Kittens.

I have the best job. Last October, I started working as the Student Affairs Counselor at the law school here in my town. Going into it, I thought it would be a dilluted, safer version of the therapy I practiced prior at the community mental health center-- gone would be the borderline severe and persistent mental health clients, and in would be the high functioning law students whose problems were certainly valid, but wouldn't leave me wanting to curl up in the fetal position after. I could use my degree without returning home feeling completely drained and devoid of all emotional energy.

It wasn't always this way. I used to be able to hear trauma after trauma, in extensive detail, without even batting an eye. If I felt kind of yucky after a session, I'd just flip on Cuteoverload.com, and dancing baby hedgehogs would have me feeling warm and fuzzy and would erase any secondary trauma that may have started. What changed was the birth of my first child-- and suddenly, the scary awful that I was hearing about in the world became something potential, and its potential was that it could happen to this person who was my world.

So now, I don't do stories about children being abused. I can't even do stories from adults recounting abuse they experienced as a child. After enough intake sessions, I had resolved that my children would never have anyone babysit them ever-- only I could be trusted with their care to ensure that no evil monster could prey upon them.

As you can probably imagine, I'm delighted to help law students process the stress of their coursework, the pressure of success, and the doubts of whether they are cut out for law school, or whether law school is cut out for them. It's rewarding, and not triggering. The best of everything.

The thing is, though, life still happens. And it's a startling reminder that we cannot educate ourselves into immunity. Research has always been my defense mechanism-- if there is something that is wrong in my life, I can just read the crap out of it, and then I become the one with the power-- and I can make it go away. I can know enough about it to know its rules, and exile it into a part of the universe that doesn't involve me. So in a very roundabout way, it can feel safe to go to school, to get more education, to have more letters at the end of my name-- because those letters should protect me. They should provide me with the knowledge I need to keep a lot of the bad stuff at bay.

So when an issue comes up with a student that deviates from "Law School is stressful" into "Life hurts sometimes," I am confronted with the reality that so many things are out of my control. There is so much pain out there that is nondiscriminant with its target. It is unfathomable how much can cause so much hurt that you physically, emotionally, and mentally cannot imagine how you haven't died as a result of it, and yet there you are when the alarm goes off in the morning. Sometimes, I think that is one of mortality's greatest cruelties-- that the pain doesn't have mercy and release us from the awful. Usually, I think that when I'm in the throes of it. I would include some uplifting anectdote about how it is empowering to endure, to become strengthened through the overcoming of a hardship, but in the deepness of the suck, I'd rather pass on the strength and empowerment. I'd prefer to keep my coccoon of security and safety, and leave the hurt in that part of the universe that isn't me.

I'm not sure what my point is. There is power in gratitude for what is good, and there is something in acknowledging the terrible. It is there, it is real, and it often doesn't offer notice of its impending arrival. I'm going to work harder to make snuggles with my two (almost three) little ones the most important thing I do each day. Perhaps that will add the needed balance to the things that I cannot influence.


(credit)

A confused idea of "empowering."

I had the sad experience of coming across a quote from a gal whom I usually find adorable. Cameron Diaz was interviewed this past November, and discussed being "objectified," and stated, "I think every woman does want to be objectified".

Read more: http://www.usmagazine.com/celebrity-news/news/cameron-diaz-women-want-to-be-objectified-20122011#ixzz2HKWcCVqM
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Look at that. It cites it for me. What a delightful tool-- the auto-link, not Cameron Diaz, for clarification.

I was disappointed already. Then my heart broke when I read the following:

The Bad Teacher star doesn't even mind stripping down to her underwear for photo shoots, as she did for a recent Terry Richardson spread in the November issue of Esquire UK.
"It's empowering," she explained. "I'm not some young girl with the photographer going, 'Will you take your clothes off?' I'm like [mimes stripping], 'How does this look?'"


Read more: http://www.usmagazine.com/celebrity-news/news/cameron-diaz-women-want-to-be-objectified-20122011#ixzz2HKWvao2l
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It's the age old argument. It's interesting, though, because while prostitution is allegedly the oldest profession, female empowerment is a rather novel idea. So what is this notion that the two are related?

Yes. I'm equating to parading in a magazine in your skivvies to prostitution. You can choose to snort and close your browser now, if you like, but there are many individuals who feel the same.

Know why?

Because objectification, this idea that Ms. Diaz says is something "all women want," is defined as becoming an object. No longer am I a person when I am objectified-- I am a thing. A thing does not have rights. It does not have feelings. A prostitute is not viewed as a person-- merely a tool for sexual gratification. And normalized pornography is the same. So while she argues in the beginning that becoming objectified is "healthy," she then argues that doing so is "empowering."

I'm arguing that she is "confused."

Empowerment is also an idea that lends itself to a greater purpose. When it comes to female objectification, the individual volunteering (or sometimes not volunteering, as the sex slave trade that is alive and well in the United States would have us know) to remove their clothing for the sake of "empowerment" fails to consider the effect it has on the rest of her gender group.

Consider the spouse of a ponography addict (by the way, I hate porn.). Do you think she feels empowered when she finds her husband glancing over your image? Do you think women anywhere feel empowered when they see you in all of your phonishopped glory, riddling themselves with feelings of inadequacy and an unquenchable desire to be "enough"?

I'm so sick of this notion that declaring one's strength requires the downfall and destruction of everyone else. It's all very Hunger Games-y, and we all know how that ended.

So I have a proposal for you, Ms. Diaz. Consider the impact you have on others when declaring "empowerment." Really understand what it means to be "objectified," and explore how normalized pornography contributes to the acceptance of rape myths (among other super "empowering" things).

 

An the winner of the BFF award goes to...

The Sportsart 805p.

It was a difficult journey to get to this point. A few weeks ago, I went running on the treadmill, and was dismayed to find that before the end of the first mile, I felt that my abdomen was going to split in half. I walked at an incline for five minutes, and then attempted mile number two. I made it through it, but only through harnessing all of the mental energy that was required to get me through the last few miles of my twenty mile training run last fall. It was excruciating, and as I walked another five minutes on an incline, I decided that I had two options:
1. Give in and use pregnancy as an excuse to get soft, doughy, and just be determined to train harder this summer to get my PR at the Kansas City Half, or
2. Get an elliptical.

I have a very strong, loving relationship with the elliptical. It was my machine of choice for the longest time at the gym, and my parents purchased one immediately prior to me returning home for my last summer before getting married. I could spend hours on the thing (and often did when I was eating disordered). No matter what injury I may have been nursing at the time, the elliptical consistently let me work out without hurting myself further.

So it was my answer.

I told the husband, got approval, and then immediately began perusing Craigslist. I wanted something inexpensive, but I also wanted something that wouldn't squeak. I knew I'd be using it while the chitluns napped, so those were really my two considerations. After looking for a while, though, I got frustrated, as many of the reviews of the machines I'd found in my self-determined price range had a common complaint: They were noisy.

Ugh.

I vented my frustration to my husband, who adores online shopping, and he committed to finding the elliptical. We researched stride lengths and what would be ideal for our height ranges, and he went out from there.

Then I got the phone call.

"Hey, I want you to look at this one."

I got on to look, and was shocked. Yes, it looked great. It was a great deal for what the machine retails for. But it still cost twice what I was considering for another one, one that I thought was insanely expensive itself, and felt selfish for even considering spending the money on something for me.

My husband went through the logic with me.

• It's something I'll use every day while pregnant, and every other day when I'm not (going to be a good girl with cross training this time to avoid injury)
• If we get something cheap, we won't want to bother moving it in a couple years when the husband finishes his master's and we move elsewhere for his PhD, and at that point we really won't be in a position to purchase a new machine
• The cheaper ones on Craigslist weren't that much cheaper than what you'd pay for them new, and even new they're a mediocre machine. This one is a great machine (per reviews), can handle a lot of use, and is a great deal for what retail is for it.

After a fortunate mishap with our old 92 pickup at Walmart when getting new tires that resulted in an insurance payout, we had some extra cash, and I decided to pull the trigger.

Best. Decision. Ever.

The machine is super quiet. Our house is small, with the two bedrooms adjacent to the living area, and the machine sits in the living room on our cement floor. When I got on to workout while the husband put the 1 year old down for a nap, he came out and was surprised I had already started-- he couldn't hear a peep from the other room.

I didn't even consider this when getting the machine, but having the motor in the back as opposed to the front is ideal for having small children. The kids see it as playground equipment and want to climb on it, and if the temptation proves to strong while I'm exercising, I can see them by the moving parts in the front and prevent injury from occurring, and there are no exposed moving parts in the back where I wouldn't have seen them before. I never even thought of that when I was looking at machines, and I'm so grateful to realize after the fact that I made a good choice!

The workout programs are great. It syncs with a heart rate strap, so I can do the heart rate workouts and set it so I don't over exert myself in my preggo state without having to even pay attention to what the resistance level is throughout the workout. Delightful.

Most of all, my emotional health is already improving. I am in that awkward place where I'm too pregnant to do the workouts I was doing before pregnancy, but too fit to feel many benefits from pregnancy workout videos. A lot of days I couldn't get motivated to carve out time to "exercise" when I didn't feel I was getting anything from it. This gives me my "me-time" that feels productive, gives me my endorphin fix, and helps me feel like I'm maintaining some fitness so I won't be starting from scratch after baby #3 arrives.

It was an expensive toy. But with all the benefits I feel like I'm getting from it already, I know wholeheartedly that it will be worth it.

In related news, when we ask the 1 year old if he's exercising, he immediately starts doing squats. Love. That. Boy.

I have an idea... how about the people BEHIND the camera show us THEIR beach bodies?

Or better yet... how about the people who are writing the headlines and putting people into columns: "BEST/WORST BEACH BODIES OF 2012!!!"

It's really annoying to me when I click on a news story, only to be bombarded on the right hand side of my screen with image after image of beach body this, teeny bikini that, and look who just tweeted a picture of herself in her underwear!

Quite frankly, I feel the digital age has done terrible, terrible things for people who, in another era, would have been able to pretend they were full of depth, substance, and dignity. It is also not so fun for those of us who like to be informed about current events and prefer not to know whether or not Celebrity X or Politician Y is full of depth, substance, and/or dignity.

I also wish someone they trusted would sit down with them and have that important conversation about how posting mostly naked pictures of themselves on the internet may get them the attention they so desperately crave, but it also tells anyone and everyone that they so desperately crave attention, which is very telling in itself. See: #notsoattractive

Quite frankly, I don't know how famous people even go to the beach. It seems like in order to make it into the WORST column, all that is required is for someone to have a grudge against you. With phonishoppe, camera angles, and simply what you're doing at the time (it's amazing what sneezing at the inopportune time during a photo-op can do for your perception of your physical appearance) it's all a matter of whether or not the person writing the article even likes you-- or thinks that posting an awful picture of you will sell magazines.

The question is-- why DOES it sell magazines?

Because the normal folks (and the non-Pretty People) like to know that even with a personal trainer, personal chef, stylists galore, and gobs of money and free time, even the shining stars can exhibit a frog throat now and again that humanizes them into something inferior-- something like us.

Frankly, that's silly.

I recently read a book that was a compilation of essays written by women who have battled and/or are currently battling anorexia. One of the essays was from a gal who was in Hollywood, and chose to remain anonymous. She stated that her career originated in front of the camera, but she has since transitioned to behind the camera doing editing work and production, which she said has been paramount in her recovery. She described how interesting she thought it was when it was tabloid news that some celebrity has an eating disorder-- "They all do," she said. "It isn't news out here." That's what is so interesting to me-- and sad to me, really. As someone who has battled the ED demons, and worked with individuals who are experiencing an eating disorder, I can tell you with absolute certainty that there is ZERO happiness in the throes of that mental illness. So these people that we place on pedestals, wishing for the glamour and limos and premieres and parties and fancy clothes, fantasizing about what it would be like to be one of them-- chances are, they are in a place where they can't even enjoy it. They are in a place where nothing feels good enough, nothing fills the void, and they are so desperate for the validation that comes from their success to fill that void, and it doesn't come-- fortunately, they can just tweet a half (or 3/4) naked picture of themselves and get a quick fix. But it isn't lasting.

It's important to take care of our bodies. Feed them properly, exercise them, and make them the healthiest they can be. But that doesn't mean fitting into the same dress Rihanna wore at the Grammy's. It means being the best you there is. Let's shift to making that the goal rather than some arbitrary number that 90% of population only reaches through damaging themselves.

And for the love of Pete... Refrain from camera phone self portraits. You're sending a lot more than just an image.

(credit)

Phony-shop

"Phonishoppe"? Maybe that's a bit catchier. Trendier.

Something.

It's hard to come up with a word that is capable of garnering enough attention to bring light to something that has become such a sad case of normal.

The day after Christmas, while out visiting family, the husband and I took the boys to the mall to spend some gift card money that was burning a hole in our pockets (okay, in my husband's pocket-- I was just determined to get the kids out doing something after spending so much of the past several days in the car travelling to various family locations to celebrate the holidays). As we were headed to our store of choice, there was a Pepsi advertisement with Sofia Vergara. I'm annoyed with myself for not taking a picture of the advertisement-- I assumed I could just google it and find it, but this particular one won't come up (and I got a little sick to my stomach viewing all of the google images that come up when you search for said actress-- Good. Grief.). I saw the ad, almost life-sized near some soda machines, and I started to laugh. Here was an actress touted for her curves, claiming her figure is a result of regular pilates and nothing more (though, to be fair, certain other actresses have claimed this as well in the past, and it turns out "pilates" was code for "cocaine and bulimia", but I believe Sofia on this one), and she was whittled down to a stick. Her image, her liveliness, was processed out of her through a click-happy photoshopper who destroyed everything about her that makes her wonderful and attractive, simply so she could fit into some idea of what is considered "beautiful." Why get her in the first place, then?

I'd been thinking about using models and actors to promote various products lately, and I started to get annoyed. I'm supposed to purchase a product based entirely on what some pretty person says-- that they love it, so I should too, out of a quest to also become one of the pretty people. Why, I asked, don't they have someone like Hillary Clinton telling me what cell phone she likes best? That's something I'd listen to. Or what Condeleezza Rice prefers to drive. Or which clothing line Rachel Maddow prefers-- because these are brilliant women, and I'd strongly consider their judgement when trying to make a decision for myself. But then, in my quest to find the Sofia Vergara Pepsi advertisement, I also simply searched for "Pepsi advertisement," and pulled up the google image search.

Good. Grief.

It's no wonder these brilliant individuals don't align themselves with product endorsement (assuming these particular companies have had the brains/courage to ask them). It seems that to become the face of something (an accomplishment so many wannabe Top Models strive to achieve) requires agreeing to degredation.

Take, for example, the ad that popped up from 2004 (which was also the year I graduated high school, so a bit dated-- but also not THAT long ago):


Notice Enrique-- decked otu for battle appropriately. Armor covers his thorasic cavity, and his weird pouty look is enough to distract anyone from actually attacking (okay, not really-- what is up with that face? That's the best image they could get?!). Anyway.

Then we move on to the other women. They're depicted as warriors, also preparing for battle (we can assume), but what is their attack strategy? Distract with cleavage? Assume blood is rushing to your genitalia, and thus your limbs will not be as fortified to deliver any sort of deadly blow? It sends the incredibly destructive, mixed message of "Women are strong! And powerful!" with "This is what it looks like to be a woman-- thin, toned, busty, and willing to share it all for the sake of empowerment-- if you aren't there yet, hopefully someday you'll be enough. [insert pity smile here]".

I'm trying to imagine such an ad being sent for approval fifty years ago, and the reaction it would get. It honestly looks like it could be the cover of a pornographic movie, and these women are just puppets in a fantasy held by the run-of-the-mill male.

So what do we do? Is there something that can be done to battle such imagery? Something I've been trying to do is to educate myself on the advertisments and moral code of the various companies filling the shelves of my local stores to understand who is promoting the values I want to support, and those that promote normalized pornography. I know I can't speak for all households, but in ours, I am the one with the most buying power. As the person who is typically running the errands and filling our pantry, I decide what we buy-- and if I refrain from the products that spend a large chunk of their money objectifying women and promoting these negative ideals, then maybe they'll get the message if other moms (and other concerned consumers) jump on board.

So in a culture where we, women, potentially have the largest say in what fills our shopping carts, why does this kind of behavior perpetuate? Why are so many companies getting away with telling us we aren't enough, we aren't sexy enough, and challenging us regularly to overcome our own demons of inadequacy and self criticism as well as creating an environment that does not allow our children to develop healthy ideas about relationships and sexuality?

Let's get smarter. Let's educate our selves. Let's take a consumer stand against products who utilize their advertising to tear us down, perpetuate rape myths, and promote the normalization of pornography.

It's one way to stop the cuts.

I hate porn.

This video caught my eye for several reasons.

One is that I know these situations are not uncommon. The husband used to work for a cell phone retailer, and I heard plenty of stories of refurbished phones being distributed with the same sort of material still stored on them. So when they say that they go through a rigorous screening process, I'm hesitant to jump on board with that-- it happens far too frequently for everything to really be screened and caught. My guess is that this story just got some attention because the family that received it wasn't desensitized to the material, which brings me to the second reason this video caught my eye--

The family reacted like this was a horrible, tragic thing to happen to their son, and rightfully so.

Living in several different worlds (one as a clinical professional, one as a member of society) I receive two very conflicting messages. The clinical side, supported by countless research on the damaging effects of pornography on both the individual (resulting in addiction, inability to engage in sexually appropriate relationships, escalating to increased risky sexual behavior, and eventually deviance) as well as relationships (relationship trauma, infidelity, disruption/destruction of the family unit) sends the message that this kind of media is inappropriate, undermines healthy relationships, and results in a far reaching damaging effect on society as a whole. As a member of society, though, the message is that this kind of thing is totally normal, totally healthy, and in fact, is encouraged, and those who argue otherwise are insecure and need to explore within themselves why they feel it is such a terrible thing.

Those who agree with said message from society, please let me know, and I'll be happy to share the peer-reviewed studies from well respected research institutions that identify how such a message is flawed.

What intrigued me again about the video was the end result-- GameStop decided to "make things right" and gave the child a brand new nintendo gaming system to replace the original machine that was filled with the pornographic images. While I applaud them for admitting a mistake and attempting to make amends, I am also saddened that nothing can really be done to undo the damage caused by being exposed to such images at an age where one is not equipped to handle those images. Good grief, at 26, when I'm exposed to pornographic images I still have a strong, adverse reaction, and while it would be nice to get a brand new shiny toy each time it happens, it doesn't erase the images or the trauma they've caused.

But the idea is an interesting one... GameStop acknowledged that exposing a child to pornographic images was damaging and restitution needed to be made. So now I wonder-- when is everyone else going to get on board with that? When I walk into a local shop and see an advertisement with a woman posed sexually, wearing little to no clothing, all for the sake of promoting a product and garnering attention, when will my sons be compensated for the inappropriate exposure when they are not at an age to consent to such imagery? When will any kind of compensation will be offered to me, as their mother, for attempting to protect them from exposure to such materials that have empirically been shown to have damaging effects on brain development, chemistry, and can potentially result in the development of deviant behaviors later in life?

I have a pretty good grasp on my responsibility as a mother. I don't allow inappropriate media into my home. I got into an email dispute with Spotify to remove my account from their services after my complaint of a large Victoria's Secret ad popping up on my entire screen when using their product was unavoidable, thus potentially exposing my child to everything they had to offer. A request to my pediatrician's office to remove a photograph displayed on the wall exposing a high school student's abundant cleavage in a very revealing top was responded to warmly and the image was replaced with something appropriate. I do what I can to keep normalized pornography out of my home, but all of it feels a lot like adding gauze to the wounds while something larger, something stronger, continues to stab.

How can we stop the cuts? When does that intervention come in?

The "Pretty People."

It's been a while.

The absence has been a direct result of my total lack of running, which has contributed both to an overall sense of laziness (thus deciding prior to setting down to write that engaging in any such activity would require more effort than I was motivated to put forth), as well as a sense of embarrassment and loss of identity that interfered with coming up with anything to write. That isn't to say I have given up running completely-- I attended a group run a couple weeks ago, and I have been visiting my treadmill occasionally (it's too cold to take the kids out in the double jogger). I was dismayed on my last treadmill attempt, however, when I discovered that running just one mile at a ten minute pace resulted in my abdomen feeling as if it were splitting in half.

I felt validated, however, when I discovered the next day at my first ultrasound that I was actually 19 weeks pregnant and not the 13 weeks we had initially thought. Huzzah for that.

So in the pain (and frustration-- my last pregnancy, I ran until 7 months), I have been on the lookout for an elliptical to get a good cross training regimen in place until I can run successfully after this babe arrives to as to avoid starting from scratch. I have a half marathon in mind, and a goal to PR by seven minutes on its very hilly terrain. I'll do it, gosh darnit, and therefore have to keep up the sweat in the mean time.

So what does a running mama write about when she is no longer running? Instead, I'll shift to my other passion (well, you know, other than my children, because that could get really boring really quickly to anyone and everyone who isn't me or a grandparent of said children):

Being pretty.

No, that doesn't translate to a blog about the latest lipstick shades or how to accessorize that bedazzled scarf to compliment your figure. I'm the last person on the planet that should offer fashion advice or makeup tips-- my husband actually told me early in our marriage that he wanted us to run home to change before heading to a social gathering because I, and I'm quoting here, "looked homeless." I, on the other hand, was more than okay with going out in public in my outfit, hence why I was already out in public in said outfit. So not so fashion savvy-- I was the first daughter to two very educated, very brilliant in the sciences parents, who knew nothing about hair styles or cute shoes or what brands were in, because what was the point? The lab coat would just cover it, or there'd be animal blood, or who wants to wear heels to stand all day looking through a microscope?

No, those things were not imparted on me as a child. When I left the nest and started the process of seeking a mate, I began to attempt to self educate through the use of magazines and other media which imparted an incredibly objectified, narrow view of what beauty was. My eating disorder went off in full swing, but my hair was no longer frizzy, my makeup was always in place, and the numbers on my clothing indicating size were getting smaller and smaller, which by all the definitions I had been given, meant that I was becoming acceptable. Of course, no matter how low the number on the scale got, or how many boys expressed interest in dating me, I still viewed myself as the awkward, chubby girl with a stutter who was only spoken to by a member of the opposite sex when they were interested in dating one of my friends. I still feel like this person most of the time.

Then, there's my husband. A classically good looking guy. He's one of those people who literally walked into a trendy clothing store in the mall when he was a teenager, and without expressing any interest or even opening his mouth to speak to anyone, he was offered a job to work there. He's just one of those people.

You know-- one of the "pretty people."

So as my pregnancy progresses, and I'm in the phase where people look at me and can't tell I'm expecting but instead assume I just really like candy, I about fell out of my chair when my husband told me about a conversation he'd had with a coworker. He'd shown her pictures of his family, and she made some snarky remark about how it's impossible to understand how difficult life really is when you're just a whole family of the "pretty people."

His recounting of the story to me kind of lingered in the air for a moment, and then I clarified-- was she including ME in that scenario?

In fact, she was.

I laughed. I snorted. I dismissed her assessment as that of someone who was delusional, had a vision impairment, or simply was being kind (in a backhanded, angry sort of way).

But then I thought about it, and it made me wonder-- how many times do I group others that I encounter as members of the "pretty people"? The people who, when they start a conversation with me, I write off as them simply being charitable, or bored, or looking to talk to my pretty-people husband? They could also be the awkward, chubby, stuttering girl who was good at math. No one tells that version of the Ugly Duckling story-- the one where the beautiful swan remains unconvinced that it is no longer the Ugly Duckling-- but I'm willing to bet that in the world we live in, where women are constantly objectified, minimized (both in the terms of the importance we play in society as well as literally minimized through photoshop), and normalized pornography is disguised as "empowerment," I bet we live in a world filled with Ugly Ducklings in swan's clothing (or homeless person clothing, depending on whether their husbands laid out their outfits that morning).

So if you don't mind, I'm going to shift my focus for a bit. I'm sure I'll include some fascinating tales of my elliptical stunts (I have managed to fall off a stationary bike before, so this could be fun), but I'll make my own little temporary soap box for it a bit and get comfortable. It's the last I can do while this expanding belly takes over my ability to sleep comfortably (that starts earlier and earlier with each pregnancy, doesn't it?).

In the meantime, here's some cuteness of my wee one just two days after his first birthday-- Doing my part to make more of the "pretty people," one babe at a time.

Ignore the grease stains on the belly-- that's what happens when the clumsy pregnant lady attempts to help take the chicken out of the oven for Christmas Eve dinner.