This is sort of a long-overdue update post. The last nine months seem like they’ve been some of the longest of my life, and not a lot (any?!) blogging got done. I’ll make this post a sort of summary, and see where it goes. Perhaps more detailed posts will follow…

Update #1

We left Costa Rica!  Holy crap, right? Back to the good old USofA. Something I never really imagined we would do quite so soon. We spent about 14 months in Costa Rica. Some of it we loved. Some of it we hated. All of it was very enlightening in many different ways. I haven’t blogged all that much about why we left Costa Rica and why we came back to New York, but that is a post in itself. The memories were much too raw for a very long time, so I put off writing about it and I tried to let my heart settle down and decompress. We came back to New York last May, and it’s taken almost this long to gain some perspective. Stay tuned for more on this topic.

Update #2

We just arrived in Austin Texas. And boy was it a long road to get here! Our whole family endured life in a really bad living situation. I was mistreated, my husband was mistreated, we’ve been a bit poor of money, and we lived an isolating existence for 8 months. And I thought Costa Rica was isolating! Ha! So we took a big ole road trip from New York to Texas. Interesting stuff. Stay tuned for my posts on how this Yankee is adjusting to life south of the Mason-Dixon Line.

Update #3

I am a feminist.

What? You already knew that, say you? Well, here I am telling you that if it is possible to be a feminist by degree, I’ve increased my feminist identification by at least 1000%. That’s what happens when you escape a situation where  a man threatens your right to speak and uses the police to threaten you, simply because you are a woman. That’s what happens when you live 8 months in a home where you and your daughter are treated with less respect than any man in the house. It shouldn’t have taken that much to make me angry, but it did. And my story is nothing compared with what so many women face every day. I know that, and I wish I had gotten angry sooner. More details in later posts. [Note: none of these crimes were perpetrated by my always loving husband, co-blogger here. He is always my biggest lover, friend, and support!]

Update #4

I’m trying my hand at writing. Not just blogs, but fiction. And not just fiction. Romantic fiction. Not just romantic fiction, but erotic romance. Are you figgeting in your seats right about now? Well, you should be! This is hot stuff, baby. Hot.

But seriously, I think the seed for this endeavor was planted in Costa Rica, when we met a lovely friend Judy Griffith Gill, who told me a little about how she became a romance writer. I even read one of her excellent books while we stayed at her house. I don’t generally read romances. I’ve been mostly a non-fiction sort of gal for the last few years. Then, a few weeks after we came back to New York I slept at my older sister’s house and happened to grab a romance that she had sitting on her shelf. It really pulled me in, and for some reason it made me want to write. I’ve had the urge to write before, but never this strongly. And a story practically popped right into my head.

For the last 6 months I’ve been reading every romance I can get my hands on. All sorts of romance. Regency, contemporary, paranormal, virgins, babies, all sorts of types! Partly I was just researching the genres to see where my story would fit. I was also seeing what kinds of romance I actually enjoy reading and considering what kinds I would like to write. I’ve been reading hundred and hundreds of romances for months, and I’ve really enjoyed it.  There are a few genres that I most want to explore. Erotic romance, for one. I like plenty of sex, and I don’t like too many euphemisms. Give it to me straight any day! I’m also a little shocked that I like werewolves a whole lot. I think I just might do a werewolf story next. It’s kind of strange because I always saw werewolves as more of my husband’s interest. Maybe now that I see the softer side of the werewolf (or is it the harder side?), I like them, too! I’m also interested in contemporary romance.

I’m chipping away at my story whenever I have the time. My laptop died, so it’s been kind of difficult. Hopefully that will be remedied soon. I’ve got 20,000 words down on the first draft so far, and most of the rest of the novel somewhat planned out. I’m using Scrivener for Windows, and I love it. Stay tuned for more details on the writing, and a link to my writing blog as soon as I have it up and ready!

That’s pretty much it for the update. I’m still pursuing childbirth education, and my inspiring husband is working at the same for the dads with his Birth For Men business. It’s slow-going for me, faster for Arp. With Baby B still under the age of 2, I’m having a hard time carving away time to work on my business. It’ll happen eventually, though. I’m sure of it.

[Photo credit: Houstonian]

This isn’t the first time a boss has picked an unqualified woman just because she agrees with him and opposes everything most other women want and need. Feminism has never been about getting a job for one woman. It’s about making life more fair for women everywhere. It’s not about a piece of the existing pie; there are too many of us for that. It’s about baking a new pie.

The other day I was painting (the walls) and listening to Dar Williams’ song, When I Was A Boy when I thought of myself at about the age in the picture at left. So I got out some really old photo albums and scanned this picture. It is me at one of the happiest times in my life. I frequently think back to this time with utter joy because it was a time when I had the most freedom. I was totally unconcerned with what other people thought I should look or act like (well, except my mother, but that is another story), unconcerned with impressing boys, unconcerned with the worries of sexuality. I played with the boys and girls in pretty much an equal manner. I loved to run a million miles per hour (no trouble with bouncing boobs back then).  I had dirt on my knees, and scrapes on my elbows.  In many ways, I really identified with the boy mentality, saw myself as one of the boys.  Whenever I hang out with girls in this age range, I think of that lovely me, so unhindered.

All of a sudden, maybe around age 10 or 11, puberty hit, and I was never the same.  So many worries.  So much stress.

It is only recently, maybe in the last 5 years, that I’ve gotten back some of that boy inside me.  Actually, it more like I’ve managed to integrate the boy with the girl.  It’s like the girl and boy were enemies for years, pulling each other in different directions and making each other miserable.  But now they are friends.  I think I’ve finally managed to appreciate both for what they are, and maybe see how both can make a happy me.

Can the way I am choosing to raise my children save them from this integration process?  Will they identify less with the labels, and just have the integrated me all the way through?  I hope so.

When were you a boy?  Tell me.

Of course, I’m kidding – you’re either gay or you’re not. But judging by some of the comments people tend to make, you’d think there was some sort of tangible connection between interacting with physical objects and homosexuality. Like boy clothing having no pinks or lavenders, or girl clothes with no dark blues. Or boys being guided towards vehicles and ‘action’ figures and girls getting feminine dolls and play cooking utensils.

That kinda stuff doesn’t fly in our house. How would we know whether aggression or demureness is a major aspect of our children’s personalities already? Why would we send them clear messages that one should hide his feelings and the other shouldn’t? It makes no sense. For all those guys who want their boys to be ‘real men,’ which I presume involves growing up to be a virile ‘ladies man,’ your kids would probably have a better chance with the ladies if they were allowed to be aware of and expressive of their feelings and they developed a good sense of empathy.

Having a boy & a girl seems to amplify things quite a bit, since we get to experience both sides of the issue. It seems a lot more pronounced with J, who’s been called coy or flirty countless times. Somehow, just being shy doesn’t cut it – there has to be a sexual undertone to her behavior. This irks us to no end. While she is probably aware the some people are boys and some are girls, we’re pretty damn sure that her behavior has nothing to do with gender and everything to do with her personality. M doesn’t get as many comments since he’s rather loud and rambunctious at times. Of course, J is also rather loud and rambunctious, and climbs more and gets into way more stuff than M ever did at the same age, but that behavior isn’t as noticed as the occasional misconstrued shyness

I also wonder how guiding behavior based on presumptions affect things developmentally. J enjoys playing with vehicles a lot, especially if there are moving or removable parts involved. M has spent quite a bit of time caring for ‘his baby,’ especially when he copied our behavior after J was born. When a child is growing and learning, experiencing different things can only have a positive effect on development. Let any child play regularly with Legos, Tinkertoys or blocks and I’m confident that regardless of gender, they’ll grow up with some positive benefits to their ability to reason spacially. The same goes for playing with dolls and dollhouses and hopefully learning the basics of sympathy & empathy in the process.

Here’s the pink sleep sac that started us down the primrose path of dalliance…

They writhe and strut, shake their bottoms, splay their legs, thrust their chests out and in and out again. Some straddle empty chairs, like lap dancers without laps. They don’t smile much. Their faces are locked from grim exertion, from all that leaping up and lying down without poles to hold onto. “Don’t stop don’t stop,â€? sings Janet Jackson, all whispery. “Jerk it like you’re making it choke. …Ohh. I’m so stimulated. Feel so X-rated.â€? The girls spend a lot of time lying on the floor. They are in the sixth, seventh and eighth grades.

As each routine ends, parents and siblings cheer, whistle and applaud. I just sit there, not fully comprehending. It’s my first suburban Long Island middle school talent show. I’m with my daughter, who is 10 and hadn’t warned me. I’m not sure what I had expected, but it wasn’t this. It was something different. Something younger. Something that didn’t make the girls look so … one-dimensional.

Why is it that these so-called parents don’t see the problem with this? What do they want their daughters to grow up to be? I’ve felt out of touch with the mainstream for awhile – the natural birthing / extended breastfeeding / cosleeping / homeschooling / unconditional parenting / ecologically conscious / non-CAFO-meat-eating / non-TV watching / finding Bratz repelling / house music listening demographic is rather small, after all . But every so often, I hear about something like this that makes me feel REALLY out of sync with mainstream society.

I don’t think I’m old and crotchety (yet) but this makes me wonder how much worse can things get? Are there more and more parents who just don’t think anymore? Is anything that’s popular and on tv automatically acceptable to the masses? Granted, this is a single example but it’s not a revelation (at least not since the Spur Posse stuff came to light years ago). I recall an article some time back that stated that oral sex in middle school was not unusual. I’ve heard of one school where some 8th-grade boys who are reputed to be sexually active wear pink t-shirts on Fridays. There seem to be enough parents who are either uncaring and/or ineffective. This socialization sounds like it’s laying the foundation for a future society that will probably make my skin crawl. However, the editorial is good from the view that there are others who won’t condone this kind of parenting.

I’m sure that many parents see these routines as healthy fun, an exercise in self-esteem harmlessly heightened by glitter makeup and teeny skirts. Our girls are bratz, not slutz, they would argue, comfortable in the existence of a distinction.

But my parental brain rebels. Suburban parents dote on and hover over their children, micromanaging their appointments and shielding them in helmets, kneepads and thick layers of S.U.V. steel. But they allow the culture of boy-toy sexuality to bore unchecked into their little ones’ ears and eyeballs, displacing their nimble and growing brains and impoverishing the sense of wider possibilities in life.

There is no reason adulthood should be a low plateau we all clamber onto around age 10. And it’s a cramped vision of girlhood that enshrines sexual allure as the best or only form of power and esteem.