I guess I am writing about it, a little. It was intense, and the whole process of learning about childbirth in general this past year was immensely satisfying and worthwhile. I always have big plans to do courses of study in different subjects (gardening, ancient carpets, the history of Scandinavia, cheese making (which turns out to look like way too much trouble)), and then life gets in the way. But with this there was a physical and chronological imperative, plus a compelling interest. Chrysanthemum, who had three c-sections and went above-and-beyond as a sounding board and pregnancy-and-birth companion, now wants to train as a midwife once her children are a bit older. That’s how convincing and inspiring our discoveries and shift in perspectives have been. ‘

Anyway, these are the books and movies and blogs that I studied. I have to thank Rixa, once again, for getting me interested in the first place, and for sending me a box with several of these resources (and apologies again for keeping them so long!).

Baby Catcher by Peggy Vincent

I’d recommend this book to anyone who enjoys reading, whether interested in childbirth or not. It’s a hilarious, gripping memoir of a nurse-turned-midwife (CNM) in Berkley in the 70s and 80s. It’s totally story-driven and entertaining, candid, and moving. It’s also full of the sights and sounds and movements of natural, normal birth, which gave me a frame of reference for imagining what my birth might be like. Vincent doesn’t shrink from addressing difficult topics like birth injuries and getting sued; it’s not a rosy fantasy about home birth, but a real record of an astonishing array of births.

Birthing from Within by Pam England

I preferred this how-to-prepare book to Hypnobirthing. It makes no promises about being able to avoid pain completely in birth; instead it teaches several coping techniques and gives good advice about how to practice them enough to be helpful. ( I should have trusted the book and practiced more.) England also encourages the creation of birth art. I was skeptical about this; I’m not an artist, and I hate doing things poorly. Then I turned a page and read that sometimes the people who are most resistant to the idea of creating birth art (drawings, paintings, etc) are often those who would most benefit — because if you think of childbirth as art — as something that you only want to do if you can do it perfectly, well . . . that’s not a helpful way of viewing childbirth. You don’t give birth a certain way (or prepare to give birth a certain way) in order to impress people or to do it “perfectly,” and neither should those concerns stop you from doing art — your best art even if it doesn’t turn out “perfectly.”

Ina May’s Guide to Childbirth by Ina May Gaskin

I bought this book on Rixa’s recommendation during the pregnancy that I miscarried last August. I remember putting it down after a few chapters, thinking it was just too hippie and crazy for me. When I picked it up again just six months later I read it straight through, nodding over and over, thinking how obvious it was, how much sense it made. If some of the birth stories in the first half of the book seem far out, skip to the second half which is full of good common sense information. I went back again and again in the weeks right before the birth, reading a couple stories at a time. After a lifetime of being afraid of the pain or hearing so many horror birth stories, it’s good to crowd those out with positive accounts of successful natural births (unmedicated and un-interventioned). Much of the natural birth information is more reactive or “what not to do”  in nature. Balance that with beautiful stories of how it can happen, how it actually does work. And again, this is no fantasy where nothing ever goes wrong, but stories where most of the time everything goes as it should, and when it doesn’t (because this is real life), appropriate medical help is something to be grateful for.

When I set this book down after my first full read-through, I immediately got on the computer to check airline tickets to Tennessee. I would’ve given anything (okay, except going into debt) to give birth at The Farm. One of the most significant testament’s to Ina May’s credibility is her excellent relationship with the hospital and doctors who treat The Farm’s infrequent transfer patients.

The Thinking Woman’s Guide to a Better Birth by Henci Goer

This is a very straightforward and well-substantiated collection of best practices, including advice on how to have the best epidural or best c-section possible if they’re required or desired. It’s a great comprehensive introduction to what and why and how for a first-time mother or an experienced mother who wants to know more about her options and the risks and benefits of each.

Pushed by Jennifer Block

This is an expose-type book about maternity care in the U.S. It’s a quick read and includes fascinating anecdotes, including a section on the disservice done to women in states where home midwifery is illegal. One of the first stories was about a Florida hospital during hurricane Charlie (that was the first summer we lived in Florida). With only minimal power and resources at the hospital, all elective inductions and c-sections were cancelled, and women in early labor were sent home to progress on their own (as used to be standard). When women in real labor were admitted, things occurred in a natural way by necessity and after that experience, several of the labor and delivery nurses changed their employment or career trajectories based on what they had learned.

I skimmed a lot of the middle because by the time I read this, I was already convinced that our maternity system in the U.S. is whacked, it was kind of preaching to the choir. But for anyone who’s skeptical or on the fence, I think this book would be pretty convincing and eye-opening.

Birth Reborn by Michel Odent

I asked Tom to read this book because it wasn’t by a crazy hippy woodwoman — so this is a good book for someone who needs a traditionally authoritative (male, medically trained, hospital-affiliated) take on the safety and desirability of natural childbirth. I liked the historical slant, describing how Dr. Odent and his staff in France stumbled upon several of their methods for improving childbirth and postpartum care in the hospital setting. Recently Dr. Odent has become less and less supportive of having the father in the birthing room, suggesting instead that the mother be supported by women (which is good, of course), but there is no way I would’ve wanted to give birth without Tom.

Birth as an American Rite of Passage by Robbie E. Davis-Floyd

I probably wouldn’t have pushed through the heavy academic chapters of this book if not for our electricity fast, but it was fascinating, and reminded me of being in college. The exploration of birth as ritual and rite-of-passage and as a way for society to initiate women (and their husbands) into a technocratic worldview (where we trust and revere technology over nature) was well-thought out and effectively cautionary. I did feel severe cognitive dissonance by the end — because much as I want to say and believe that I “trust” nature over technology, I chose to give birth in a hospital — obviously core beliefs are more deep-seated and changing a whole philosophy requires more than a summers’ reading.

Birthing the Easy Way by Sheila Stubbs

Back when I was first interested in birth, I titled (and never finished) a post: “Breastfeeding is my gateway drug” about how my enjoyment of and success in breastfeeding was what made me think maybe I could do birth more naturally too. It’s also just about the only facet of attachment parenting or natural family living that fits me (well, that and composting). So I was delighted to see a chapter in this book called “Everything I needed to know about birth I learned from breastfeeding.” Now I could almost make the argument that “Everything I needed to know about parenting I learned from birth”: be patient, you’re not in control (of natural processes), you can take control/be autonomous (of “the system”), surrender, be patient, be flexible, be patient, after great pain comes the reward, be patient.

This book is also great for those interested in VBAC and/or HBAC. Stubbs describes a progression from c-section for CPD (baby “too big” for vaginal birth) to homebirth attended by a doctor (this is in Canada several years ago) to unattended (accidental bec. it happened so fast) homebirth.

Oh, and one of the things I liked best about this book in particular was that Stubbs doesn’t intend “the easy way” to imply “easy” as in “without pain” (more like “simple” or “straightforward”). She emphasizes several times that her births were painful and that if she could handle it, so can anyone, because she’s a self-described wimp.

Rediscovering Birth by Sheila Kitzinger

This book explores birth art, beliefs, and practices around the world and historically. Sometimes the author’s disdain for the West and modern birth practices frustrated me, especially when she was unwilling to criticize “native” beliefs that are pretty clearly dumb. Like the culture (now I can’t remember where — Africa?) where babies are wet-nursed for the first week of life because colostrum is thought to be poisonous. If we can ridicule Americans for our crazy ideas, surely we don’t need to excuse “natural” superstitions that are just as unsupported. But I would still recommend the book, especially for people curious about other cultures. The illustrations alone are well worth a look.

Hypnobirthing by Marie F. Mongan

I know several people who swear by this method. I think I should practice the relaxation techniques for everyday living, because a quick temper is one of my problems, but as for avoiding pain in childbirth? Not buying it.

Birth Without Violence by Frederik Leboyer

This is a weird, stream-of-conscious description of labor and birth from the baby’s perspective (culminating in the soothing Leboyer bath). I checked it out from the library and thought — if this is what people envision when thinking about home or natural birth, no wonder it seems too New Age-y. On the other hand, it was a quick read, and it is interesting to think about birth as the baby experiences it, especially in light of the new in utero studies.

Mothering the Mother by Marshall H. Klaus

I got this for Chrysanthemum and me to read; it’s all about the benefits of having a doula, a female birth attendant who is with the mother the whole time, provides non-medicinal pain relief (massage, etc), and helps her understand and make decisions about interventions suggested/required by hospital personnel. It makes a strong case that if you’re attempting a natural childbirth in a hospital, a doula could make the difference between success and succumbing to medical pressure or pain in the moment. There’s an appendix that describes a doula’s role and responsibilities that was instructive. I chose not to hire a licensed doula because Chrysanthemum was such a help to me throughout the entire process, and also because I trusted my midwives and had heard such great things about my hospital’s support of natural birth (which all turned out to be justified), but I would definitely recommend a doula for any first-time mother who had less idea of what to expect or what the challenges might be in a hospital setting.

Rixa compiled a similar list of suggested books for a natural hospital birth; see the comments for other recommendations.

Here’s a list of Rixa’s favorite breastfeeding books. I should’ve read some books on this before my first kid, but luckily after a rocky couple weeks, it’s almost always been pure pleasure.

Obviously, I cannot recommend Rixa’s blog enough. I can’t think of any other aspect of my personal philosophy that has changed as drastically as my views on childbirth have since first starting to read her. Here are three posts I wrote ridiculing unassisted/home/natural birth before I knew any better (just to give you an idea of how much my thinking has changed — if I were sure of having that much influence over my kids’ thinking about the world, I’d be a happy lady).

Heather’s blog is also a delight of crunchy wonders. I may not be (anywhere near) as committed to living naturally as Heather is, but I love reading about her latest crazy experiment, and she may be the only person on earth with wider feet than mine. I love how she questions the rationale behind just about every everyday behavior. Like, she doesn’t like wearing shoes so recently she just stopped wearing them. Awesome!

Tom was very impressed with Ricki Lake’s documentary The Business of Being Born (it’s on Netflix instant play, too). Again, they don’t shy away from showing what happens when a baby truly needs medical intervention (there’s a c-section for a growth-restricted baby). The point is, you learn as much as you can, you hope and plan for and expect the best, and you’re ready for anything, just in case.

Orgasmic Birth was a little stranger. Tom said as long as I promised not to roll my eyes up into my forehead like the one lady in the tub who is clearly experiencing what the title suggests. Then, since he was immersed enough in the possible sounds and sights of birth and ready to support natural (messy, loud, strange) processes, he said, “or whatever you want to do is great.” Orgasmic Birth has a lot of valuable stuff in it, even if I still can’t imagine really getting that much happy from it.

The one thing I really wanted to do before giving birth this time was attend a natural birth, and my cousin-in-law Karin was gracious enough to invite me to hers. I got the call from my cousin Jared that her water had broken and contractions were starting on a nice Saturday evening in July that just happened to follow a perfectly horrible day and a half of a perfectly awful stomach bug. So I missed the birth, and that’s my biggest preparation regret, that I didn’t get to be present for an actual live (home) birth. I think that would be an invaluable experience, though maybe even more so for a first-time mom.

Then there was Three Cups of Tea. And, I was in Manhattan the day the Twin Towers fell. I know I said more than once that we should just bomb the whole place “over there” and be done. Luckily I don’t have any sort of influence but unluckily I’m not the only one who thought that reflexively. But reading Three Cups of Tea made me think of the influence I do have over my three (and soon four) daughters, because it’s all about educating girls, and how that is the way to change the world.

Basically, I’m convinced. The book is a fascinating adventure story and history/geography/politics/culture lesson. It also confirms something I’ve long thought: that real heroes, people like Greg Mortenson who are crazy and visionary enough to effect real change in our world are worth studying and following even though they’d be hell to live with (or to be).

I had a professor who said one of the saddest things I’d ever heard, that it was rare for a book to come along that changed how he thought about the world. At the time, almost every book I read did that, and I couldn’t imagine being so jaded. Now I can, which makes Three Cups of Tea so remarkable. It’s obvious, now, that education (especially of future mothers) is the answer, but how obvious is it that one person could actually do so much about education with so little support/money/conventional development savvy?

Usually I shrug off  charitable concerns. When you tithe (10%) of your income, it’s easy (for me) to think I’ve done my part, but this book actually makes me want to do more. Then I thought: too bad I’m about to give birth soon, I know I’ll be preoccupied with a new baby for the forseeable future. Except, I’m a girl, a mother of girls. I can work every day to be a better mother and educator of these people in my own house, raise them so they’re aware of the wider world, grateful for their own opportunities, and eager to help others. We can save money as a family to donate. I can follow Greg Mortenson on Twitter, of all things. And there on the list of suggestions for how to help at the back of the book is number 5: Write a book review for a blog.

So, easy enough: everyone should read Three Cups of Tea.

This something, however, has my heart full and my eyes overflowing (again) in the shower before church.

It’s not the greatest book ever, I suppose. The naive (but surprisingly enlightened) narrator reminds me of Huck Finn, and perhaps that’s a bit of a stretch for a seventeen-year-old girl living in frontier times. There’s a lot of death and a lot of melodrama, and if I hadn’t been expecting the ending to end as it did, I would have hunted down Nancy E. Turner and scalped her like I was an Apache for letting that happen to my characters.

It also reminds me of Anne of Green Gables (her “unrealized” desire for self-improvement) and the latter books in the Little House on the Prairie series, though they can never compete with historical events seen through a modern, more contemplative and searing lens.

It was the sort of story that had me forgetting it was between the pages of a book except that I had to turn down nearly every other page (sorry, Marcy) to mark a passage I want to come back to. It was one of those books, the first in too long, where I find myself flying in a million directions when it is done. Part of me wants to sit and savor it, part of me wants to write something of my own, and part of me wants to go suck the marrow out of life and my kids because life is fragile and utterly glorious.

It makes me ashamed of all my faults: my impatience, my discontent, my coveting and jealousy and selfish ambitions, my fear of sounding less than educated and brilliant in my writing. It makes me grateful for all the grace and good people who are in my life. It makes me vow to work harder and complain less.

And I can’t think about it without a welling up inside.

One of my favorite things is to read books in the locations where they’re set. The only thing better than escaping into the world of a book is to escape mentally at the same time that physically you’re exploring to. I read Agatha Christie’s Death on the Nile while cruising down the Nile, Jane Austen in Bath, Willa Cather’s Song of the Lark while in a motorhome between Colorado and New York City, Elizabeth Peter’s Night Train to Memphis while not far from there (Egypt, not Tennessee),and Romeo and Juliet while sleeping in a 16th century palazzo-turned-youth-hostel in Verona. Someday I’d like to read Death in Kenya on the plains of the Rift Valley, and a Susan Napier romance while backpacking in New Zealand.

This week I read These is My Words: the Diary of Sarah Agnes Prine 1881-1901, Arizona Territories (a novel) as we camped on the Utah-Arizona border with my parents;  the girls had Spring Break, and we were hoping to find warmer weather. There are many things about camping that I don’t like: the dirt, the gargantuan task of packing and unpacking, and the dirt. Camping is good for returning your settings to default, though, and the view, all that nature crap, is probably worth the dirt. I’m always surprised at how important the weather is; when you’re camping, if it’s cold outside, you are cold.

So I sat in our tent, reading, on a sleeping bag, on an air mattress, and I realized I couldn’t whine about the sand in my teeth or my nose that was cold all night or the kids who fought for thirty endless minutes before settling down to sleep and then had to be tucked back in their sleeping bags every few hours. It’s a bit surreal to read about pioneer ladies who ate only if they worked from sunup to sundown and survived only if they were a faster shot than the bandits when you’re out in the wilderness playing at rustic. Almost feels disrespectful that we would try to recreate (in some small way) the circumstances of life that made living a century ago such a peril. Yet we were safe, and stuffed with food, and only 7 miles by pretty good road to a brand new Walmart.

On Friday we hiked to Native American rock paintings and were actually in Arizona for an hour at Glitter Gulch, which should not be confused with the strip of topless casinos in Las Vegas, but is actually an almost-mined vein of gypsum selenite crystal on BLM land. Sally said, “I cannot believe this stuff is worthless; it is magnificently beautiful.”

When I was a kid, the luxury of reading a book all in one sitting was something I took for granted. Reading These is My Words interspersed with outdoor ventures and teaching Susan to play Concentration, Go Fish, and Old Maid with our new Dora the Explorer cards might have been frustrating for the interruptions, but the book packs such a lot into its pages, and contains such beautiful (not sickly-sweet or ranty) meditations on motherhood, that I didn’t mind (much) having to spread it out over three whole days.

I don’t want to give any of it away, but I want to give you some taste of it. Near the beginning, the narrator’s best friend’s sister is raped on the trail. The friend’s family are Quakers, and Ulyssa submits without fuss (it isn’t told graphically; I’ll let Sally read this book when she’s 14 or so). Sarah runs back to the wagon and gets her gun and shoots the bastards dead (sorry Mom, if that isn’t an appropriate use of that word, I don’t know what is) before they can get the other sisters. The Quaker family, including the best friend Savannah, shun Sarah and Sarah mourns their friendship. A week or so later, Sarah is supposed to butcher a chicken for dinner:

As I lay that chicken down she stretched out her neck and calmly laid her head on the wood making little cooing sounds. I lifted the hatchet and shook her. Fight back, chicken, I said. Then I hollered at it, fight back, chicken! In a minute I was yelling Fight back Ulyssa! Fight back Ulyssa! over and over like a lunatic.

I was standing there shaking all over and crying out and I could not chop that chicken to save my life. Suddenly over my shoulder I hear these words in Savannah’s voice, Well, you are WRONG, Papa! and then Savannah is there and taking the chicken and the hatchet from me. Everyone has circled around me while I was crying. Savannah says, I’ll do it for you, it’s all right, then she bursts into tears and drops the hatchet and the chicken and throws her arms around me and we both cry to beat all.

Harland took to chasing that chicken to have her for lunch and calling out come here, little Drumsticks, and we all smiled for the first time in many, many days (18-19).

In short: beg, borrow, or steal a copy of These is My Words. You’ll thank me later, even if you don’t read it while camping in the desert.

While mommy blogging is not dangerous in the same way that crack cocaine dealing is, or even illegal, it is an illogical, unrewarding thing for otherwise-reasonable women to engage in in the hope of making it big. Just like crack cocaine dealing.

Consider:

“The problem with crack dealing is the same as in every other glamour profession: a lot of people are competing for a very few prizes.” (Sure, some women earn a bunch, but a million more would like to).

“When there are a lot of people willing and able to do a job, that job generally doesn’t pay well.” (Mommy Blogging pays roughly .0032 cents an hour, and that’s not including the time spent dealing with those “episodes” that become charming “anecdotes”). (105)

How can Mommy Blogging have so much in common with standing on a corner all day catering to addled codependents who demand something as brain-enhancing as SpongeBog Squarepants crack cocaine?

It turns out that the worlds of crack dealing and Mommy Blogging are both governed by tournament-type rules.

Rules of the Glamour Job Tournament

1- “You must start out at the bottom to have a shot at the top.”

2- “You must be willing to work long and hard at substandard wages.”

3- “In order to advance in the tournament you must prove yourself not merely above average but spectacular.”

4- “And finally, once you come to the sad realization that you will never make it to the top, you will quit the tournament.” (106)

Blogging in general (personal blogging in specific, and Mommy Blogging in more specific) has so little space at the top of the pyramid of success that even those who have enough success or get enough comments feel terribly insecure about it. Where enough equals any more success or comments than Jane gets.

Which is why I am going to stop blogging. Just kidding. Of course I’m not in blogging for the fame or the fortune. Like you, I do it for the friendships and the writing.

And because I don’t know any crack cocaine gangs that are hiring.

What, you don’t think that blogging is anything like dealing crack? Maybe Jane was smoking a bit too much of her own product? Or maybe she should just stop reading Freakonomics: A Rogue Economist Explores the Hidden Side of Everything.

Okay, I’ll stop. Since I finished this spectacular book yesterday, anyway. I’m going to keep reading the Freakonomics blog, though, because I LOVE it.

The authors (of both book and blog) are curious, smart, creative, and they apply their curiosity and reasoning powers to a dizzying array of topics. From the link between legalized abortion and reduced crime to the incentives of cheating, daycare pickup fines, and real estate commissions, to exploring the (non)benefits of obsessive parenting, Steve D. Levitt (the economist) and Stephen J. Dubner (the journalist) are, basically, wonderfully thought-provoking.

Even if they did convince me that blogging (standing on a virtual corner shouting LOOK AT ME, LOOK AT ME) is about as smart as selling crack.

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Dear Stephenie,

Did you catch the second episode of the new (almost-as-good-as Alias, probably-like-X-Files) show on Fox, Fringe? I know you’re sad, sad, sad right now about the internet-leaking of Midnight Sun, and probably you have better things to do than watch House and Fringe on Tuesday nights. Like write. Or play with your three sons or talk to your husband. But some of us don’t (or, we do, but, our husbands have Scouts on Tuesdays anyway, and the kids are asleep/snacking/screaming in their rooms, and writing isn’t getting us anywhere that it’s taking you).

So there I was, watching my new show Fringe, and I have to tell you that Bella’s pregnancy and delivery in Breaking Dawn was my favorite part of that book. I loved how Re-gag-me was a vampiric parasite, much like all babies, who leach the calcium from their mother’s bones and who, if you’re Rh-negative and have a husband who’s Rh-positive, all of your kids will be A-positive and you have to get two extra shots and even more blood drawn so your body won’t turn on them. Which, if you think about it and you think that vampirism is like a virus or blood disease, really makes sense.

Photo from Fox.com. You can watch full episodes at hulu.com or Fox.com.

Anyway, the good people writing Fringe totally stole your idea of the baby who develops, in utero and out, much faster than normal. Of course, they followed the logical conclusion that aging and death would also come prematurely, whereas you came up with some ducks machine about development stopping at a very auspicious time, say, right when Re-gag-me would be a perfect age for the imprinting/newly-vampirphiliac Jacob.

I think Pacey would make a good Jacob, actually, which is another sign that you’ve been talking to J.J. Abrams lately. Or maybe you need a good copyright attorney.

Yours,

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But ever since Sally learned how to read, it’s been kind of nice that they have too many old hardback copies of Nancy Drew, The Secret Garden, and Danny Dunn and the Anti-Gravity Paint. Susan and Spot love Grandma’s picture books. Like toys, someone else’s books are always much more exciting that your own.

A couple months ago, Susan set down Grandma’s copy of Rapunzel long enough to discover Fanny’s Dream, an enchanting pseudo-Cinderella-type fairy tale. Fanny’s fairy godmother doesn’t arrive in time to send Fanny to the ball. Instead, her good friend Heber comes calling and offers her “one hundred and sixty acres, a little log cabin, and dreams of my own . . . and good food and great company.”

Fanny accepts, though she warns him that she doesn’t do windows. So Heber and Fanny settle down to a mundane life of farming, parenting, and laughing.

Here’s my favorite part (and a good candidate for fridge lamination):

As for Heber, he figured that it hadn’t been easy for Fanny to give up her dreams, so he made it a point to wait on her at least once a day, as if she were a princess, and every so often he wiped the grime off the windows.

When Fanny’s fairy godmother finally shows up, after three kids and a house fire and pig slopping, butter churning, and outhouse pranks played on Heber, Fanny has to decide whether she wants her current life or her dream life. I don’t want to give away the plot, but let’s just say I haven’t finished reading it yet without crying.

Last time I read it to the girls, I noticed an inscription on the title page: To Mom and Dad, love Jane and Dick, Christmas 1998. That was just six months after Dick and I were married. And I think I gave it to my mom because I know she gave up a lot of her dreams when she got married at 17, had me at almost-19, and then mothered continues to mother the five of us and grandmother the kids that we have added.

I guess it’s okay to hang on to some books forever.

Obviously, Fanny’s Dream Works for me!

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Oh! How joining that group would be sweeter than all the Be Fri – St Ends necklaces in the world.

The next best thing was a trip to the library, where I got Austenland, Shannon Hale’s first grown-up book, and Sally got The Princess Academy, her Newberry Honor book.

At first Princess Academy wasn’t princessy enough for Sally, who’s seen Barbie as the Island Princess one too many times. A few weeks later, after a detour through the old Nancy Drew books, Sally picked up Princess Academy again, and this time she was hooked. I sat down with her last night to see if it’s something I’d like to read:

On a scale of 1 to Harry Potter, how was it? I liked it as much.

What was your favorite part? When the bandits came.

Was it set in the real world? No, it was set in somebody else’s world, but that world seemed real.

Would you like to live in that world? No, it’s all cold on Mount Eskel.

Would you recommend it to your friends? Yes. What about the boys? I think boys would like it — there are princes and stuff in it.

There you have it: Two Thumbs Up for The Princess Academy. Sally is seven, but I think it would appeal to tweens, teens, and even grown-ups who remember reading Andrew Lang’s Fairy Books and Ursula K. LeGuin.

As for Austenland, I couldn’t help comparing it to the Twilight series, even though they are incredibly different. The authors share many characteristics — they’re both female, Mormon, mothers of small children, and both write YA books. They also both write romance-y books for a PG audience.

The first half of Austenland was delightful. Of course, it doesn’t hurt that I read Melinda’s copy of the Complete Jane Austen when I was thirteen, and that I watch both the Jennifer Ehle/Colin Firth and Keira Knightley/Matthew MacFadyen Pride and Prejudices regularly. Hale’s writing is fantastic. One of her images still thrills me: she compares an middle-aged woman suddenly outshone by a younger flirty woman to a wilted carrot in the back of the refrigerator. I’ve had enough sad carrots in my crisper to love this image!

But the romance/plot is ultimately unsatisfying. I want to be convinced that my hero and heroine belong together. That they deserve each other, fit together, that their relationship will last. And she couldn’t convince me of that. Contrast that to Stephenie Meyer, who is not the world’s greatest writer. And who could use an editor like that carrot could use a shot of adrenaline.

But Stephenie Meyer is an incredible storyteller. Her plots are satisfying and convincing and I feel like I will die if her characters don’t end up together.

Is it too much to ask for great storytelling and fantastic writing all in the same book? Maybe they could collaborate? I mean, when they’re not busy understanding each other?

—-

If you’ve ever wondered how to (or if you should) express your religious beliefs in your online writing, check out my guest post at Segullah today: Have you born your testimony on YouTube yet?

And for a great example of the power of blogging for good, check out Blog Community Supports Injured Couple. Tara at The Well-Rounded Woman talks about how bloggers have raised money and pulled together for Stephanie and Christian Nielson.

Aack. I just realized I’m a week behind on the theme. Sorry! Next month I’ll have a children’s book. Promise.

If I ever wrote a book and someone (who knew where I got my first and third daughters’ names) said it reminded them of an L.M.Montgomery book, I would lock myself in the bathroom and cry happy tears for three days straight. And then come out and read the Emily of New Moon trilogy again.

So that’s my literary standard. I’ve also read just about every other kind of romance there is, from the classic to the near-pornographic. I’m a Mormon (didn’t say a good one), a woman, a BA-in-English reader, a mom, a wife, a sometime-aspiring writer, and I have to tell you what I think about Stephenie Meyer’s Twilight Saga, because either you’ve never heard of them and could care less, or you have heard and could care less or you’ve read them all and (love or hate them) have talked/blogged/read enough of other people’s reviews to care less about yet another review.

Still, I have to say that I am conflicted by the Twilight Saga — indeed, one could say, if one were inclined toward impassioned prose, that I want to both love them forever and to sink my teeth into them and drain all the blood from their weak, helpless bodies.

First I’ll admit that I’m jealous of Stephenie Meyer’s success. I’m jealous of her book tours and her new house, and that she never has to cook anymore, and I’m pretty sure she’s hired a cleaner and child-minder. But even more, I’m jealous of her inspiration and focus. That she dreamed a plot and then that she sat down and actually wrote the whole ding-dang thing. So that’s some of the conflict, but mostly it’s that the English major/fangirl/Mormon/Mom/latent feminist in me see the books very differently.

+++SPOILER WARNING+++

As a BA-in-English Reader

Holy get-an-editor, Batman. The first 75+ pages of Breaking Dawn should have been a 5-page epilogue to book three. If I’d picked up the last book in the series without having read the first three or being invested in the characters, I would have been able to put it down and never look back. I get that extreme popularity is an overwhelming validation of good-enoughness, but, these books are lazy. Lazy writing, lazy editing, lazy including-of-every-stray-thought lazy.

One plot point in particular — They’re terrified for Bella to see her own daughter, yet have no fear that the vampire witnesses will be tempted to drink Renesmee’s blood after they smell her half-humanness and listen to her heartbeat. These are vampires WHO KILL HUMANS on purpose. Wuh? Maybe if an editor had read the book this could’ve been discussed? Lazy.

As a Fangirl

I couldn’t put any of the books down. I love that all the ends tied up neatly, that Jacob imprinted on she-with-the-worst-name ever, that Bella got to finally become a vampire, that the vampires and werewolves (shapeshifters — whatever) are all friends. Things turning out well and happily-ever-afters divide enjoyable fiction from serious fiction, and thank goodness for that.

As a Mormon Mother

After Breaking Dawn, I agreed with Tara that how Stephenie Meyer handled the sex/intimacy in the book was fantastic. Meyer portrayed desire without any body parts heaving or throbbing. She also expressed the uncertainty (after months of anticipation) that surprised me on my own wedding night:

I was freaking out because I had no idea how to do this, and I was afraid to walk out of this room and face the unknown. . . .

How did people do this – swallow all their fears and trust someone else so implicitly with every imperfection and fear they had – with less than the absolute commitment Edward had given me? If it weren’t Edward out there, if I didn’t know in every cell of my body that he loved me as much as I loved him—unconditionally and irrevocably and, to be honest, irrationally, I’d never be able to get up off this floor. (p 83)

When Dick tried to get to second-base after our wedding ceremony and before our reception that night, I felt so weird. If you’ve spent 21 years believeing that all sexual intimacy should be reserved for marriage, suddenly being able to express all the desire that has been raging in your body is heady, frightening, exhilirating, nauseating.

And if you’re as lucky as I was, your 23-year-old husband is even more clueless about how the whole process will even work. Ten years later, the fact that, through faith and goodness on his part and, really, blind luck and strange circumstances on my part, the first time we ever experienced connubial bliss was with each other is really one of the biggest wonderful things in my entire life.

Does that sound naive and silly? I want that for my daughters — their own purity and their husbands’. I have good friends, friends I love like sisters who, through different beliefs, different experiences, or just different lives, had slightly different wedding nights. And most of them have wonderful marriages to incredible men. (And on the other side, my sweet sister who never even kissed a boy before her husband is going through a sad divorce. Obviously, virginity guarantees nothing, and experience doesn’t dictate disaster.) But this is still what I pray for for my daughters.

That doesn’t mean I think Edward is the archetypal husbandly-ideal, despite his refusal to sleep with Bella outside of marriage. I like that Mormons revere chastity. But it is incredible to me that fornication is so bad in Mormon terms that the fact that Edward has murdered people is a mere footnote next to the big headlines about his never having been impure. Sure, he now only hunts wild animals, we believe in repentance, yadda yadda, but last time I checked, you could repent for fornication, as well.

So for a woman who has read stuff she really ought not to have read, Breaking Dawn handles newly-married physical intimacy with exquisite appropriateness. But would I want my daughter reading it? This is important not only because I am liberal in the reading department, but because these books are intended for the tween-and-up crowd. If I’m praying daily (or should be) that my daughters will go to their wedding nights MUCH more unaware than I was, I’ll have to seriously consider that.

Other Mormon-ish ideas include the belief in a never-dying soul, the ideal of eternal love, the importance of forming families. My cousin even pointed out that the Cullen vampire coven/family could be similar to the Mormon pioneers in that they’re driven from place to place and misunderstood, but once you get to know them, they’re not so bad.

As a Latent (I hate wearing a bra, but I haven’t burned it yet) Feminist

Bella’s passivity irks. Oh, how it irks. Her existence having absolutely no meaning outside of Edward bites the big tuna. Because Edward is not even that exciting. He’s obsessed with expensive cars, he probably wears cashmere sweaters, and you can’t even warm your feet on his legs at night. What’s to like? And Jacob — what a whiny werewolf. Seriously have not ever read of such a melancholy, effeminate “hero” since Romeo. He’s almost worse than Bella in the “my life is ooooo-ver if I can’t have yoooooouuu” department. At least he’s warm.

But — the baby as parasite! The pregnancy and motherhood as point of entry to actual adulthood (and in Bella’s case person-hood). Oh, how it sings to me. If you’ve breastfed and never once thought of how that darling suckling has quite a bit in common with a vampire, you are less imaginative than I. I love how the baby almost kills her, and yet she is willing to die for it. Die for want of Edward = Let me vomit. Die for baby-love = I actually understand this.

And when Bella becomes a vampire, she almost seems to have her own will. She realizes she is not the center of the universe and that everything is not actually her fault. Of course, this is because all blame for everything since World War II now shifts to her child, but like every good mother she lies to Renesmee and shifts blame back to the bad vampires. Where it probably belonged in the first place.

We should all be so lucky

The best criticism I’ve read of the Twilight Saga was a comment on Mormon Mommy Wars after the third book came out. Someone said that she hated the books — all three of them. If I could be assured of that kind of negative reaction, along with sentiments like this comment I once got: “You obviously suck at reviewing a good book, can’t wait till yours is out so we can smear it,” I’d probably start writing tomorrow. Especially if there were any chance I could stop cooking and start book-touring when I was finished.

Twilight Review Links (if you just can’t get enough) (if you have or know of another review and would like to be on this list, comment or email me, and I’ll add you).

First, if you hated Ruh-nez-mee as much as I did (esp. with the cute Carlie as an alternative!), try Mormonizing your name. The phenomenon of making up your own name is not unique to Mormons, of course: look at celebrities and people who live in Harlem. But somehow I feel like we should know better, or just use some good, old Biblical names, like Keturah.

Gail Collins at the New York Times called Bella A Virgin Goth Girl, and worries that Edward is to the average male as a female porn star is to the average female.

In the same vein, Mormon Mentality discusses whether the objectification of Edward/men is seriously unhealthy. (hat tip to Conscious Intention for those two links, via Feminist Mormon Housewives which is discussing Twilight/Mormonism right now.

Normal Mormon Husbands has done quite a few Twilight posts. Here’s The Twilight Series for Dummies (And Totally Desperate Mormon Guys), and here’s Breaking Dawn: The Spoof. Sometimes I tell myself that I could be funny and interesting if only I had more time. And then I realize I’d also need talent.

Sue at Navel Gazing at its Finest is hilarious, and here’s Why I think Twilight Sucks and Other Important Thoughts. Yeah, talent would probably help in the funny and interesting department (Sue’s pretty busy, I imagine!).

Here’s Laura William’s Twilight Thus Far. I think she nails why Bella’s character is a bit unsatisfying.

Mormon Mommy War‘s the Wiz reviews Breaking Dawn.

Entertainment Weekly‘s 10 part interview with Stephenie Meyer, in which she says she wrote the books for herself and her adult sister (but still I think, as a Mormon, mother, writer, something, she can’t just shrug off the fact that her publishing company markets them to 12 year olds). (hat tip Mom of 3 Crazy Kids).

And can I just make one request: It would make my life so much more complete if Seriously So Blessed would do a review of Twilight. Seriously am on the edge of my seat to see what she (they? it?) would say!

]]> http://www.seagullfountain.com/2008/08/25/eat-drink-vampire-bella-a-review-of-the-twilight-saga-by-stephenie-meyer/feed/ 32 http://www.seagullfountain.com/2008/08/01/because-i-dont-think-you-understand-and-i-know-i-dont/ http://www.seagullfountain.com/2008/08/01/because-i-dont-think-you-understand-and-i-know-i-dont/#comments Fri, 01 Aug 2008 22:09:25 +0000 Shannon http://www.seagullfountain.com/?p=1419 I got in trouble yesterday for a comment I left on my sister’s blog about her soon-to-be ex-husband. My sister is extremely circumspect, and, while she is open with our family and her friends, she isn’t one to badmouth or vilify or be vindictive. In other words, she acts in a saint-like manner where I would be slashing and burning, verbally, if not with sharp knives and blowtorches.

I just finished reading Joan Wickersham’s The Suicide Index: Putting My Father’s Death in Order. It is fantastically well-written, and, like the best writing, both original and yet completely inevitable. I felt that the “index” organizing scheme wasn’t entirely successful, but I appreciated the metaphor of not being able to organize thoughts on something as traumatic as suicide in any totally coherent manner.

Wickersham, with Mozart-perfect prose, discovers her father has shot himself and then circles back and back, like the ripples from a pebble, trying to understand the why. But I had a why of my own.

Why should I care? Somewhere between 30,000 and 60,000 people commit suicide in the United States every year. It seems self-indulgent and morbid for a brilliant writer to spend seventeen years obsessing over her father’s. And why should I, a reader who likes a good dollop of romantic escapism in her free time, spend 316 pages reading the (no matter how exquisitely-rendered) stark, painful accounts of a brutal childhood, a financially-failing adulthood, and, finally, the suicide of someone so removed from my own life?

Though I resisted caring, it was compelling, and so I recommend The Suicide Index without reservation. It’s a stunning piece of writing, and, to anyone who has ever known a suicide (noun, verb, adjective) or who has ever felt like a failure, it offers, if not soothing comfort, a wealth of understanding and not-aloneness.

Still: Why? My second reaction is Why not? Should not every life be examined in such great detail? On the one hand we can shrug and dismiss this particular suicide in light of all the others and all the other tragedies, petty and catastrophic, that occur everyday in every country. Or, we can hope and demand that each life, each choice means something, matters. Wickersham succeeds in making me care about her pathetic father and selfish mother, her supportive husband and her inconsolable self. I don’t ask more from a novel.

I did get one more thing, though. I finally figured out why it is so hard for my sister (and me) to come to terms with her coming divorce. Wickersham says of suicide: “When you kill yourself, you kill every memory everyone has of you. You’re saying ‘I’m gone and you can’t even be sure who it is that’s gone, because you never knew me.’” When you leave your spouse out of the blue, you kill every memory everyone has of you. You say ‘I want a divorce’ and we will never be sure who you were, because, obviously, we never really knew you. Even if we are not as surprised as we should be.

On the very last page, Wickersham remembers what she first thought on hearing that her father had shot himself, and it is exactly what I thought myself on the 16th of March, a Sunday morning four and a half months ago:

“Oh no,” and “Of course.”

Divorce, it seems, is not so different from suicide. It is the killing of one’s marriage instead of one’s self. And if that marriage was an intrinsic component of one’s self, one’s perception of one’s self, it is almost worse than death.

And so, even though I thought the “index” organizational scheme wasn’t perfect, it’s a helpful way to catalogue my sister’s husband’s leaving:

The Divorce Index

Divorce
announcement of
necessary “strong language”

We are rushing to get ready for church. My mother calls. She knows when our church is, and I imagine she suspects how frantic we are at fifteen minutes to nine. She tells me she and my father are at my sister’s house, and that my sister’s husband has left her. I say, “That f—— b——.”

announcement of
to my sister

I would prefer a big fight at the end. My sister does not get that. One day he loves her and the next he is gone.

death and

I cannot imagine Dick leaving me, but if he did, I know it would hurt less if he died, “loving me.”

dreams and

The only thing my sister ever wanted is to be a wife and mother.

factors contributing to

?. If I understood, I would probably be able to make small talk with him again.

feelings of disgust and

The day before he leaves, Saturday, my sister and I dress our younger sister up and take pictures of her with our six children. He is working, and then he comes home for dinner. My parents are there. We eat lemon chicken lasagna my sister has made. I sit next to him, on his right. I drink one of the special Barrel Brothers vanilla rootbeers he stocks especially for his guests, for me. We talk running strategy. He runs marathons; I’ve just finished my first 15k. He is charming, friendly. I worry sometimes that my sister is unhappy, but I think he will never leave her. He loves his cars and his iPhone, but he is not a bad person.

impact on my children and

My 3-year old daughter asks if she will be getting a new daddy soon. My girls wonder why their aunt is crying all the time. My 7-year old asks, when Dick and I argue, if we are going to get a divorce now, too.

state of my sister’s heart and

Broken.

state of their family and

Destroyed.

timing of recovery and

Like any mourner, my sister has good days, accepting days, and she has days when she thinks she will never laugh, never relax, never be happy, never understand. She will probably write 316 pages in her journal before she is done.

And I think, “Oh no,” and “Of course.”

—-

*Updated*

I have changed this post as much as I can to respect my sister’s privacy. One thing about this whole situation is that I have hurt worse over this than I did over my miscarriage. The miscarriage made sense. The baby was a mistake, God didn’t intend for me to have that baby. Divorce, in this case, still doesn’t make sense to me, and it hurts, because I liked and trusted him, too.

So I was talking to my friend who taught fourth grade. She has read practically every YA book, and especially every single fantasy-type book. This is my friend Tracey who, with our friend Melinda, I used to sit around on Friday nights reading books in high school. You know, when we weren’t out being extremely sought-after at parties.

Tracey loves Harry Potter — I think she said book five is her favorite, but the whole series is smashing! And I bragged casually mentioned how my soon-to-be second grader (Sally) was almost done with that one.

Oh, but with book six and seven, she said, you can definitely tell they’re not for kids anymore. Because the characters are growing up, they start swearing some, and Harry isn’t even really going to school, he’s fighting the bad guy, so it’s pretty scary.

Sally just showed me on the dust jacket of The Half-Blood Prince: “Teenagers flirt and fight and fall in love,” hand over her mouth, smirking and rolling of eyes. So it seems Tracey was right about the kissing, too.

What to do? I know this is only the first in a long line of books, movies, songs, clothes, etc that I’m going to have to allow or disallow. Clothes are easy. They’re modest or they’re not. Music is harder because I like a few songs that have questionable lyrics (but really good melodies!). Movies are pretty easy so far, even though Dick periodically tries to convince me that Sally can watch a a PG-13 movie with him. (She can’t. I’m in charge. The End.)

But books? What if my mom had not allowed me to read Wuthering Heights or Phantom of the Opera at 12? It wasn’t until a month ago that I watched the Gerard Butler Phantom and realized he was old enough to be Christine’s father, and just how disturbing that is. And Ayn Rand’s Atlas Shrugged at 13? (though anyone who can get through John Galt’s speechifying deserves a few romantic encounters).

Compared to what most kids see on TV, this probably seems like a really silly question. But, my kids aren’t most kids.

The best answer, dang it, is for me to read the books first, right? Please don’t say that. How about I watch the movies? Is the last movie coming out soon?

What would you do? Have you read books six and seven? Have your kids? Will they give Sally nightmares or scar her for life?

Mama Bear, on the other hand, is shown as the fount of all wisdom and motherly goodness, which I have no problem with, in theory. But her Politeness Plan goes against everything learned from behavior modification studies, being a system of punishments for bad manners with no reward for good manners. (Good manners are their own reward.)

So it’s no surprise that a sound Theory of Teaching Manners is based not on the parental units, but on the actions of Brother and Sister Bear, who scheme to subvert the Politeness Plan by being overly polite, hoping this will irritate Mama into scrapping it altogether. Instead, as Brother and Sister enjoy the happier, sunnier, all-around celestial harmony that is greater politeness, they gradually forget to be overly polite, and, of course, the over-politeness never bothered Mama in the first place.

Game Plan: Overly Polite

It’s really quite easy to teach manners. Simply model good language. For example:

“Please, Sally dearest, say May I have a glass of milk, Mommy dearest? or you won’t get anything to drink all day.”

or

“Please, Susan dearest, put your freakin’ boots in the closet right this second or I’m throwing them away.”

or

“Please, Spot dearest, sit your tookey down before I come whack it so hard.”

Simple.

Take it to the Next Level: Thank You

After you’ve taught your kids to say “please, xxxx dearest,” you’re ready to move on to possibly the most important phrase in any language: Thank you. Learning and using “thank you” in a foreign country is the best thing you can do to promote cross-cultural understanding and world peace. That and “I’m sorry”/”Excuse me”/”I’m just a clumsy tourist; please don’t judge all Americans by my cluelessness.” In Japan, for example, we used “sumimasen” liberally, to great effect.

Imitation: the Easiest Form of Parental Abuse

The Overly Polite Politeness Plan is highly effective. Sally, Susan, and Spot now often say “Please, Mommy dearest.” However, we’re still working on the “Thank you, Mommy dearest.” Here’s how it comes out as of today:

Sally (7): “Thank you, Mommy dearest” (snark, smirk, eye roll).

Susan (3): “Gank you, Mommy dearest” (sweet smile, syrupy singsong).

Spot (1): “dat do” (get the video camera: SPOT CAN TALK!).

Teaching manners by the book is what works for me this week. Head over to Shannon’s for the most amazing list of every tip you ever needed, and many you never could have imagined.

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Perhaps I should have brought her a caffeine-free Mountain Dew, as that is as close as I can come to a beer. Maybe next time.

Notice how Dick horned in to be next to (and touching!) Dooce. Notice also how the short, chubby one was pushed to the front and therefore looks more short and chubby than strictly necessary.

I wanted to see Dooce, despite good advice to stop stalking her already. I didn’t want to have to buy her book, though. That’s what libraries are for. But we needed a Father’s Day gift for Dick’s dad anyway.

On Thursday evening I didn’t consider the book for my own dad because I worried that he wouldn’t appreciate the swearing. But the very next day I called someone a f—— a—— in my father’s presence. My brother was horrified, wanting it documented that that was the first defilement of the homestead by the f-bomb.

But Dad actually defended me, saying I was PROBABLY RIGHT. I’m sure he thought better of that later. No matter how much someone deserves to be called a f- a-, it’s just not good precedent to encourage Jane in thinking she’s right. She already knows she is, especially when it comes to derogatory nomenclature.

Speaking of dads, fatherhood — having a dad, being a dad, being married to a dad — is an unexpected, and possibly inspired, topic for a Mommy Blogger’s first book. Heather’s essays (2 of the 17) are good. A bit disappointing if you are a faithful reader of Dooce.com, as there is very little (no?) new material. A bit impressive too, as her skill in framing a narrative, creating immediacy and urgency then deftly mixing in backstory and exposition, is just breathtaking. BREATHTAKING.

Jon’s essay about his father is troubling. I enjoy Jon’s blog, though I confess I read it rarely, and always as an accompaniment to Dooce. His essay here is a bit strained, a bit contrived, a bit forced. A bit rambling. A bit incoherent. I feel uncomfortable for him.

Being married to Heather B. Armstrong seems like as thankless a task as your basic wind-beneath-my-wings, X-could-never-do-it-without-Y role. It’s nice that the supporting role is played so well by a nice guy in this case (rather than the stereotypical nurturer-woman), but I don’t envy the pressure he must feel to produce writing as clever as hers.

things i learned about my dad (in therapy) and several initial reactions were covered well by Lauriewrites, and if you’re the type who compulsively reads the reviews on Allrecipes.com before cooking, check out the thoughtful Amazon reviews, which leaves me free to reflect on the great mystery that is successful writing.

I’ve been reading Laid-off Dad since just before he announced his divorce. In an era of seemingly-easily-disposed-of marriages, his anguish at succumbing to divorce, as a last resort, is immensely appealing and heart-wrenching. So I want to love his essay, I want to love every word that comes out of his mouth/pen/computer. And yet, his essay? A letter to his sons about the last summer before their family breaks irrevocably? It’s all over the place, with a genealogical section both baffling and distracting. 

It makes me wonder if writers reach a certain point of immunity from narrative flow. And if they do, probably it shouldn’t be before their first solo book is a bestseller.

I do love that LOD is emotionally candid about his divorce. His description of not-fighting in front of the kids as “two people ensnared in a fit of furious quiet,” “screaming in stage whispers,” is fantastic, and his ability to hope, while still in the acrimonious middle, that at some point mom and dad will be more amicable is a triumph of heart over instinct.

Then I read probably the most profane essay in the book, Peas and Domestic Tranquility, and I wanted to sit down Dick and my dad and his dad and Dick’s dad and my brother who will be a dad someday and every other dad and mother I ever knew and read aloud to them every profanity-laced sentence. I want to quote the entire thing here, but that might violate some copyright or other. Greg Knauss posted an excerpt on his own blog, though, so you can read a bit before running out later tonight to get the book for yourself.

His dissection of family dinnertime is so freakin’ spot-on that I will worship at the fount of his RSS feed for the rest of time. His essay is also organized, with what might even be called a thesis or road map: “Here’s what I’ve found that sets me off: disobedience, lying, and rudeness.” How deliciously un-p.c. and old-fashioned. Let’s here it for some basic, unquestioning-for-once-in-your-life obedience! On lying, he says:

If anything crystallizes the Pyrrhic victories of fatherhood, it’s the fact that my fondest wish is for hooligans instead of sociopaths.  . . . the lying bothers me . . . because I see my own weaknesses and failures in it. Lying is about not having the confidence to defend what you’ve done. Lying is about weaseling out of the consequences of your actions. I was a liar because it seemed easier.

I get angry at my kids for lying because now I know it’s not.

It’s a neat trick to inspire me to try to do better as a parent. I can read Love and Logic for Girl Children Aged 1-7, or Dr. Sear’s Discipline Book, but honestly, that kind of measured, well-meant drivel can make me want to match my three-year old tantrum for tantrum. Why do I have to be the adult? Why do I have to take the knees to the head and the screeches to the ear and the food spit out on the floor with a cheerful smile and maybe a lame time-out?

Somehow, Greg Knauss’s essay (and now the posts I have stayed-up-too-late to catch up on) are outrageously entertaining AND instructive. He understands, and informs me: 1) Why I do what I do, 2) Why my kids do what they do, and 3) That I am not alone in wanting my kids to just SIT. DOWN. FOR. DINNER. And (in the case of my girls) SIT UP STRAIGHT SO I CAN’T SEE YOUR PANTIES. DANG IT. 

What’s more, and most incredible, he makes me feel actual desire to be a better parent. I know what I should do. Making me feel inclined to do it is another thing entirely.

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But where’s the fun in slavering adoration? Besides, the House quote I chose for today is: 

Dr. Wilson: Beauty often seduces us on the road to truth.
Dr. Gregory House: And triteness kicks us in the nads.

I don’t really know what this means: “Beauty often seduces us on the road to truth.” The wisdom of House’s comeback is apparent Every. Single. Sunday. At. Church.

Beauty often seduces us on the road to truth

Does it mean that on your way to falling for your chemistry lab partner:

You get distracted by the captain of the lacrosse team:

Or does it mean that if something looks good and sounds good, it’s easy to overlook the real message? Like, say, that great children’s morality tale The Rainbow Fish? Ostensibly about sharing (good) and vanity (bad), I am not the first to point out that it’s really a clumsy parable about the virtues of socialistic society in which anything good (beauty) must be shared  (enforced by emotional manipulation) for any kind of happiness to be achieved. But I think it’s even worse than that. I KNOW. Can it be?

Let’s consider how an earnest parent could use The Rainbow Fish as pre-standardized test preparation (Hey, it’s cheaper than Kaplan Review):

How to Read to Your Children so They Ace the ACT

1) Ask comprehension questions: Why is Rainbow Fish sad?

2) Introduce If-Then logic construction: If Rainbow Fish gives a scale to the other fish, then            ?

3) Vocabularic Analogy: Scale is to Ocean as Fur is to         .     

4) Math: If R.F. swims at 5 mph and Daddy still cannot find our house in the dark, how long would it take R.F. to get home?

5) Moral Dilemma: When the other fish refuse to play with Rainbow Fish if he won’t surrender his very epidermis to them, is that just a reminder of the IRS’s role in our lives or a commentary on the greedy, petty nature of mankind?

6) MD #2: When Rainbow Fish agreed to appear on TV in a mediocre animated series with dubious plotting and suspect moral pronouncements, was he selling out?

The problem with The Rainbow Fish is that every parent wants to see their child as Rainbow Fish, the  beautiful, unique, WELL above-average fish who learns that it’s better to look like everyone else if that means everyone else will play with you. Wait, that’s not it. I mean, R.F. learns that sharing makes him happy. Right.

What about all the ugly non-rainbow fish? What if my kid is an ugly fish, a fish without whatever it is the special fish has, pushing, covetous of someone else’s Wii? Do I really want her to learn from this book that she should withhold her friendship and empathy until that Wii is cut in enough pieces to share with the entire neighborhood? I don’t think so.

—-

For an only-to-true look at the other House quote for this week, check out this funny post from Sit. Stay. Good Blog. I especially like the part where her boss asks her to find a heartfelt, personalized Mother’s Day sentiment for him to deliver.

Dr. Cameron: Men should grow up.
Dr. Gregory House: Yeah. And dogs should stop licking themselves. It’s not gonna happen.

To participate in the Makes-Me-Smile Monday Carnival, see the guidelines here.

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Today I must confess to another sin of pre-judgement. I was wrong when I said The Book of Mom Bites. The End. Now that I have read all 261 pages, I can in confidence tell you that what I should have said was:

The Book of Mom Bites the Big Tuna. The End.

First, though, I’ll list the things I like about this book. Because I can only imagine how awesomely scary it must be to send forth one’s book to an uncaring world, like casting pearls before swine, or sending your firstborn to kindergarten. Will her teacher recognize that she is WELL above-average the first day?

What I like about The Book of Mom

I like that life/friendship/marriage/motherhood/people are portrayed as having so many ups and downs that it’s nearly impossible to determine whether they’re “good” or “bad.” But it’s hard to appreciate this when the characters and their relationships change too conveniently based on what kind of foil the narrator needs at any particular moment. (NM = Narrator Mom, BF = Best Friend):

NM Depressed = BF Perfect Example of All Good Things.
NM Enlightened = BF In Need of Reciprocal Wisdom.
NM Open to Husband = Husband Complete Jerk.
NM Resenting Husband = Husband Unexpectedly Sends Her to a Spa.

I like that tough topics are addressed: alcoholism, near-adultery, cancer, incest, borderline child abuse, unhappy marriages, and unfulfilled motherhood. But it’s hard to embrace this aspect because too often the revelation of a character’s issues (e.g.: BF witnessed father’s rape of sister, p 241) are transparent deux ex machina (ducks machines) tacked on ex post facto (after they would do any good plot-wise) that presumably explain otherwise incomprehensible behavior.

I like that these issues aren’t resolved satisfactorily. That resembles real life, right? But this is fiction, and some sort of resolution would be nice. If you don’t mind manufactured conflicts, surely manufactured solutions wouldn’t sully your writing aesthetic too much.

I like that friendship is so important to NM. I also sometimes wonder what on earth I’d do without my best friend. But NM’s friendships are a bit codependent, and I can’t help thinking that if she could be only one-tenth as understanding of and interested in her husband as she is her BF, she would have the best marriage on the planet. At one point (p 113), BF says “Honey, where have you been? We are married,” and I think that’s just wrong.

I could go on, about the fact that this book is fiction when it isn’t and full of New Age-y profundities that aren’t (p 237) and man-bashing (p 224-5) and dialogue so contrived and stilted (p 154) that at one point (p 226) BF asks NM: “Are you reading a script?” And all I can think, is, FINALLY, someone says something you might hear in real life.

Or I could point out how icky it is that in this work of “fiction,” NM finds the meaning of life in a workbook called A Course in Miracles, which happens to be the actual basis for seminars the author teaches in real life. Coming soon to a town near you: Taylor G. Wilshire (author) Teaches A Course in Miracles, Which Tate (“fictional” NM) Says Saved Her Life.

But I’ll just skip to the ickier and ickiest parts that make me want to pull out every strand of hair on my head. While jumping up and down on the ashes of this book.

Ickier Part of The Book of Mom

I think we can agree that the whole point of this book is figuring out how to embrace and enjoy (or at least survive) Mom-hood.

Right when NM reaches the bottom of her incredibly whiny downward spiral, she realizes that she and BF should create something together, “like a book that empowers children.” (I could point out here that TGW (author) is also coming out with a series of children’s books, but I’ll restrain myself). BF says the book should have a “parenting edge, like ‘Get off your cell phones, Blackberry, and email and be present for your children. . . . kids can’t wait, and we don’t get that time back with them. It’s lost.’” And NM says, “So your message is that parents should be connected and one with their children, living fully in the moment” (p 92).

The children’s book is written by NM and illustrated by BF. It is a success, and NM has to fly out-of-town for a signing on the same day that her oldest son has a special performance at school. He doesn’t understand why mommy won’t be there for him. NM explains:

I will be there; not in body but in spirit. . . my spirit is who I really am — it will be wrapped around tightly hugging you, embracing you. My words will be in your head telling you how much I love you. . . . If you get sad or scared, remember my heartbeat is tugging your heart. . . . I will be there every minute that you are there; I will not miss one beat, because my love will be all around you. . . . I’ll be the invisible power that walks in front of you and behind you. (p 175-6)

BUT I WILL NOT ACTUALLY BE THERE BECAUSE I WILL BE IN ANOTHER TOWN PROMOTING A BOOK ABOUT HOW TO PARENT CONSCIOUSLY BY BEING PRESENT FOR YOUR CHILDREN AND LIVING FULLY IN THE MOMENT.

Ickiest Part of The Book of Mom

Maybe we can agree that the other whole point of this book is that motherhood is a challenging, important thing, that, if approached with wisdom and love and balance, will be fulfilling. Also, armed with this new self-knowledge, a woman will feel that what she does as a wife and mother is of incomparable, intrinsic value.

NM’s strained marriage plays a big role in The Book of Mom, and, since the roles of mom and wife are often inseparably entwined, this should be a strength of the book. The biggest breakthrough in NM’s marriage comes when she is finally able to get her husband to see her as an equal partner after her new writing career takes off and she is a “working woman now. A working woman who got paid, that is — with money and respect.”

BECAUSE IF YOU ARE NOT GETTING MONEY FOR WHAT YOU DO, YOU DO NOT DESERVE RESPECT, EVEN FROM THE MAN WITH WHOM YOU HAVE CHOSEN TO BUILD A LIFE AND FAMILY WITH.

Of course there is nothing wrong with being a work-at-home mom or a working mom or a mom from Mars, but, please, do not tell me that those are the only options for a woman who expects equal partnership with her husband, or, heaven forbid, happiness. Do not advertise your book as a paean to finding sanity in being a stay-at-home mom and then slyly conclude that the only way you see it working is just that — for the mother to start really working. Have the guts and the wisdom and the insight, damn it, to share how you found being a MOTHER to be a viable role for women.

Or write a different book called The Book of Mom Who Earns Money. Just please don’t ask me to recommend it.

Review Disclosures

I am a mom and consider myself an expert on mom-ing.
I read books and consider myself an expert on reading books.
The very nice publicist asked me if I ever recommended books on my website and I promised to say exactly what I thought of it. She still sent me the book. Confidence like that is priceless in a publicist.

The Book of Mom bites. The End. (Or did you want to know why?)

First, it’s “fiction,” which means that the author wanted to write in first person but wanted to brag about being a former Fortune 500 executive, a former Type-A over-activitating Mom, a current burnt-out Who Am I? whiner-mom, and finally a born-again embrace-the-now REAL BOY MOM. Perhaps this hasty exaggeration is an attempt to portray EveryMom, but it actually reduces the protagonist to caricature.

Second, the revelations in The Book of Mom, including “motherhood is hard,” “being mom takes over your identity,” and, most revelatory of all, “even mom needs time to herself” would be revolutionary, soul-nourishing, and emancipatory, maybe, in a pre-Mommy Blogosphere or pre-Erma Bombeck or heck, pre-Virgin Mary (talk about a hard labor and your identity being entirely subsumed in your child) world.

Even Dooce, for whom I have expressed my love numerous times, kind of belabors the point in a recent Declaration of Mommy Blogger Independence post recently:

. . . I have every reason to believe that one day you will look at the thousands of pages I have written about my love for you, the thousands of pages other women have written about their own children, and you’re going to be so proud that we were brave enough to do this. We are an army of educated mothers who have finally stood up and said pay attention, this is important work, this is hard, frustrating work and we’re not going to sit around on our hands waiting for permission to do so. We have declared that our voices matter.

I cried while reading this post, as I often have violent emotional reactions, including anger, to Dooce’s writing. But, really, am I the only woman IN THE WORLD who never expected motherhood to be one long trip to Disneyworld without the sweating sunscreen and sore feet? My own mother, whom I would have chosen if I could have chosen any mother in the world, never told me that motherhood was a funfest. She said, or let me see (I’m the oldest of five), that it’s hard and unrewarded and exhausting and the most important thing I would ever do in my life.

Mommy Bloggers have been criticized recently for endangering and/or exploiting their children, disregarding privacy boundaries, and, worst of all, being even more narcissistic than ‘regular’ bloggers. I think these first two concerns are valid and have to be negotiated every time a mother leaves the house or picks up the phone to her best friend.

Narcissism is a criticism of a different order. Incidentally, if you exploit your children for gain on a blog or in a book, does that rule out narcissism, or are the kids only an extension of yourself and therefore a manifestation of your narcissism? Also, if you don’t make money from your blog, can you be “exploiting”? Mediocrity = virtuous mothering. Success = bad mom.

Another disclosure

I didn’t read past the first two chapters of The Book of Mom. It seems really unfair that I would negatively review something I didn’t finish, but I didn’t have to drink a whole Dr. Pepper to know it tastes like medicine or watch an entire episode of Baby Van Gogh to know it would rot the brains of fragile-minded toddlers.

Oh, I could skim the rest of it and at least pretend I’d given it a fighting chance. But that’s not how I choose the books or blogs I read. When I’m reading personal essays (most blogs and this book, however it is marketed), I like to read (and write for that matter) about everyday life in a way that makes me enjoy everyday life more. When I’m reading for escape (what I look for in “fiction”) I like to read books with words like swashbuckling, bitter-enemies-become-passionate-lovers, gothic-atmosphere, and female-detective-tracks-serial-killer on the back cover.

If you’re going to write fiction without any pirates or star-crossed lovers, but instead hold up a whinging, self-important mirror to the Modern American Mommy, at least try for some original complaints. I don’t know any mother who doesn’t wish she could go to the toilet by herself for once.

Which is not to say that Mommy writing or Mommy blogging is without value. Even though I need only pick up the phone or go to the playground to get commiseration on the joys and trials of motherhood, reading blogs that celebrate motherhood and books like Judith Warner’s that, while flawed, eloquently express the anxiety and frustration that accompany mothering is reassuring and liberating.

I read Rocks in My Dryer for a taste of Oklahoma-goody-two-shoes mothering and Confessions of a Pioneer Woman for a bit of cowboy escapism with my slice of life as a country mother and Scribbit for a dose of Northern Exposure Living mixed with Alaskan Family Fun magazine. That a 200ish-page book could be published and printed without a similarly-original hook to interest the busy-mom reader is frankly mind-boggling.

That’s all I can say about The Book of Mom, because, after all, I couldn’t finish it, and after more all, I’m self-interested enough to want to address the narcissism issue. When Socrates (via Thoreau for me) said that the unexamined life is not worth living, was that narcissistic? Does the talent of the writer influence whether her examination of life is narcissistic or not? (see Mediocrity, above). Could I ever make everyone happy by doing or writing what I think would please them? Would I stop writing about my kids and husband if they asked me to? (Dooce says absolutely).

In trying to construct my own philosophy of What One Should Write on One’s Blog, I was inspired by Jessica Hagy’s popular Indexed blog (via Freakonomics for me). In my legible-for-once handwriting:

I can only hope that when my daughters are old enough to be mothers themselves, they will read what I have written about them, and what thousands of other mothers have written about their own children, and know that I never lied to them: I didn’t enjoy the potty-training or the whiny, high-pitched voices or the syrup on the carpet or the embarrassing runs to the ER for croup or the daily ruining of nice clothes or the stinky poop in diapers or, worse, on the carpet, but I did enjoy them. I enjoyed making them laugh by playing the Look Away game and the chubby fingers tugging on my face to get my attention.

They are the reason I am not even more self-absorbed and impatient and intolerant. They are why I get up in the morning and why I feel guilty when I stay up too late. They are why I am who I am today.

And, narcissistic as that may be, I like who I am today. I like that three beautiful, innocent, forgiving, loving, growing, changing human beings call me Mommy.

I am mommy: hear me blog.

—

Mommy blogging’s what works for me this week. For a more complete review of The Book of Mom, especially if you find it unfair that I’d review it without reading the whole thing, see The Book of Mom, Redux.

‘Wibbily wobbily, wibbily wobbily’ went the baby. Like Mrs. Large, I’ve got wobbily bits, though not enough squishing out of my tankini (extra long torso) to try a fish and grated carrots diet. No, somehow we are going to lose weight on the homemade oreos and bruschetta pizza diet. I have faith.

Mrs. Large is a model mother. In A Piece of Cake, she doesn’t beat her kids for talking about her wobbily bits, and when Laura suggests that maybe elephants are supposed to be large, she listens. And when the kids and Mr. Large sneak downstairs in dead of night to eat the cake that’s come in the mail and been hidden in the cupboard, “in case company comes,” she calmly snatches the last piece instead of raising holy heck.

But the sublime humanity of Jill Murphy’s Large family really shines in Five Minutes’ Peace, with a Mrs. Large desperate for a measly five minutes’ alone time. Obviously I relate. Mrs. Large finds the kids wrecking the kitchen, so she makes herself a tray and heads for the bath. The kids invade, as kids will do, and Mrs. Large allows their intrusion as long as sanity allows (this is about 20 minutes in my world; not sure the exact limit in hers). Then she heads back to the kitchen.

The best part is that she is desperate for alone time, and it is not even 10 o’clock IN THE MORNING.

Here is a book I would be happy to read, to my kids or in my alone time — over and over and over again.

Until I completely lose it (quite common), and Dick takes over. Though it is annoying when he gets mad at me for swearing in front of the kids. Doesn’t he know that I know it’s bad? Duh.

Sally also yells at her sister sometimes. Usually not Spot; even Sally realizes that Spot is guileless and innocent. But Susan, well, she’s an imp. She messes up the OCD piles of books and babies and barbies that Sally has constructed. She leaves her clothes all over the floor, and then she starts with the licking and kicking and pulling hair, usually at bedtime. And Sally, my sweet firstborn who is twice as old and twice as tall, runs to mom to complain. Hit her back, I say. But for once I’m glad to not be obeyed.

My sister and I shared the double pineapple bed, named for the pineapple bedknobs (as in Bedknobs and Broomsticks) when we were young. I remember good times like when we gathered all the extra quilts in the house and piled them on the bed. Don’t remember if that was inspired by The Princess and the Pea or not, but I do remember the covers were so heavy. We felt like royalty.

But mostly I remember lying there and kicking her, and kicking and kicking and kicking. She didn’t remember this a couple weeks ago. She does remember the time I made her keep quiet all night about her arm being hurt after we were jumping off the bunkbed. It was broken, of course.

Sally and Susan share a room, but not a bed. Sally has taken to arranging the furniture lately. She makes signs: My Library, Guest Bed (in the closet), and Tramplen (her bed — notice she didn’t ask us how to spell that one). And Susan torments her something fierce at bedtime while we sit in the living room and pretend horrific screamings aren’t happpening in the back.

When we finally toddle off to bed after gluttonous viewing of old Seinfeld re-runs, we find them, like Ginger and the new kitten, together. Because a cardboard box, or a toddler bed that’s really too small for either of them, is just not as good without your favorite sister.

—

Thanks to Angela in NYC for sending this book to Sally before Susan’s arrival. It’s a bit subtle (I mean for a preschooler), but now it’s Susan’s favorite book, even though it obviously hasn’t stopped her from finding somewhere to sharpen her claws.

Dr. Sears’ feelings on co-sleeping are problematic for me because I can’t believe statements like “Sleep-sharing infants aroused more often and spent more time breastfeeding than solitary sleepers, yet the sleep-sharing mothers did not report awakening more frequently” (I believe the first part, but not the second). Luckily, the seventh B of the Baby B‘s is “Balance,” and he also says, “Wherever all family members get the best night’s sleep is the right arrangement for your individual family.”

Although, if he really feels that co-sleeping reduces the risk of SIDS, then I don’t know if I can respect him for telling me it’s okay to not co-sleep. Not that what he says is going to change my feelings on that either way, but, I have other strong feelings on sticking to your position. (but maybe that should be a more stringent requirement for politicians than pediatricians).

Anyway, I thought Dr. Sears might be being condescending when he says stuff like “Attachment parenting makes you an expert on your baby.” But today, I think I’ve done him a disservice. He says that he tells new parents “You don’t have to become an expert on parenting, but you must become an expert on your baby, because no one else will.”

Spot is an easy baby. For the past few days, though, she has been acting more like a normal 7 month old — crying when I put her down for naps and bed and wanting to be held more. And she did start running an intermittent fever of 101-102. But she had no other “symptoms.” I debated whether or not to take her to the doctor. It could be teething (but my kids are asymptomatic teethers) and it could be a growth spurt or ?just a phase,? or a cold. The long weekend was coming up, though, and then: the final straw. Spot was reluctant to nurse (just at one feeding, and only for a few minutes, but still!). I knew something was definitely wrong.

I suspected an ear infection (Susan is finishing up a course of antibiotics for ear and sinus infections). As I related all of Spot’s “symptoms,” I could see the nurse thinking that I was probably overreacting. But Dr. Lori is a pediatrician among pediatricians. Spot’s ears were fine, so Dr. Lori outlined three tests we would do as necessary: strep, white blood cell count, and urine. Dr. Lori and I together are an expert team: Spot has strep throat, which is uncommon in children her age, but not unheard of when there are older siblings.

Some people distrust or dislike “the medical profession.” When I have a doctor who trusts that I am the expert on my baby, even when I feel slightly sheepish for coming in, I feel all warm and fuzzy inside, and I think I might give Dr. Sears another read.

Someone who said the following can’t be all whacked:

I wonder if modern parenting focuses on too much “stuff” and not enough touch, and if modern baby-care practices are a trade-off of increased convenience for increased risk. It may be considered politically incorrect to speculate on this kind of life-or-death role for a mother; yet for a few infants it may be physiologically correct. Over the past twenty years the importance of the mother to her infant’s well-being has been diluted by social and economic changes to the extent that the modern view of attachment parenting is that it is nice but not necessary. I challenge that view. As soon as we open our eyes to the time-honored fact that mothering matters, the better off — and perhaps safer — babies will be. My wish is that you practice attachment parenting … because you believe it is the best for you and your baby. By receiving the gift of attachment parenting, more babies will thrive …

Perfect Madness: Motherhood in the Age of Anxiety

Rating: 2 out of 5

Author: Judith Warner

Year: 2006

Publisher: Riverhead Trade

ISBN: 1594481709

But first, the bookish positives:

1) Overview of Feminism (beginning with Betty Friedan). For someone whose previous curiosity about the ERA consisted of asking my parents about it (they told me that the ERA would have made all restrooms unisex), this history of feminism, from a post-feminist sympathizer, was informative (though I’m pretty sure a little biased; I need to read another perspective on this).

2) Accurate Articulation of the Angst I feel. As a stay-at-home mother of three, I feel her pain. I’ve felt unfulfilled and under-appreciated. I’ve considered that I might lose my mind if I’m stuck home with these hooligans for one more day. And I feel great uncertainty about my husband’s and my ability to support our growing family on one income.

3) Anecdotal evidence. For almost every conversation or vignette she relayed, I thought to myself, I know someone exactly like that. I know a 2-year-old who goes to eating therapy, and a mother who co-sleeps her 3-year-old because she feels guilty being gone all day, and a wife who barters sex with her husband for favors.

Now the bookish negatives:

1) Long. I think Warner is great at a column length, but this book overwhelmed her (maybe it was “The Mess”?).

2) Repetitive. Yes, mothers are over-parenting, over-obsessing and over-competitive. I agree. Can we move on?

3) Circular and Contradictory. Warner says she wants to write a book about the middle class, but what we see as the middle class (MC) on TV and in advertising, etc, is actually the upper-middle-class (UMC), so she decides to interview the UMC instead, because they set the standard to which we all aspire. Then she applies the lessons learned from the UMC to the policy changes she thinks are necessary to benefit the MC. The lower-middle-class really doesn’t matter, but they would probably benefit from these pro-family policies too, eventually. Huh? She also goes on and on about how most women do not have a “choice” as to whether to work or not, yet her whole book focuses on women agonizing over that “choice.”

4) Strident. In short, I’d say hysterical, but I don’t want to insult Charlotte Perkins Gilman.

Now for the ideas, and Yea or Nay

A) The demands on mothers (for perfection, super-momism, etc) are crazy. Yea

B) Only UMC women can choose to work or not. Nay. We MC women can choose, too, but it is a sacrifice.

C) Feminists are wrong to focus on getting elite women to shoot for the glass ceiling. Instead, they should support policies that would benefit all women. Yea.

D) Stay-at-home Moms (SAHM) are wrong to promote a religion of motherhood that demonizes working mother (WM) as women who don’t care about their children. Yea. Name-calling is never good.

And here is the kicker:

E) Mothers who stay-at-home and mothers who work both do so simply because it is the practical thing to do. Nay. Or, at least, we shouldn’t.

Warner argues long and loud for a devalorization of both the SAHM and the WM ideologies. She is for a pragmatism that takes the purpose and principle out of doing what we do. We shouldn’t think, she implies, about why we do what we do; instead, we should concentrate on getting society to make the choices we’ve already made work for us. This is insidiously attractive. We could stop the Mommy Wars and stop all the noise about which is better, which is more valuable, mommy-work or paid-work, and we could all just get along to make the world better.

Except, should we do things without first investigating and validating our purpose for doing them? Should we just do what needs to be done without asking “Why?” Do we want to live without examining why we live the way we do?

If something is broken about the way that we mother, should we re-examine what and why and how we mother, or should we look externally for ways to buttress an admittedly-already-strained methodology?

Even if she weren’t mistaken in this desire to strip intent and deliberation from our lives, Warner squanders the credibility of her stated assurance that she favors neither SAHM nor WM. She works hard to ingratiate herself with (and alienate) both camps by insisting that we view both choices stripped of any emotion or morality. Then, when she gets around to discussing the pro-family policies that could ameliorate this mess, her consideration of different options is damning.

Proposals have been made for SAHM tax credits. These are derided by Warner as expensive and ineffective. Government funding for affordable, flexible, high-quality daycare (though estimated to cost 30 times more than the SAHM credit proposed) is considered blindingly obvious.

Now, if we grant that tax money should be used to subsidize families, wouldn’t it only be fair to subsidize both SAHM and WM — if we value (or not) both equally? When it comes time to put her (America’s) money where her mouth is, her mouth is clearly with the working mothers.

I asked before, “Why do you “stay-at-home”?”

Now that I’ve revealed a bit more about the woman behind the curtain,

Why do you “stay-at-home”? // –>

But I love There’s a Wocket in My Pocket. It’s so fun to read aloud. Maybe it has deep thematic elements about accepting difference and sharing our material blessings with others, and maybe it is highly educational with the introduction to more complex rhymes, but mainly I just love how it sounds.

I like the ZABLE on the TABLE.

And the GHAIR under the CHAIR.

But that BOFA on the SOFA…

Well, I wish he wasn’t there.