OCTOBER 2003

The BODY Issue:
Click here to download the entire October Issue as a pdf document.

• Bodily Harm -- Lizbeth Finn-Arnold
• Sex, God, & Body Parts -- Lizbeth Finn-Arnold
• Someone Else's Body -- Regina Walker
• Dear Mother Nature -- Susan Krushenick
• Just Like Your Mother -- Gerry Di Gesu
• Machinery I Have Loved -- Stacey Greenberg
• A Philosophical Mother -- Patti See
• Answering Them Honestly -- Charlotte Mayo
• Don't Ask -- Karen Kleinman
• The Everywhere Hair -- Melinda Jones
• Hanging With Dan -- Robyn DeSantis
• Weaning Woes -- Barbara Schading
• Wet Seal -- Angela Lam

Bodily Harm

I have a confession to make: I dislike my body. I always have, and probably always will, to some extent.

While I’m actively trying to gain an acceptance and love for my physical being, like many (or most) women, I too have a long list of things I hate about myself. And after spending years scrutinizing my bodily flaws (my nose, my hips, my thighs, my height), I’m ready to call a truce.

I’m not alone with obsessive negative body thoughts. In the book, When Women Stop Hating Their Bodies, authors Jane Hirschmann and Carol Munter state that “Millions of women — of all shapes and sizes — still wake up every morning, look at themselves in the mirror, and say, ‘Yuck’.”

Hirschmann and Munter describe this phenomena, as such: “We have worked with thousands of women with compulsive eating problems for more than two decades and we are convinced that hatred of one’s own body, a syndrome we have named ‘Bad Body Fever,’ is central to women’s oppression.”

They further describe “Bad Body Fever” as a “malaise that women contract as a result of living in a culture that devalues them.” They describe the fever as “rampant” and “contagious.”

How does our culture impact our body image? Easily, by bombarding us with dieting ads and media images of beautiful cosmetically-enhanced celebrities. We are continuously being told that we “can never be too rich or too thin.” And for some reason, we buy it hook, line, and sinker.

Sure, intellectually we know that changing our external appearance can’t change the way we feel inside. Still we chide ourselves for our eating indiscretions and continue to pursue the perfect abs and buns anyway. And ironically, we don’t feel the least bit shameful when we tell our children that it is inner beauty, not outer beauty, that counts.

Hirschmann and Munter say that “Bad Body Fever propels women to diet and to spend their lives in the futile quest for power through physical transformation. Bad Body Fever causes women to focus on their bodies at the expense of their lives. And it is Bad Body Fever that makes women resist the incontrovertible evidence that dieting is futile and dangerous.”

Apparently, compulsive dieting (and denying ourselves of food), doesn’t make us feel good. It only makes us feel badly about ourselves, and ultimately creates an unhealthy relationship with food. And worst of all, it feeds the billion dollar exercise, dieting, and cosmetic industries that make money by telling us that our bodies are unacceptable and disgusting.

Newsflash to the media: most forty-year-old mothers do not have the bodies of Britney Spears. We also don’t have personal trainers, chefs, or the motivation that Britney has either. However, there are other gifts we do have — they just aren’t as apparent as Ms. Spears’. But that shouldn’t devalue us (or even Britney) in this culture.

Unfortunately, women’s magazines are some of the worst offenders. Their pages are filled with weight loss articles, botox ads, and airbrushed celebrities. If we are to ever escape this Bad Body Fever we are going to have to stop judging and comparing our bodies to extreme and unobtainable ideals of beauty. We should also find it appalling and unacceptable to encourage women to commit self-inflicted bodily harm (through surgery, dieting, pills) in an attempt to be perfect.

It’s a difficult road ahead. It goes against everything we have been taught. It sounds radical to declare peace with our bodily battles. In their book, Overcoming Overeating, Hirschmann and Munter urge women to “stop renovating their bodies and to move into them with love and respect, precisely as they are.” They explain how “compulsive eating, a problem that plagues millions of women, is the inevitable legacy of dieting.”

Am I telling you to stop exercising and to gorge yourself until you explode? Of course not. I am saying that I have decided to stop weighing myself. I refuse to be a slave to arbitrary numbers on a scale. I am trying to eat healthy (as I would want my kids to eat), but I allow myself to indulge my sweet tooth or other cravings. I try to stay physically active because it makes me feel good, gives me energy, and helps lower my cholesterol. HOWEVER, I will not use food or exercise to punish or comfort myself. And I will eat if and when I am hungry.

Now, most people will look at me and tell me that I’m not fat, and that I don’t need to worry about things like exercising and dieting. And I will tell you that two years ago, I was 15 pounds lighter than I am today. I had started exercising and dieting again after my son was born, and the pounds melted away. Still, even at a size 3, I still felt fat. I felt that I “could lose more weight” and look better, if I had WILLPOWER.

It was then that I began to realize that maybe I never could be “skinny” enough. I would always want to lose more weight, as if there were some sinister weight-loss code programmed into my genetic makeup.

And sure enough, eventually I crashed and burned on the latest strict diet/exercise regimen and gained all 15 pounds back. Now 15 pounds may not seem like a lot to some, but it is a huge amount for a petite 5 foot woman, like myself. And I will tell you a secret —it is incredibly difficult to maintain a “petite body.” In fact, I cannot be a size 3, or a size 5, or size 7 — without a constant and aggressive exercise regimen. And at age 35, I find my body rebelling against my efforts. I have discovered that even with regular exercise, I would basically have to exist entirely on fresh veggies and water to be a size 5. And after being on one diet after another since puberty, I’m tired. I’ve had enough. And I have other things going on in my life.

Surprisingly, the only time I ever felt really comfortable in my own body was when I was pregnant. I was swollen, suffering from a plethora of physical maladies, and felt as if my body had taken on a life of its own (it had!). But I also sensed that my body held awesome and amazing power. I wasn’t afraid to stop and look in the mirror. I didn’t loathe what I saw. I thought it was beautiful and miraculous.

As women, we should remind ourselves that we possess the power to create and nurture lives. We should also celebrate our womanly bodies (even with their imperfections) rather than fall prey to negative messages that encourage us to starve our bodies and our souls.

Hirschmann and Munter ask: "What do you think would happen if all women stopped hating their bodies? "

What would we do with all of our collective energy if we didn’t spend it trying to change our appearance? How would women’s magazine’s change? How would our culture change? How would our daughters' perceptions about beauty change?

How could we, as women, CHANGE the world?

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Copyright 2003 Lizbeth Finn-Arnold

Sex, God, & Body Parts

While Susan blames Mother Nature for women’s problems, I have some other culprit in mind. I blame God.

In my humble opinion, men and women are certainly not created equal. What I mean, is that from where I stand, women seem to have the “lion’s share” of issues when it comes to their bodies and sexuality.

Men have few issues that I can discern. From what I can tell from the SPAM that clogs up my inbox, men are either having sex or thinking about having sex. And although I didn’t do a scientific study on the subject, I’m pretty sure that about sums up the basic “body dilemmas” that our men face on a daily basis (although I may be over-generalizing and over-simplifying for the sake of sounding witty).

Furthermore, the one physical problem men did have, has been miraculously cured thanks to Viagra. So now even 99-year-old men can still have erections. Welcome to the new millennium ladies — aren’t we so very lucky?

And the reality remains, that women have something like 4000 issues when it comes to our bodies and sexuality. And men, basically have one: their before-mentioned erections. Is this fair? Clearly not. But it is because of this unfairness that I have come upon an indisputable conclusion:

GOD MUST BE A MAN.

I am almost certain, without a shadow of a doubt, that God cannot be a woman. Because if God were a woman, there would be no such thing as the innumerable burdens, that we as women, must endure.

PROOF THAT GOD IS A MAN:

Cramps
PMS
Menstruation
Perio-menopause
Menopause
Morning sickness
Labor
Childbirth
Episiotomies
Stretch marks
The Baby “Blues”
Post Partum Depression
Post Partum Psychosis
The Pill
The diaphragm
Fertility
Infertility
Tampons
Sanitary Napkins
Yeast infections
Urinary tract infections
Stirrups
Pap smears
Mammograms
Breast feeding
Breast engorgement
Breast enlargements
The wonderbra
The “waterbra”
Nursing bras
Girdles
Control-top pantyhose
Thongs
Shaving
Bleaching
Plucking
Waxing
Douching
The cosmetic industry
Wrinkle creams
Botox
Thigh Master
Cellulite
Liposuction
Victoria Secret’s Catalog
Pamela Anderson Lee
Britney Spears
Playboy Magazine
Pornography
The word “babe”
The word “bitch”
The term “virgin”
The term “slut”
The term “ma’m”
The term “old maid”

O.K. so I exaggerated a bit. There are closer to 50 issues (not 4000) that women must contend with on a regular basis. Still, it clearly seems as if God favored men when he developed our species. On the flip side, we do appreciate the fact that God gave us women the ability to utilize both sides of our brains at the same time, giving us somewhat of an advantage in our attention to these burdens and details.

I know there is generally no use in complaining about things we cannot change. And I try to see the bright side of our female situation. And I also realize that we couldn’t possibly expect men to do what we do.

I mean, seriously, how could we expect men to carry our young, when they think that taking out the garbage is a “big” burden? How could we trust men to take their daily birth control pills when most days they can’t find their keys and wallet? And would we really want our husbands to get yeast infections, when a common cold transforms them into helpless, bedridden patients?

Well, Ladies, I guess we’re stuck being the “stronger sex” for better and for worse. Thank God.

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Copyright 2003 Lizbeth Finn-Arnold

Someone Else's Body

The day I found out I was pregnant with my oldest son, I stared long at my abdomen in the mirror. Nothing was different externally yet. But still I stared hard to see if I could see some miniscule change; an expanding, a breath, a sign that something other was taking hold and taking over.

From that day forward, pregnant women on the street, in stores, and anywhere I encountered them, became subjects of my study. Pregnancy, it seemed, was like a possession; a slow taking hold and taking over. I was mesmerized by what was to come; yet embarrassed to admit that my body changing (growing, expanding) filled me with some amount of dread.

I am like many American women and am most often aware on an acute or chronic level of how I look. When I was in those early weeks and months of pregnancy, I would watch women who looked to be in their eighth or ninth month of gestation and feel a sense of fear. In some way, they looked deformed and I was ashamed to admit that I didn't want that to happen to my body. I could relate to the miracle of it all. But it was the stretch marks and flab I feared most.

As the months progressed, I grew larger, rounder, and slower. The changes felt subtle until one particular day I remember looking in the same mirror and seeing someone else's body. Not only was my body different — but now I could almost see the breaths, the movement, and the strain of something “other” pushing against the surface.

I felt both incidental — a shell soon to have outlived its usefulness — while also feeling like something vital and magical. The moment transcended my fears of how I looked and I found myself connecting with what I could do. I felt as though I had a universe existing within me and I was a globe surrounding my creation.
I gave birth to Zachary by C-section and for quite some time afterwards I focused on the scar left behind from the surgery. I had done my best to exercise away the extra me that was left over from my pregnancy and the stretch marks seemed less apparent (at least from my first child).

But even now, the C-section scar remains. From its initial red, raised intrusion, it has faded to something lighter and inconsequential. But it remains as a part of my body’s landscape — a body that has come to mean much more than merely a sum of its parts.

***********************
Copyright 2003 Regina Walker

Dear Mother Nature

Dear Mother Nature,

We need to talk. As you know, I recently turned forty-years-old, and it's been a harrowing experience to say the least. What you don't know, however, is that it's been troublesome because, well, because your sense of humor SUCKS! I'm sorry, but someone needs to tell you this and I am taking the liberty to speak not only for myself, but also for all your maturing daughters out there. We have had enough of your shenanigans.

Listen, we all understand how hard it is to do the same job year in and year out. No one is blaming you for trying out something other than creating every blessed thing on this earth, especially since you've been doing it for about gazillion years. We are behind you, honest we are. Although, I suspect you'll soon lose our affection if you don't quit this comedy routine of yours.

Face it Mother Dear, Chris Rock is funny, Dave Barry is funny, Margaret Cho is funny. You, on the other hand, might want to consider taking up pottery or woodworking.

Yes, yes, I know, you are probably thinking that I have no idea what I am talking about and since so many people have cited you as having a sense of humor, you think, perhaps, I am the one who lacks wit. Not true! I laugh at many, many things; however, here are a few of your pranks that I don't find the least bit amusing.

Remember just the other day when I was about to tweeze my eyebrows? Do you recall how first I had to find my glasses but could not for the life of me remember where I last put them, so I went into panic-mode because without my bifocals I'd be lucky to find my front door? And if this weren't bad enough, I found myself at a dead stop in the middle of my bedroom, unsure of why I was there, so I went back down the stairs, only to remember I was looking for my glasses and up again I went. Sure, maybe this tickled you, but I don't find it funny when you play, “Watch Susan battle perio-menapause and pre-Alzheimer's at the same time”.

Then, do you remember how I sat on top of my bathroom sink with my nose pressed against the mirror and never once smirked as I noticed how large my eyes looked behind those thick lenses of mine? What made you think I would find eyes the size of grapefruits funny? Is there merriment found in the waning of one's eyesight? If so, I don't get it.

And besides, the plucking one's eyebrows, including the space between them, is no laughing matter. Contrary to what some nitwit told you, there is no humor in unibrows, or in stray, vagrant hairs. Did you, even once, catch me snickering as I plucked hairs from my cheek, chin, breasts? Did I burst into laughter when I noticed six brown desperados setting up camp near my belly button? Did I hee-hee when I realized that what once took me three-minutes to accomplish, now takes over an hour?

Randomly placing hairs on maturing women's bodies is not amusing and neither is making us wonder if we will look like Cousin It by our eightieth birthdays. Since I mentioned breasts, I might I as well let you in on a little secret. There is not a woman alive who finds it a laughable occasion when she realizes her once-perky breasts are now in competition with her jowls to see which hits the floor first. Clearly, there are no winners here.

Peeing one's pants? Now here is another not-so-comical issue. Aren't you a bit old to partake in bathroom humor? Seriously, can you explain why it is that after granting me the ability to give birth three times, you thought I would get a rise out of never being able to sneeze, laugh, or run again without suffering from a terrific case of wet-butt? Does it amuse you to watch me cross my legs in public each time I sneeze, fearing the sneeze will rip through my nose and underpants?

Yeah, it's real freaking hilarious when my children say to their father, "Daddy, make Mommy laugh so she pees her pants." I bet you just LOVE watching me stand there screaming at him to stop because "you-know-what" is going to happen, and then it does happen, and my kids roll round the floor, howling and clutching their bellies, while I skulk up to the bedroom.

And what about those laugh lines? This is your idea of humor? Crows feet? Ha-Ha-Ha. SPIDER VEINS? Yeah, funny. Why don't you up the ante and model them after Charlotte's Web so they spell out sayings like, OLD COOT or OVER FORTY or THE BREASTS WON! Or my favorite: WETS PANTS. We'd bust a stitch over this.

Look Ma, I am not trying to discourage you from finding your Authentic Self. I simply want you to stop wreaking comedic havoc on women's maturing bodies. It doesn't amuse us one iota. What might, on the other hand, tickle our fancies and get us back in your corner, is if you gender-balance your pranks.

After all, what follies do you play on middle-aged men? Balding their heads? Big Deal! What if you did something truly hilarious? What if you played a trick or two on men that made us women pee-our-pants and be happy that we did? What if, say, you made it so that when men reach middle-age they spontaneously lactate?

Picture this: Joe Schmo, CEO of Superman Systems, is about to begin a very important meeting when he realizes his Brooks Brothers shirt is soaking wet. He then runs to the restroom, only to learn he has gotten his lactation and did not bring any pads with him. Not knowing what to do, and not wanting to hold up his meeting and appear as though he cannot handle his high-level position, he takes off his shoes, balls up his socks, and stuffs them down his milk-stained shirt. He spends the entirety of the meeting talking with his arms folded over his chest, praying no one sees his bulging bosoms or the gigantic wet stain.

Now, that's funny! And, I'll guarantee many of us women will forgive you for the spider veins, and maybe even, the crow's feet. Well, that's all for now Mother Nature. I do hope you give this some thought.

By the way, I absolutely love what you've done with autumn!

Love,

Susan

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Copyright 2003 Susan Krushenick

Just Like Your Mother

Words intended as a kind and affirming compliment –– “You look just like your mother” –– instead have often made countless women cringe and shake their heads in silent disagreement. Unfortunately for many, it’s the last thing they want to hear.

When I was a little girl, whenever someone said that to me, I felt wonderful. I thought my mom was beautiful and I wanted to be just like her. But as I grew older and began to realize that she had some attributes I didn’t appreciate, I started to resent hearing those words. I didn’t want to look like or be like my mom. I wanted to be me. But I always smiled and said “thank you” because I didn’t want to hurt her feelings.

I remember a day when I was in my late-thirties and had bought a new winter hat. My hair was already gray but the bangs which framed my face were almost white. I looked in the mirror and was horrified. The hat covered all of my hair except the bangs. Between the hat, the white fringe covering my forehead and the large, unfashionable eye-glasses I wore at the time, I looked about fifteen years older and exactly like my mother. I dyed my hair blonde the next day.

Every once in a while I caught a glimpse of myself in a mirror or a store window — shoulders slumped forward, forehead furrowed, an angry curl to my lip –– exactly like my mother. I would immediately straighten up and plaster a smile on my face. It was only after my dad died, that slowly mom and I became closer. I had finally grown up, understanding her for the first time, and was able to let go of childhood resentments. During the seven years she lived in a senior citizen housing complex before her death, her friends often greeted me with “Darling, you look just like your mom”. It was a wonderful feeling to say “thank you” and finally mean it.

And so I tried to be more aware of my own daughter’s feelings when I became a mother. Nancy was born when her brothers were eight and six and our family was thrilled and delighted with her arrival. As she grew up, the inevitable comparisons were made between mother and daughter.

“She looks exactly like you,” friends and strangers would tell us. I was so proud. But I made sure to mention that Nancy had curly hair, while mine was straight. Or that she had hazel eyes and mine were blue. She needed her own identity, not her mom’s. I thought I had taken care of the problem.

Then one night when she was about seven, I was tucking her into bed after we had had a family birthday party. As usual, many guests had commented that Nancy and I looked alike.
That night, she looked up at me and started to cry.

“What’s the matter honey, what happened?”

“I don’t want to hurt your feelings, Mommy.”

“Come on babe; it’s okay to tell me why you’re upset.”

“I love you so much Mommy, but I don’t want to look like you.” She started to sob as I held her in my arms.

“Everybody says I look just like you. But you have gray hair, and eyeglasses, and wrinkles and those brown spots on your hands and face. You look old.” She cried harder.

Dear God, that’s what she thought people saw when they looked at her. Who can ever truly know what their child is thinking or feeling? Hugging her tightly, I tried to reassure her, explaining what people meant when they said someone looked like another person: perhaps the shape of their eyes, or they smiled the same way, or they had the same hair color. She looked at me warily.

“Do they see my curly hair and that it’s brown?”

“Of course they do, Nan.”

“And that I don’t have wrinkles and spots on my face?”

“No, honey, you have beautiful skin.”

She smiled a little. “Will I always look like me, Mommy?”

“Sure you will honey. When you get older you’ll look like a teenager and then like a young lady, but you’ll always look like you.”

“You’re not mad that I don’t want to look like you, Mommy?”

“Not for a minute, honey.”

“Ok, I feel better. I think I can go to sleep now.”

* * * * *

My daughter is now twenty-nine. Still, often when we’re together, someone mentions that we look alike. I don’t hear her protest and hope that as she carries herself with grace, joy and self-assurance she enjoys who she is, knowing she is Nancy, not her mom.

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Copyright 2003 Gerry Di Gesu

Machinery I Have Loved

The Medela Pump in Style (PIS) is the second piece of machinery that I have actually kissed after using it for the first time (my first love being the Hitachi Magic Wand).

I had used a manual Avent Isis Pump a few times in the first few months, but always found it taxing. The Isis saved me when my milk came in and I thought my breasts were going to explode with a big, milky bang. It also helped perk up my less than perky right nipple so that my son could latch on, but it fell short when it came to collecting massive amounts of milk. For me, the Isis combined with surfing the Internet was a Carpal Tunnel Cocktail that I couldn't swallow.

Pumping wasn't really much of an issue in the beginning. I knew I had to teach my son to drink from a bottle at some point if I planned to return to work, but I wasn't in a hurry. We were always together and we had a great nursing relationship.

I found it annoying when people would tell me to pump so I could "get away." Some people acted like pumping was a panacea for all parenting issues. I think some people just couldn't stand to see a baby without a bottle in his mouth. It became a joke between my husband and I. If I complained that my breasts were tender, mentioned I was hungry, or moaned about not getting any sleep, his reply was: "Why don't you just pump?"

When it actually got to the point that pumping was going to be a part of my daily life, I was frantic. The PIS does not come cheap. Not everyone can afford to fall in love with it. I was lucky enough to have a generous neighbor who loaned me hers, free of charge. I didn't even have to buy the attachment pieces because my best friend had an extra set. And best of all, my husband was able to decode the instruction booklet, identify all the parts, and actually teach me how to the use the PIS without too much difficulty.

The PIS is designed specifically for working moms. It comes in a black leather bag that looks like a briefcase. It is very inconspicuous and professional-looking. It has a cooler on the inside and a place to put a picture of your baby (to stimulate "let down"). It is quiet and can be plugged into an outlet or even into a car lighter. It's only flaw is the gaudy gold buckle on the strap. It was a bit of a hassle toting it to and from work each day and rinsing out all of the small parts at night, but it was worth it to me. I was determined to breastfeed my son for at least a year, and I didn't see any other way to do it. The PIS made it possible and for that I am grateful. The electric breast pump is a technological advancement that I can stand behind.

Just this week, my son turned one and I packed up my PIS. I am still breastfeeding him, but no longer need to pump. Our co-sleeping keeps my supply up at night, and he takes organic cow's milk to daycare. As I washed out the parts one last time and prepared to return the PIS to my neighbor, I was a bit sad. I thought about all the good times I had with my Pump in Style: pumping in my mom's care in the temple parking lot after Yom Kippur services -- the time I embarrassed a male co-worker by explaining why I couldn't answer the phone or door the minute he needed me to -- pumping in my kitchen while hanging out with friends. . .

I'll miss you PIS, but I know that it is time for you to move on and make another woman happy. I must say goodbye. Mwah!

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Copyright 2003 Stacey Greenberg

Stacey Greenberg is an urban anthropologist living in Memphis, Tennessee with her husband and her son. She is also the editor/main contributor to the parenting zine, Fertile Ground.

She Looks and Sounds Like A Philosophical Mother

By Patti See

Why am I a philosophical mother?

• I mother with my son’s future in mind. I tried to act at twenty-five and at thirty-five the way that I’d like him to act at those ages.

• I don’t care that he thinks I’m goofy or weird (now!).

• I can have a cleaner house and more writing time when my son is older, not while he still wants to play with me.
  

• I’m saddened that my son has to separate a little bit from me with every inch he grows, but I also know that he’s becoming more interesting, smarter, and funnier as he matures.

Answering Them Honestly

By Charlotte Mayo

When I gave birth to two girls a year apart, I knew my life would definitely be an adventure. I wasn't disappointed for I was right.

My girls are Night and Day Samantha the youngest, was a tornado of activity in the womb and definitely outside the womb. She kept my mind and ears alert for the next move like a never ending chess game.

Do you have a little voice that comes from the backseat of your car? You know, your driving nice and straight, thinking about the next errand and suddenly this little voice behind you starts.

"Mom, can I ask you something?"

"Sure, what would you to know?" You reply with encouragement.

"When I grow up if I'm a lesbian will you still love me?"

Bam! You try not to hit the break and cause a ten car pile up. All thought processes have just gone out the window and you check to make sure that your heart hasn't just quit beating for the day!

Deep breath, "Honey of course I'll love you, no matter what. Just because someone is a lesbian, do you know what a lesbian is?"

"Of course I do, it's a girl who likes girls."

"Can I ask you, why are you asking this question?"

"Some kids said so-and-so is one. I was just wondering if when I get older, I find out that I'm one if you'd still love me."

The ten-year-old mind, it's a challenge to the parent. We must answer their questions but how honestly?

I try to be very open and honest. It's not always easy but I feel it's important to feed that part of the parent child relationship and hopefully in the future it will have nurtured that relationship to become a very solid adult relationship. When they are young and what we think of as innocence is the volatile time to work on that growing adult inside of them. Like it or not these little minds and body's do become grown adults and too fast!

"Well you know it's not a disease and you can still be friends with so and so if you want to. I will always love you, you are my baby and you always will be honey."

Concentrate on driving while trying to catch a glimpse of that young face in the mirror.

"I know that!"

"Can I answer any other questions? I notice the oldest child is just as quiet as a mouse. Gotta wonder what's going on in her mind?

Conversation has ended, but I know the next time we go for a ride, the questions will be fired from the backseat once again. I just hope that I engage brain before mouth, think about the answer I do give, and If I need to change it, I do. And I will try to explain things to the best of my ability.

That's all any parent can do. Let's face it, if we could avoid these encounters it would be nice. However, our children would have no knowledge to lead them and we would be shunned as parents for not preparing our children. With all the media out there, some of which is good and other influences giving wrong information these days it's so scary.

Now the little voice that comes from my backseat belongs to my six-year-old granddaughter. She asked me the other day.

"Meme, did it hurt when you had your daughter, my mother when she came out of your belly?

Here we go again!

"Yes, Pumpkin, it hurt a lot!"

***************

Charlotte Mayo lives in Maine with her husband of twenty six years. Her daughters are in their twenties. Her husband is a semi-retired firefighter of thirty years.

Don't Ask

By Karen Kleinman

My parents didn’t talk about sex. As far as I could tell, my sisters, my brother and I were products of immaculate conception. “Don’t ask, don’t tell," originated with Mom and Dad, leaving me ignorant but not at all apathetic.

Eager to learn, I tagged after Marianne, an eighth-grade Catholic school friend who claimed extensive sexual knowledge. At sleepovers, Marianne conducted classes in human sexuality

“If you want to turn a man on, I can tell you how to make him crazy with lust.”

“How?”

“Just run your fingernails lightly over his belly, right below his belly button.”

“What would he do?”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean, what would a man do if you made him crazy with lust?”

“You know.” Marianne and her 8th-grade friends would nod. I was the only one who didn’t know.

Luckily, my school had a health class. The teacher segregated us by sex and herded us into the basement to watch a diagrammatic film strip about human reproduction. The strip only showed the internal organs, with long names like “epididimus” and “corpus spongiosum”.

This film strip was part of a series entitled “The eye is the gateway to the mind”. I didn’t know if I was blind or stupid, but it didn’t make any sense to me. Clearly I wasn’t a visual learner, although I did pick up enough to embarrass my brother by saying “I can see your cowper’s gland”. That was sex education in the fifties.

Sex-ed in the late sixties was more of a hands-on experience, culminating in the birth of my son, Willy. At age four, he was asking me a lot of questions about reproduction. Unlike my mom, I was determined to do a good job answering him. After all, I was a physician.

“We’re Jewish,” I told him, “people of the Book, so let’s go to the library and we’ll find a special book to answer all of your questions.”

We had always spent a lot of time at the library, but lately Willy had developed an interest in a neighborhood comic book store, The College of Comic Book Knowledge.

“I’m only half Jewish,” he giggled, “so I’’ll be people of the comic book.”

We compromised with the classic toddler sex-ed text, Where Did I Come From. It featured cartoons of naked obese people giggling in bed. One quote was particularly memorable: “Mommy and Daddy enjoy being together in bed and when they are very close they make love. It feels good——like a tickle.”

What was I thinking? Willy liked tickles, especially in his Oedipal stage.

The next day was cold and snowy. Willy and I were sharing a cup of hot chocolate and reading Where Did I Come From. Snuggled with my son in a blanket on the old green couch, I reveled in the perfect innocence and intimacy of that moment. Like Madonna and child, we were bathed in a halo of golden light from the fireplace. Willy’s curly brown head rested against my chest.

“He’s not home,” Willy said darkly, referring to his dad.

“Yes.” I said.

“Well, you’re a girl and I’m a man, right,”” Willy continued, “because I have a penis.”

“Yes,” I said, “you’’ve been listening to the story.”

“So let’’s make love and have a baby,” Willy suggested confidently. “It would feel good, like a tickle.”

In that moment, my life changed.

The Everywhere Hair

By Melinda Jones

My hair is its own entity. I can try to tame it, but it just rebels. My mom tried to calm it once when I was in the fifth grade. How do I remember? Because I was so scarred at the sight of my hair, that it has been forever emblazoned in my mind’s eye.

You see, I have very curly hair and let me dismiss something right away -- those of you with straight hair are lucky. Trust me.

In the fifth grade my mom decided that the best way to calm my out of control locks would be to give me a perm. Well, needless to say I went in with hair somewhat like a lamb’s (if they had shoulder-length hair) and came out from that perm-induced nightmare looking more like a lion. I had hair standing a foot out from my head and instead of wild ringlets I had this kinky mess of frizz.

There was also the time that my mom simply had it chopped off, thinking that a nice bob would be easy for me to care for and keep my hair at bay.

If only I cared enough to care for it. Every once in a while, usually before church on Sunday my mom would call me into the bathroom wielding a curling iron like a sword, determined to make my hair obey.

Usually by the time I got in the car, her careful pruning had come undone. My mom would look into the backseat to check one last time on our appearances and when she came to me, I would just get a weary sigh and a shake of the head.

Since those dreaded middle school days, my hair has undergone many changes. None of these changes were my idea, nor did my hair consult with me first, I think it just likes to keep me on my toes.

It has changed color from blonde as a little kid to dirt brown in middle school and then in high school it decided to get some red on me and then -- well, we all know what comes soon after college. Except for me it was while I was still in college. My only question is why on earth do the gray hairs have to stand straight up. As if they don’t stand out enough simply by their color (or lack thereof) do they really have to stand at attention on the top of my head, waving around for everyone to see.

“Premature gray hair here, hello handsome young man, did you see me? Not as young as you thought she was huh? Hello over there!” Goodness.

Of course, the fun of having curly hair doesn’t just end with its complete disregard to stay where I want it. No, that would be too easy. I am cursed with a built in barometer. Ah, can’t get the old brush through the hair today -- must be some moisture in the air, that means possible rain. Or you go out the door, only to get in the car, look in the rear view mirror and gasp. Did I inadvertently stick my finger in a light socket on the way out this morning? Nope, just a bit in the dry side today. Of course there is the “I got caught in a rainstorm” look where I have wicked flashbacks to those lion days in middle school.

There is also the fact that pregnancy changes your hair. Don’t let anyone tell you differently. My friend and I, yes two people can make a majority, (at least when it comes to trying to explain the otherwise inexplicable) both have curly hair and swear that it is less so after each pregnancy.

Those ringlets that I used to complain about are now big curls, for the first time in my life I actually have to use hair styling products on the hair because now it doesn’t know if it wants to go straight or curl. So half of my head is literally quite curly still and the other half is in curl limbo, something that I refer to simply as "a mess".

Before when my hair was frizzy I could at least just splash some water on it and have temporary fix, now I arm myself with anti frizz solutions. I have more anti frizz, hair-taming stuff in my medicine cabinet right now than I have owned my whole life!

After thirty some odd years on this earth with this hair, you would think that I would have gotten control of it by now. Nope, my best friend is now and always will be my trusty rubber bands. Well, those and a bottle of hair dye.

Hanging With Dan

By Robyn DeSantis

For years, my daughter, Rory, had wanted a horse -- now we planned to buy one. As a trial, we decided to rent a horse she knew from riding lessons, a beautiful red chestnut with a white blaze named Dan. The first day of the rental, we headed to the indoor ring.

At twelve-years-old, Rory rode and handled horses well. She saddled and bridled Dan, slipped her foot into the stirrup and swung her body up with ease. They jogged, cantered, traced figure eights and raced around barrels. Then she slid off and handed me the reins.

I had only been on a horse once before, but how hard could it be? I had watched every lesson since Rory was five. The only thing I lacked was experience. I climbed on with apparent confidence, thinking it was a good idea to hide my fear. But my fake self-assurance became real when I discovered that watching lessons paid off. With just a flick of the reins, Dan turned left and right and even walked in circles. Riding a horse was thrilling, until it was time to get off.

When I thought about getting down, my breath left me. It seemed as if the horse's legs had grown taller while I was riding. Rory tried to talk me through it: "Mom, just hold the saddle horn, lean forward, then swing your leg over and slide down."

I grabbed the horn with both hands and laid my chest against it. It felt safer to have my body in contact with Dan's. I could slide better if I was leaning against him. Shimmying my foot out of the stirrup, I swung my leg over, slid down, and tried to jump to the ground.

But I only landed on my toes. Something kept my feet from touching the ground. I realized then that the front of my bra had gotten hooked around the top of the saddle horn. Holding the reins with my right hand, I tried to pry the bra up with my left. It wouldn't budge.

My breath quickened as I imagined Dan running away with me suspended at his side. I looked for Rory to help. But, when she saw me dangling from the horse by my bra, she took a step back and scanned the ring to see if anybody was watching. No one was there.

"Mom, stop it, get off the horse."

"I can't," I said, "come here and help me."

An image flashed through my mind of what I must look like pinned to the horse by my undergarments. I was hooked at the sternum, frantically pulling at the bra with my left hand, clenching the reins with my right. My shirt was scrunched into a midriff exposing my belly. The tips of my toes barely touched the ground.

Laughter overtook me with silent, involuntary gasps. Rory's furrowed eyebrows and entrenched feet only made me more hysterical.

"Mom, c'mon-get down."

"I'm telling you, I can't. Rory, you have to help me-please." I could understand Rory's embarrassment. At twelve, the sight of my mother hanging from a horse by her bra would have embarrassed me too.

Dan began to walk forward. With each step, the front of my bra slid further down the saddle horn. I pulled back on the reins and tried to say an authoritative "Whoa," but I was helpless with laughter. As Dan galumphed forward, my shirt inched higher and, one by one, my breasts popped out of the bra.

I learned then that an adolescent girl will not help a half naked mother hanging from a horse. When she saw my bare breasts, Rory blushed, turned her back and started walking toward the door.

"Rory!" I called. "Don't go! Where are you going? You have to help me!"

Tears streamed from my eyes, my body shook, and I could hardly breathe but, despite the laughter, I was starting to panic -- more so now that Rory was leaving.

The barn door rumbled open. A woman in riding gear entered and strode toward a rack of saddles. She did not look up until I yelled for help. By this time, my shirt and bra were bunched up around my neck and upper arms. I was completely naked from the waist up -- and still dangling at Dan's side.

She hurried over, struggled to release my bra, and set me free.

Dan stood unfazed.

Weaning Woes

By Barbara Schading

I am in my last week of nursing, the denouement of a long nine months. Hurray! The final days I’ve waited for, an end to the night feedings by mom (that would be me) exclusively, the last of the nipple bitings, the end of the leaky breasts and nursing pads that leave that tell-tale outline, the end of those worn-out nursing tops from three children that flap open at precisely the wrong moment. The end of being the only person capable of feeding my little baby!

It is 4:30 AM, and Parker is hungry. During the night, while he is still sleepy, he doesn’t bite so I’ve held off weaning him for another week. His eyes don’t open as he cries, his little mouth moving instinctively towards my breast for his nighttime meal. I stroke his face with the back of my finger as he feeds, and in the dim light of the nursery I can see his face change from tense and hungry to calm and satiated. Suddenly I face the terrible realization that these precious moments I alone share with my baby are soon to end. I find myself crying silently as he nurses, oblivious to my sadness. He’s grown so big with just breast milk it was not possible to keep him full any longer, and I’d already started him on solid foods. He loves eating solids like his two big brothers, and can’t get enough of graham crackers and baby oatmeal. It is a thrill to watch him learning how to pick up his cracker, and I smile when he hollers after dropping it out of reach. I give him strawberries in a mesh bag feeder and he sucks happily on them.

Parker, or P.J. as we call him, is a cute, roly-poly little guy beginning to cruise with a vengeance. His walker is his weapon as he scoots around the kitchen floor, everyone dodging the pinching wheels that attack our bare feet. He’s growing so quickly and changing so much I hardly recognize the little bundle the doctor handed me at the hospital.

It’s nearly over now. The one time in my baby’s life when I alone can fulfill all of his needs. His razor sharp little teeth and my breasts are no longer compatible and we must move on. His brothers were weaned at nine months, so it is no real surprise. At my age and after three children, I don’t plan on more babies, so away will go the nursing bras, the nursing tops, the breast pump. In just a few days they’ll no longer be a part of my life, nor P.J.’s.

The physical discomfort of weaning is beginning to hit hard. My breasts are swollen and tender and leak at a moment’s notice. Emotionally, I’m nervous, irritable, excitable and vacillate between feelings of sadness or depression, longing for the earlier days with my baby. I hate losing that feeling of closeness with my child. My husband shakes his head and wonders about my weepy reactions to anything. Little things get blown way out of proportion.

According to my references, hot or cold packs are supposed to help the physical discomfort, as well as binding the breasts. I’m told not to pump excess out as it will only prolong my agony. Will I ever quit wearing those terrible breast pads? I was also warned, firmly, to not count on my birth control "mini-pill" being effective once I stop nursing! Ha! My little bundle of joy PJ is a direct result of that omission. While I don’t like to think of him as a mistake, I will take more care in the future. Emotional relief from this whole process comes from long, hot, and fragrant baths. I find hot tea and cold water particularly soothing as well as a favorite loose top. I watch an old movie and don’t care if I weep.

He lays across my chest. In his first few days, he curled up and didn’t even reach across my belly. Now his legs stretch down to my knees with his head at my shoulder. Mother’s Day has come and gone, but for me, it is every day during this final week. I watch my baby’s sweet face again as he rests against my bare breast. He is through feeding for the night. I am as sorry he will lose these precious moments with me as I am about losing this tender time with him. We will both begin to grow up a little next week, and will both miss this time together. He will learn to like the bottle, or the cup, and his formula, but they will never comfort him as I did.

A tear falls from his eye and I wipe it away in surprise. Does he know that this is the end of our most special time together?

It is my own tear, dropping on his face. My darling baby is blissfully unaware of my sadness. He will never realize how much these moments meant to me.

On second thought, the right term for the end of the most special time a mother can share with her child isn’t denouement. It’s epilogue.

***********************
Copyright 2003 Barbara Schading

Wet Seal

By Angela Lam

Yesterday while shopping for my 8-year-old son, I noticed a bodice-hugging turquoise top in the displaywindow of Wet Seal, a popular teenage clothing outlet. Without thinking twice, I slipped inside, grabbed a size small top and a size 3 pair of matching turquoise hip-hugging jeans and asked the sales clerk if I could try them on. She enthusiastically agreed, even allowing me to go inside the fitting room with my Sears bag full of boy shorts for my son.

Underneath the tiny fluorescent lights, I dumped my business suit on the bench and pulled the turquoise top over my head. It fit perfectly, hugging my breasts and ribs and waist just like the mannequin. I wiggled into the jeans and they snapped over my hips without me having to suck in my gut, as I no longer had a gut after losing 25 pounds on my five-foot-two frame.

Although the clothes fit, my face above the young-looking body was 25 years too old. I remembered a song Cher sang a few years back, “If I Could Turn Back Time,” and wistfully, I wished for this same body on the head of my 15-year old self. Disgusted with my age, I changed back into my sleek black business suit and opened the fitting room door.

“They fit,” I announced to the sales clerk, a robust 20-year old Mexican girl wearing a frilly white blouse and hip-hugging jeans. “But I’’m too old to wear them.”

She tried to suppress a laugh. “You’re not too old,” she teased.

I nodded. “I couldn’t fit into these types of clothes when I was a teenager, and now I can, but I’m afraid I look more like Christina Aguilera’s mom than Christina Aguilera.”

Oh, c’mon. You can wear them.”

I held the turquoise outfit close to my chest and sighed.

“Hey, Monica,” the Mexican sales clerk shouted, “thislady thinks she’s too old to wear our clothes.”

Monica, an anemic blond with a pierced ear and tongue, glanced up from folding a table full of T-shirts and clucked, “Ohmigod, you’re not like 80 or something. That would be like gross.”

“See,” the Mexican sales clerk smiled.

“I’d have to think about it,” I said, handing her the clothes and stalking out of the store.

I glanced back through the display windows at the tiny mannequins with their perfect teenage bodies wearing clingy knits and denim and wondered what had happened to my face.

It’s not that I needed a face-lift, but the woman staring back at me in the fitting room mirror didn’t look young. She had a wizened maturity in the crinkles around her eyes and the creases around her mouth, a subtle wisdom about her that could not be erased with countless moisturizers or layers of foundation. It was the face of a woman who had weathered 10-plus years of marriage, 2 abortions, 2 childbirths, 2 extramarital affairs, childrearing a special needs son and a hyperactive 3-year old daughter, and 2 careers that were both going nowhere.

That’s not something a tube top and low-rider jeans could mask.

As I ascended the escalator to the parking lot, I consoled myself with the fact that I had already purchased a bikini. “I look fabulous in that,” I said. “Isn’t that all that matters?”

But some part of me was mourning. For the loss of youth. For the loss of innocence. For the loss ofthe face that could sport a teeny-bopper outfit and get away with it!