Reality TV

Let me just say that I have a real love-hate relationship with reality TV and frankly with TV in general. As a weirdo child, my parents had strict TV rules: no TV at all during the week (weekends were our only TV time). And when we were allowed to watch, what we watched was closely monitored, like excessively. I remember getting in trouble for watching Beverly Hills 90210 and even My So Called Life. My mom actually told me she didn't like the way the Claire Danes character talked to her mother :)

This is all kind of hilarious to me now since my parents have a billion channels and could care less what programming anyone watches. Sigh.

After declaring independence at the age of 19 and moving into a dank and weird apartment for old people and super ghetto white T folks, I quickly learned that I couldn't afford cable even if I wanted it. Hell, I barely afford to bathe every day. I swear to god, my boyfriend and I used to take baths together to conserve water. Gross and wrong.

But yeah. I actually think when we first moved into the apartment we had no bed, no couch, no working TV. So we became anti-TV, partly out of necessity, and partly to feel superior to everyone else we knew :)

And you know what? I really didn't miss it that much. After a hard day of work or school, instead of collapsing on the couch and watching the boob tube, I collapsed onto our hot pink bean bag chair and played guitar or worked on a home-project like covering all our ugly old cabinets with pages from a 60's science book.

Fast forward to today: I still have never bought cable since moving out on my own. Although, I do get several channels from the whole digital TV thing. Without having all the really good channels to watch shows like Weeds and Breaking Bad and so on (I can always Netflix them!) I have been forced to occasionally (ok, all the time) indulge in some TV bottom-feeding. I have gotten hooked on watching BS reality TV. Of course I try to always watch with an heir of superiority--"can you believe she's wearing that?" "why would she expect to find a husband out of these knuckleheads", etc., it speaks to me.

I conducted research in college on how reality TV skews our view of reality. But it's so true.
Anyways, the whole reason for this post was that my parents were over the other night and the TV was on. I've recently noticed that every time they watch TV now, they both constantly comment on the believability or "realism" if you will, of the shows. They are especially fond of doing this with cop shows, but any show will do. They watch and say things like, "oh, I'm really sure the crime scene investigators would also be the ones conducting the interviews". And I'm thinking--we all know this is fake right? I mean, I highly doubt the entire CSI team in Florida is comprised of super good-looking sexy scientist/cops too, but we all know that right? Now I'm noticing that they do it all the time, with practically every show. As if the purpose of TV-- reality show or no--was to simply capture the true, everyday lives and work processes we all experience.

Thank goodness we have people like the Bachelorette and Big Brother to remind us that no one wants to see "reality" when they turn on the tube. I wouldn't watch a show about a girl in her late-twenties who works 40 hours a week at a boring job for which she is grossly underpaid, then goes home and plays with her baby. And occasionally does something fun. Would you?

Dear Everleigh (3 Months!)

Dear Everleigh,

Today you are 3 months old and you are crying less and less each day. This is awesome, because I feel like we've gotten so used to the crying and trying to attend to your needs, that we've missed out a little bit on getting to know you.

And you are proving to be quite the character. You've started smiling at us now, and it feel amazing. I know these last few months have been tough with your colic, and I'm so thrilled when you smile and seem truly happy.

You are holding your head up so well, and you like to be upright. You look at us like you have so much to say, and just can't say it yet. We get excited talking about all the things we'll be able to do as a family--vacations and road trips and camping and hikes. That will all come with time. For now, we're so happy that the storm has cleared and you're a happy baby.

Also this month? You've decided you like your binkie and will take a bottle. Hallelujah. Ev, you're one heck of a gal. Can't wait to see what's next!

Love,

Mommy

Mr. Mom and the Stay-At-Home Dads

The phenomena of the Stay-At-Home-Dad was captured in the 1983 film, "Mr. Mom" as a father loses his high paying job and then struggles to fill his wife's shoes when she receives a job offer and returns to work. While it's a cute depiction of how the typical man might feel being "stuck at home" with the kids, it's funny how in the end the dad gets his job back and returns to work having learned his lesson about appreciating his wife and kids more, etc.

But what about REAL stay at home dads? What is their often untold experience? How do they really feel about their wives paying the bills, about telling others in public what they do, about forming an extra special close bond with baby that most dads miss out on?

I don't know all the answers to these questions. But I can you my experience as the wife of a stay at home dad.

When my husband and I decided to try for a little bambino, we thought it would take awhile to get pregnant, then awhile to grow this little bean in my belly, and that our circumstances would likely change many times between then and when baby was born. When I got pregnant, my husband and I were both full time students, and I was also working full time. We envisioned that I would graduate with my MA, step into a sweet new job, and that my hubby would keep on going with school (while working part-time) and then graduate a couple years later, get a great job, make bank, and we would be doing awesome. At that point, I could be a stay at home mom if we wanted or see how things shook out.

Reality check? My hubby looked for part time work the whole time I was pregnant and couldn't find jack. I didn't get the raise I was up for, and after graduation I couldn't find a job in my field. i still haven't received so much as an interview from one of the 20+ applications/resume's I've sent out. My maternity leave was super short and primarily unpaid, and I headed back to work exhausted and poor. Then 3 weeks later, my husband's classes started again at school.

I know he's had mixed feelings off an on about our situation. He thinks it's awesome that he gets to spend more time with our girl than your average daddy, and hopes that connection with create the foundation for an amazingly tight lifelong bond. However, I think he struggles with sometimes asking me for beer money or checking with me before he signs on to participate in an opportunity at school that would interfere with the baby's schedule/my work schedule.

On my end, I've struggled with being jealous that my husband gets to spend so much of this critical time with our little one while I'm slugging it out at my less-than-thrilling job for which I am brutally underpaid. I get a little miffed when I return from a day at work to a crying baby (evenings are still kind of "melt-down" time for her) and don't get to eat dinner until she's asleep at 8. It's tough for sure and mommy-burnout is common for new moms but i think especially for working moms and maybe even more so for bread-winning working moms.

But you know what? I'm still so happy that I have an amazing and talented husband who loved me enough to A) have a child with me even though he wasn't 100% sure/on-board at first and B) loves her so much and has enough scheduling flexibility to watch her most days while I work. The way he engages with her is so incredible to watch. He really tries to get to know her as a person, and the way her eyes light up when he's around is worth all the money in the world.

Maybe some day we'll strike it rich, or at least score the jobs we want and so on. Until then, I love my stay-at-home husband!

Breaking Plans: An Unnatural Birth Story

My husband is older than me, with an 18 year old daughter of his own. So when we discussed having a baby, he was a little freaked about flipping the hourglass. That said, he took a leap of faith and decided to go for it--with one promise from me: if he helped give me the amazing gift of mommyhood, we would have ONE and only one.

I think that knowing this was the only time I'd ever be pregnant, feel my baby kick, go through the birthing process, etc. helped me appreciate every party of it that much more. Knowing this would be my only birth, I became obsessed with reading about the birthing process. I wanted to know what others had gone through and what they wished they had done differently. I decided I wanted a natural birth, and found an amazing hospital in my area with a team of midwives that specializes in natural births, but makes other options available.

Fast forward to 2 days past my due date. I wasn't just pregnant, I was SUPER-PREGNANT. I had chipmunk cheeks, cankles, giganto feet, the whole deal. I was ready to get this labor thing on! Sadly, as my due date came and went, I started feeling less and less like labor was approaching. That night, I watched TV, rolled into bed, and fell asleep. I awoke at 1AM to the realization that my pants were wt. I jumped up and waddled to the bathroom thinking, "surely I didn't wet myself...? Could it really be...?" After hovering over the toilet for 5 minutes while liquid continued to trickle out, I alerted my husband. My water had broken, it was finally happening. Today we would meet our baby girl!

I eagerly called my midwife, and her advice was to put on a pad and see if I could go back to bed because I would need my rest. Well, a pad was really NOT going to cut it because the fluid just kept on coming. So I fashioned myself a diaper out of a towel (think Sumo wrestler style), and sat on the edge of the bed grinning. Today I would meet my baby!

Then the contractions came: 3-5 minutes apart right from the get-go, although the pain was tolerable at first. My husband and I chose to labor as long as possible at home, so we set about doing laundry, cleaning the house, and chatting excitedly about what was to come. The pain went from bad to worse. When I could no longer talk through contractions (at about 5AM), we decided we would both feel better if we headed to the hospital.

As soon as we made it to the room, I got checked (almost completely effaced but only dilated to a 1. Boo!), then hopped into the water therapy tub. It was like heaven. I labored on all fours in the tub and moaned my way through each wave of pain and pressure that coursed through my back and lower abdomen. Every hour I had to hop back on the bed for some monitoring. I hated this time because laboring on the bed was intensely painful without any means of moving through the contractions.

After 5 hours of this off and on monitoring, they check me again--dilated to a 3. This was not good. I began walking the halls with my husband, pausing during contractions to lean forward against the railing and roll my hips like i was hula hooping. This was the only thing that seemed to help. I was in a meditative state and kept telling myself, "your body was MEANT to do this!"

At my next monitoring session (about noon...hour 11 of labor), i was told that the baby's heart rate was dipping drastically every time my contractions peaked, and i would need to stay in the bed so they could keep an eye on baby. Stay in the bed? But I HATE the bed! The bed inhibits me! But I knew this was no longer about me--it was about my baby. So I lay in the bed, enduring each contraction without the ability to move. i began vomiting when my contractions peaked and was told if i kept vomiting I would have to get an IV of fluid (something I did not want...I wanted to be able to stay in the water therapy tub!) I threw up. They gave me the IV. Then baby's heart rate dropped low enough to alert the nurses. Things got blurry. i was told to turn on my side and bring my knees up to my chest. I was given oxygen. I began to cry.

This was NOT the birth experience I had in mind--crying, scrunched up in an uncomfortable position with an IV in my arm and an oxygen mask on while my family looked on in horror. I asked about pain management options. My midwife encouraged me to weigh the decision before jumping in, since my birth plan dictated that I wanted a natural birth. I opted to check my progress first and then decide. After 12 hours of labor I was dilated to a 5 (the halfway point). Epidural PLEASE.

I was afraid I would be disappointed in myself or that I would disappoint others by this decision. But you know what? After my epidural, I was more present. My husband actually said, "welcome back." Apparently, I had not spoken in hours. While I could still feel the pressure of the contractions, my epidural gave me the opportunity to spend those last quiet moments alone with my family and husband before bringing my one and only child into the world. We dimmed the lights, cleared the room, and turned up the music--Ray LaMontagne's "Let it be Me". As the song played, my husband and I looked into each other's eyes and cried. We knew our lives were about to change in the most amazing way.

Looking back, I'm glad my birth went exactly as it did. I got to experience the intensity of natural labor, and then have the soft, sweet, quiet moments that the epidural afforded before the pushing started. I couldn't have planned it better myself.

Dear Everleigh (2 Months!)

Dear Everleigh,

Today you are two months old. And colicky. They say colic is defined as unexplained crying that lasts more than two hours. I define it as not being able to sooth my baby enough when she is upset. Upset about being out in the world. Upset about too much stimuli. Upset about digestion. We really don't know.

This month I had to return to work and leave you at home with Daddy and it's been bumpy. You've been nursing, but you don't like bottles--they're just not the real thing. And I don't blame you.

To try and make you feel better, Daddy and I hold you most of the time you're awake. We bounce you up and down lightly, or sway side to side. We give you warm baths with Mama. We swaddle you and sing you little songs we write off the cuff to try and make you happy. Sometimes we take you out on the porch and let you feel the sun on your face. You seem to like this best of all. When we're really desperate, we run the vacuum, because you like the hum it makes.

And you cry and cry and kick your legs out in pain? frustration? gassiness? And we just keep on loving you.

This month has been the hardest yet. I love you so much and I feel so lucky to be your Mom. It's been so sad leaving you each morning to go to my job, especially knowing you're home crying and missing me. But when I get home, I cannot wait to scoop you into my arms, nurse you and hug you and kiss you and breathe you in.

I love you, Ev-Wev.

Mommy

That Time I Got In-School Suspension

Looking back, it's almost funny but not quite. It's pretty crazy because historically, I am a RULE FOLLOWER. I freak out if someone encourages me to bend 'em just a little, because I have a deep-seated Christian childhood fear of getting in trouble. I'm talking over stupid things. I am highly conflict avoidant and mostly choose to do "the right thing" to control the overwhelming guilt I would inevitably feel were I to wander off the path.

But here is a story I was thinking about the other day for some reason. This story is of a time I totally wandered off the path. Kind of. And really bad things happened. Kind of.

I was 15, a sophomore in high school at the strictest southern baptist private school this side of the Mississippi. I had a friend, Amy, who was 16 and had a junker car. Being with her equaled freedom. We could listen to 311 and bob our heads and feel alive. You know that 16 year old feeling?

Well, another girlfriend in our class decided to have a co-ed Halloween party that year--a major deal for most 15 year olds, but especially for some super repressed teens like us. Boy-girl party? OMG (oh my goodness), we MUST attend.

Flash forward to 2010--my parents are pretty relaxed. They drink in moderation. They go to church, but don't make a big deal of it. They're republicans but are OK with the fact that me and all my sisters are liberals. We can joke about sex in front of them or getting drunk or voting for Obama, or the fact that one of my sisters was a lesbian for a minute in college. It doesn't phase them.

Now back to my high school years--they refused to let me attend this party because boys would be present. Seriously? It was actually being chaperoned by my classmate's mother, whom they had met and everything. And she wasn't one of those weird moms who dressed like a whore and gave her kids vodka. She was an upper middle class stay at home mom who had planned all kinds of games for the party and so on. but the more I brought it up, the more they refused to let me go.

So I did what any teen would do. I told them I was going over to Amy's house and then Amy and I drove to the party. There's more here--my "boyfriend" at the time was supposed to be there that night too. I put boyfriend in quotes because neither one of us could drive, so we never went on dates or anything and his parents really disliked me for some reason I will never understand. So this party was a big opportunity to spend a little time with him outside of school. Very nervewracking!

Amy and I got ready for like an hour and probably put on way too much makeup and hairspray. I wore the cool wide leg skater jeans I had recently purchased. This was a big deal too because the school required that we wear skirts below our knees, dress shoes, and shirts no more than 2 fingers below the collarbone. Seeing everyone in street clothes was a new discovery. I wanted people to discover I was a badass.

So we got there, and sure enough, the host parent was actively involved in all the games, there was punch and cookies and so on. Then--a scavenger hunt. We were to break up into teams and go around the neighborhood looking for items on the list. I got into a group with my boy toy and some other friends and we hit the streets. We were free of parents and games and rules. We still didn't cuss or do anything wrong. Then when we got to the main road, I don't know what came over me, but I suggested that we moon a car.

I had recently been to a girls-only party at my best friend Laura's house where we got bored and flashed some cars with our little training bras on. It was funny. We laughed so hard we cried. We were oblivious to the fact that there are perverts and creeps out there. We just thought it was funny to shock people.

So my suggestion at the scavenger hunt was based on the memory of this being super funny. And me and 3 guys volunteered to do it. We stepped forward and when we saw a car coming, they mooned the car and I flashed em (with my little baby bra on). It was such a rush we did it a few more times. Living on the edge.

We left that night and I got a little kiss from my boy before going. I was on cloud nine.

Then at school on Monday everyone was talking. "Did you guys really flash cars?" "I can't believe it!" etc. I hadn't thought about the fact that news would travel. It seemed like an isolated incident. But apparently, word travels fast. It was the buzz of the school. And like good Christian school kids, we were immediately thrown into a panic about getting in trouble. By lunch word on the street was that the boys involved had turned on me and already gone to the headmasters office and confessed and implicated me.

I felt sick. I felt dizzy. This was not happening. I went home "sick" and received a call at home from my headmaster saying he knew why I had really left school, and he was going to call my parents and he wanted them and me in his office tomorrow. So I broke down and told my parents. They were actually more upset that I had lied to them and gone to the party. The flashing thing seemed like a joke. The first thing my dad did was laugh. But then they got serious.

We went the next day to see the headmaster and he told me that what I did was terrible. That the boys had confessed but I had not, which was even worse. That it was "a boy thing to do" and it was more understandable that they boys had done it but he could not see how a Christian girl could have done such a thing. He told me he did not think I was saved. He gave me in-school suspension for 2 weeks and made me apologize in front of the entire school, and stated in front of everyone that I was being punished for "something I did with 3 guys", which of course sounded WAY worse than mooning a car. He kicked me off the cheerleading team (even though the boys were allowed to continue playing basketball). Mind you, none of this was done at school or on school grounds. It was at a private party at someone's house. Didn't matter. He said we represented the school even when we were away from school. I think I even said, "I'm pretty sure the people in those cars had no way of knowing what school we attended." But it didn't matter. I was basically given a red "A" to wear.

I wanted to leave that school so badly and go somewhere else. I had always made good grades and been a good kid. Suddenly, teachers were looking at me differently. I started getting in trouble over everything. My dresses were scrutinized for dress code violations. I was labeled a bad kid. I cried every night and begged my mom to let me switch schools. But she said, "you can't always run from your problems. Sometimes you have to stay and face them." So I did.

I stayed the rest of the year and was treated like a second class citizen. After witnessing my struggles for a whole year, my mom agreed to let me switch schools over the summer to a slightly less ridiculously crazy christian school in town.

For awhile afterwards when I asked to do something with friends, my dad would say, "keep your shirt on" but other than that, the wounds healed :) You know what though? I still felt hurt typing out this story, 13 years later. Not ashamed about what I did--I was a stupid kid--just hurt at the way I was made to feel. That's Christian love for you!

Hippie Friends

I had a weird childhood. I was homeschooled until I was 10, then attended rigidly religious private school until my sophmore year of college. In that time I went from socially awkward to rebel to homebody. And somehow along the way I made friends with a whole subset of upper middle class neo hippies. I love my friends and their vegan diets, public displays of bare feet, half-baked political views and jam band tendancies. What I love most about them is their idea of love and money and freedom. The fact that most of them went to college to obtain degrees they will shelve in favor of hawking homemade jewelry, working at essential oil stores, or making scarves. They could make money doing something boring but they opt for enough to pay the rent with spare change for pot and miller high life in order to hold on to their freedom. It's super admirable and sometimes I wish I had just a little bit more of that hippie spirit.

But you know what? While I love that philosophy in theory, I struggle to let go completely. I can't help it. When I dream of the perfect life, I dream of simplicity, of the ocean, tall grass and wildflowers and laughing with my child. But I usually have shoes on. And the soundtrack is more hipster than hippie. And while I love the thought of not caring about money, it totally stresses me out if I can't pay my bills.

Is there a way for me to find beauty an happiness and peace in moderation? Can I keep one foot in the office and the other on the stage?