually decades in the pen, as opposed to when it’s a female teacher and a male student the jail time is often less than a year. In cases where the sex was as consensual as it can be when one party is to young to give true consent, how is it rational that the female predator receive a slap on the wrist when the male predators are often locked away for decades? I’m speaking of 13 and 14 year old children here, key word children.

Doesn’t this hearken back to the antiquated notion that boys will be boys, yet girls should remain chaste? It’s a sex crime regardless due to the age of the victim, but I find it very sad that it’s the girls who are deemed to have lost more of their value. The implication that females don’t have sexual urges is maddening, but in this context it’s truly awful. These young men who were preyed upon deserve better of us. They have been victimized, and when we trivialize their victimization by not treating the perpetrators as true sex offenders, what message are we giving them? Aren’t we reinforcing these old ideas of sexuality and gender where men should get all the pussy they can, and women are either virgins or whores? Whatever society determines justice to be, it should be meted out equally, not skewed by gender and stereotypes of sex drive and the ludicrous value of female chastity.

So last weekend I was on my way home from working a My Little Pony Live! show at the arena when I was rear-ended by two high school cheerleaders in a little old Honda Accord.

I’ve been in more than my share of accidents. Most happened when I myself was a teenager. And most of them were my fault. I was, how shall we say, a less-than-totally-attentive driver in my youth. That corrected itself after I totaled a car. But, having been there, I had sympathy for the two girls - who were understandably upset. Until both of them started screaming at me that I was a bitch, and that the accident was all my fault, I shouldn’t have braked (I had hit the brakes to avoid hitting a car who pulled out in front of me), their parents were going to sue my ass, etc. etc. etc.

As I stood in freezing rain listening to the hysterics it occurred to me that when I was a teenager, merely addressing another adult in the manner the two girls were addressing me would have brought some serious consequences from my parents - the car accident would have been a completely separate matter. My parents didn’t raise me to be a doormat but they did raise me with two very clear, and very simple, ethics about interpersonal relations:

- Don’t behave in public in a way that would shame your family.

- Don’t treat adults, or really anyone, with disrespect. Especially in view of other people.

The girls just kept getting more and more abusive and I was being a good sport and trying to calm them down, when one stuck her index finger in my face and said “don’t talk to us like we’re children!” Which is when both my patience and my sense of humor ran out. And when I also realized that I’ve reached a point where a 16-year-old acting like a tantruming toddler is definitely a child in my book. “Fine, we’ll let the police sort this out,” I said, and dialed 911. The screaming escalated as I turned away back to my car.

As I got in my car to await the police I realized that if that had been Kenneth and one of his friends standing out in the rain, cursing a strange adult up one side and down the other, I would be way more upset about that than I would that he’d gotten in an accident. Accidents happen - especially with teenage drivers. But calling a perfect stranger a bitch is no accident. While I wasn’t expecting deference or even an apology that could have been construed as an admission of fault, I certainly wasn’t expecting what I got from the two girls. Although I guess maybe I should have? I don’t know.

In any case, one of my new parenting goals (and it seems I make new ones all the time these days) is to raise Kenneth to treat other people with respect and to develop some ability to handle stressful situations with aplomb. So I don’t turn the corner one day to come upon him cursing a complete stranger who will walk away from the encounter with amazement about what kind of parent that kid must have.

A while ago I had someone, a former student, do something really shitty to me.  My heart actually raced with fury.  I wanted to smack the spoiled little brat until his head spun.  I thought uncharitable things about his mother’s parenting skills, things like “Well, she’s certainly raised the son she deserves.”  They went downhill from there. Then I started to think about compassion.  I’m not Christian.  I don’t have any religious directive to be nice to people and my natural instinct is to say snide, nasty, cutting little things to make people who offend me feel like worms.  All this is to say that compassion doesn’t come easily to me. And this kid, this spoiled, mean, cruel kid is not an easy place to go with the compassion vibe.  But.  But.  He’s desperate for attention.  He’s screaming for someone to care about him and has been since I first met him.  His mother overlooked his bullying, his explosions into anger, his drug use until he ended up curled on his bed in the grip of a nervous breakdown at 17.  She smoothed every path for him until he slipped right down into despondency.  Then, looking at that, I started to feel compassion.  How lonely, to be a teenager searching for some reaction only to get protected from your own folly again and again.  How sad to have to have a breakdown to acknowledge you own pain.   I think of Dante’s line, “I found myself in dark woods, the right road lost” and wonder how he got there so young.  I feel sorry for his mother, struggling with a difficult child, unsure of how to respond to his outbursts.   And I think of a Zen parable about a monk who carried a woman over a stream.  She was rude, hateful, and strode off.  Miles later the younger monk asked how could he, the older monk, just let that woman speak to him like that after he had helped her.  He responded, “I put her down miles ago.  Why are you still carrying her?” So I try to put things down and feel compassion and pretty much suck at it.  Or, rather, I can feel the compassion but find I still have the anger too. 

Apparently the holiday season has bound and gagged the Mombastic crew.  Where are we?  What are we doing?  Why are we so quiet?  Are we being held for ransom somewhere?  Are masked CIA interrogators removing our toenails and eyelashes one by one with a dull pair of tweezers?

(And why are they called “tweezers” plural?  Why not just tweezer?  Why wouldn’t we say, for example, “Would you go and get my tweezer so I can fish the dog hair out of the cake batter?”)   

I suspect that we all suffering from holiday paralysis.  I know that at our house, there are all kinds of new questions to answer in terms of the holidays, questions involving the 17-month-old whirlwind we call Benjamin.  The issues surrounding the 17-month-old are more complicated than the ones we dealt with last year with a 6-month-old who just laid there, limbs flailing adorably.  Question Number One: Will we bother with a Christmas tree?  Whenever the words Christmas Tree are mentioned, I am immediately struck dumb by visions of airborne and/or shattered ornaments.  And then I imagine myself yelling, “Timberrrrr!” as the tree at last succumbs to repeated pulling and yanking.   I often decide on No Tree.  And then I change my mind, because we *should* be able to teach him not to bother it.  If I follow my usual pattern, however, this indecisiveness will lead to complete inaction on the whole subject, which in the end will mean No Tree anyway.

The other questions have mostly been answered.  Will we get a lot of presents for Benjamin?  No.  I am taking full advantage of his inability to process the goings-on around him.  Will we get to see my parents for Christmas, even though they’re 500 miles away?  Yes, we will, and I’m so happy about that.  We won’t see them on the actual day, but we’ll see them the week after and have ANOTHER Christmas then.  Two Christmases!  Which means two Christmas dinners.  MMMMMmmmm! 

Above all, the question that I’ve been thinking about is: What do I want to accomplish this holiday season?  A successful holiday season for me used to mean that I had found fantastic, perfect gifts for everyone on our list, had given away X loaves of white chocolate cranberry bread, and had made some decadent and complicated desserts for the communal family Christmas dinner.  This year, though, I find myself feeling less focused on the trappings of the holiday season than I am on the importance and pleasure of spending time with family.  Several people have asked me what I want for Christmas, and in years past I might have come up with a few material things I needed or wanted.  But not this year.  I can’t come up with a single thing.  What I really, really want is to spend some time away from the office focusing solely on the people who are most important to me.  No rushing around, no stress, no deadlines.  Is that possible during the holiday season?  I’ll let you know.

What is most important to you this holiday season?  Has it changed for you as it has for me?

Today one of my 17 month old sons spent an inordinate amount of time making the largest spit bubbles I have ever seen–they rivaled some bubble gum bubbles I made as a kid. The child has the most viscous saliva known to humankind, and working on very little sleep I couldn’t stop laughing.

If I had to be up, at least I was entertained.

Above we have the happy family coming together to share thanks, a meal, love and all of the good stuff; I am fortunate to have that as well. Having it all at one house, however, is a completely different story. We have the in laws, we have my dad and stepmother, and we have my mother who is occasionally in town. We have the brother in law who needs to make arrangements with his wife’s family for holiday time as well; I am beginning to fear that my husband’s family will never be in one room together for the holidays again. I feel like I am the nexus of a giant juggling cosmos of people, pie and free time, and I wish I could go back to the days of childhood where we went to my grandmother’s house every year. Period. Instead we arrange for at least one dinner, dinners a few days in a row, andvirtually no free time for ourselves. I’m all for extra extended family time on free days, but as an introvert, I require recovery time as well that I no longer get.

Having children makes it exponentially more complicated; everyone loves the adults, but they are really there to snuggle the toddlers. Before we could alternate years with families, but now everyone wants to see the kids (can you blame them?) on every holiday and really I need to declare some boundaries. Everyone loves us as we love them, but I need to let them know we’re overextending ourselves. Easier said than done.

How does everyone else arrange family time? Has it changed with the arrival of children? If I wore a flashy corsage like the lady in the print above, would my problems magically evaporate? No really, could it? Pretty please?

Image is from McCall’s magazine, circa 1939 Read more »

Grace is the sister of a dear friend of mine, Liza, who has also tested positive for the Breast Cancer Gene. Grace is electing to go through double mastectomy.

What would you do if you tested positive for this gene?

I just read my last post again and noticed that it did not even mention anything about Momhood in it.  I find that interesting!  But it fits right in with my latest campaign, which is entitled “Mama Matters Too.”

Now that I have a 16-month-old whose independence is increasing daily, I am feeling ready to take a little time for Me.  While I loved (almost) every single moment of the selflessness that was required in the first year of Benjamin’s life, I feel ready to bring a little of the Old Anne back.  What does that mean, exactly?  I’m not sure.  I recently tried to reintroduce myself to Old Anne to find out what she wants to do. 

New Anne: So, you’ve been quiet for awhile.  What do you feel like doing?

Old Anne: I don’t know.  What can we do, given the framework of this new arrangement? 

NA: Whatever you want.  How about yoga?

OA: Do you mean a class?  *sigh* I’m not looking like I used to in those tight yoga clothes.  I know it’s really shallow of me, but I can’t face those people until I lose another ten pounds.  Is there an activity we could do where they wear flowy dresses, or tunics at least?

NA:  I’m not sure.  We need to get in shape though.  Do you want to try doing one of the exercise videos we have here at home?

OA:  Not really.  We just worked a nine hour day, made dinner, gave Benjamin a bath, and got him in bed.  Couldn’t we just sit on the couch for awhile until it’s time to go and lie down in bed?

NA: That does sound good.  But just think for a minute…we could do other things besides exercise.  Do you want to maybe take an art class on Saturday afternoons?  Pottery, maybe?  Stained glass?  Or how about a meditation class?  You’ve always wanted to do that.

OA: Hmmm….*yawn*  I don’t know.  I hate to take time on the weekend away from the family since we work all week.  Can we talk about this tomorrow?  (ZZZzzzzzz…)

I’m now facing what I had heard moms talk about before I was one…how do you make time for the You that you were before kids?  I don’t expect or even want the kind of time for myself that I had before, but it would be nice to find the time to do something that integrates the things that I once found enjoyable.  

Friends: Don’t see them much. 
Exercise: Rarely. 
Dates With My Husband: Huh? 
Movies:  See above.

Have you found a way to honor the before-baby You?

The details change, but the main content of the dream is always the same.

I am in college.  Sometimes I’m an undergrad, sometimes I’m in grad school.  It is usually just about time for midterm exams.  I am often sitting serenely on my bed surrounded by books when I have a sudden, sickening realization: I have signed up for a class that I have never once attended.  It is always a class that would’ve been difficult for me in real life - organic chemistry, physics, statistics - something of that ilk.  Never Modern American Literature, or Spanish 101 - no, no, nothing that I could just fudge my way through.

The nausea continues as I try to calculate my best plan of action.   I don’t even have books!  Where does the class meet, and how often?  I search frantically for my original schedule and cannot find it.   Even if I knew when and where the class met, how will I catch up?  It’s impossible.  I’m doomed.  I can’t drop the class and get the money back because it’s too late.  I’m going to fail the class - at the very least, get an incomplete - and I’ve wasted a considerable amount of money.  How will I tell my parents?  What will this do to my grade point average?  OH, THE HUMILIATING SHAME OF IT ALL.

What interests me about this dream is that all of my school experiences from grade school on were largely non-stressful.   That last semester of grad school was a real pickle, sure, but whose wasn’t?  Other than that last semester and the accompanying psychosomatic illnesses it brought on, I found school to be…don’t hate me for this…FUN. 

Every fall, I still get the urge to register for classes and go to buy books.  Driving through either of the local university campuses here during this time of year sends a shiver down my decidedly nerdy spine.  How I envy those students their backpacks and course packs, their hours sitting quietly in the library in the company of a pile of books, their freedom to wile away hours in the student union drinking coffee whilst contemplating the central theme of their next cultural anthropology paper.

The dream didn’t start until after college was over, so perhaps it is less a statement about getting an incomplete in college than it is some subconscious anxiety about getting an incomplete in Life.  Maybe the message is that there is so much left for me to learn that I need to focus on the areas of my own development that I’ve neglected.  Perhaps the vast empty spaces in my brain are clamoring for me to fill them with knowledge. 

 Or - just a thought - maybe I should quit drinking caffeine in the afternoon.  Hmph.

What is your sleeping (or waking) brain telling you about your own life?  Are you listening?

I woke up this morning with most of my voice gone–I can only speak in a deep two-packs-a-day kind of way, and even that is painful. I tried calling to my children, and they gave me suspicious looks, but when I stopped talking and just started smiling they came up to me for hugs and such. That little piece of interaction really made me think about how much I speak with them, and in turn how much of my parents’ parenting involved raised voices. I try to get by on discipline with no more than a firm, stern voice and facial expressions (they are only 16 months, after all), but today I’m not sure I could manage that. It makes me wonder if I ever need to raise my voice with them at all, as my parents often did. Am I being monumentally oversensitive, or is repetitive yelling at a child somehow demeaning to both parties? If my child is in the road and a car is coming, you’d better believe I’ll get loud to warn them, but in a general sense, what place does a raised voice have in interacting with children? I don’t get to yell at my friends or colleagues, but I’m not in a place to discipline them, either. I’m not a spanker, but I wonder if if I’m taking this idea of voice too far–or not far enough.