Category: political animal

american girl

american girl

oy gevult! there’s a new american girl.

and she’s a nice jewish goil, to boot.

at least the book illustrations make her look a little jewish. or italian.
at least the book illustrations make her look a little jewish. or italian.

recently, an american girl catalog made it’s way into my mailbox. for those of you who do not have a girl between the ages of 7-10 in your home, let me school you.

american girl is the wildly-successful doll/book franchise now owned by mattel. they sell you a doll from a specific period in american history for about $100. then, you’re free to buy the ultra-expensive accessories as well as books that tell the story of said doll. if you’re REALLY insane fanatical up for spoiling your child beyond the realm of what is okay excited by the series, you can take your child to have a special tea at one of the american girl doll stores, located in a few major US cities. to the tune of several hundred dollars. (that must be one hell of a cup of tea.) for the record, we’ve never bought any of the dolls, but we have read plenty of the books thanks to our local public library. we couldn’t get through the hispanic girl’s saga, but we especially enjoyed spunky kit kittredge‘s tale as well as that of the revolutionary war era doll, felicity merriman.

while rebecca rubin, the newest addition to the american girl family is not actually the first jewish girl doll offered (there was once, for a split second, a jewish girl doll offered as part of some sort of calendar doll thingy about 20 years ago), she is the first here-to-stay jewish girl doll, with a full backstory and tons of expensive props.  (i can’t wait to hear about little cornfed midwestern girls begging their moms and dads (and santa) to bring them rebecca’s sideboard and sabbath set, complete with challah and candlesticks. does it come complete with brachot (blessings/prayers for the non-tribal set)?)

anyway, in truth, i have a warm spot in my heart for this little doll and for this effort already. rebecca lives in new york city in 1914, the child of jewish immigrants from russia. i haven’t read the stories (yet), but i suspect they involve the pull jewish immigrants of the time felt between staying true to their cultural roots while immersing themselves in their new american identities.  my grandmothers, also NYC dwellers back in that day, would have either been a trifle bit older or a trifle bit younger than rebecca, so i can smile to myself a bit, thinking about what their lives must have been like back then.

i know their families worked their tails off, that’s for sure.

i wonder, in fact, whether there’s any mention of things such as the horrible working conditions these immigrants (and their italian, polish, irish, and other internationally-born brethren) endured back then — i suspect a mention of the triangle shirtwaist factory fire would be something i would want to talk about with my kids. if there is, i’m sure it’s like a whisper that won’t be noticed except by parents like me, who will pounce on it as a teachable moment.

anyway.

mattel took several years to get this one right. and while the actual face of the doll is exactly like every other american girl doll (let’s all join hands and sing we are the world. we all look alike, you know! seriously, don’t you think people would have shrieked if they gave the jewish girl a beak to remember? so i guess i understand that move.), there’s something kind of wonderful to finally be recognized, even in this small way, as american. my ancestors wanted so much to be accepted as american. they were sometimes greeted with signs like this:

image015

even when it seemed that jews were a bit more accepted in american society, there are still holdouts, people who think we can’t be americans if we also have a warm spot in our hearts for israel. i still remember when i, a high school rising senior, was being interviewed as a candidate for new jersey girls’ state. the craggy-faced american legion men asked me a question that infuriates me to this day:

if america went to war with israel, whose side would you be on?

no one asked any of the other interviewees whether they would side with america or ireland, or america or italy, or america or england.  people seem to think that you can’t be an american and a jew, which is an idea that is unfathomable to me.

my grandparents and their parents worked incredibly hard to experience the american dream. they had their struggles, and then, my parents probably had their own challenges growing up jewish in america. jews are not the only people who struggle here; but because it is our ethnicity as well as our religious and cultural background, it has been harder to gain acceptance. you can be irish or italian or polish, but you can still share a sausage and a smile. for us, it’s a little more of a difficult proposition. not insurmountable, though.

i am an american jew. being jewish infuses everything there is about my americanism. and being american pervades  every aspect of my judaism.

and when i see mattel bringing forth an american girl doll like rebecca rubin, i know that the struggles of my ancestors to be american have not been in vain.

somewhere, my grandmas are kvelling*.

*Kvell: (Yiddish) to take great pride and pleasure; a peculiarly Jewish joy most often associated with the accomplishments of one’s family members

peace train

peace train

both BC and hellboy have started camp this week. so far, the only casualty involved would be hellboy’s swim trunks and rash guard, which he lost the very first day and which are not present in any of the lost and found bins. i’ll chalk it up to his inexperience and try to not fret, considering he was growing out of that set anyway.

hellboy lucked out. his best girlfriend from kindergarten, M, is in his group at camp. on the first day, i hid behind a tree, stalker-helicopter mom that i am, watching the group get organized. hellboy had a deathgrip on M’s hand, which another little girl didn’t like very much. the other little girl, who i found out later was M’s friend from preschool, was very much interested in tearing this couple asunder. ultimately, though, they’ve all apparently settled their differences. besides, hellboy has made friends with one very nice-sounding little boy and another little boy, who curiously started out their friendship by kicking hellboy in the nuts while in the post-pool shower portion of the day. (i have had friendships start in even odder ways, so i guess i will take a deep breath and see where this one goes.)

madame, as is typical, knew no one in her group when she started. [how wonderful for the moms (and dads!) who get themselves organized enough in january to get their kids together with other children at camp. this was not a year like that in this house.] fortunately, you could drop BC in a crowd of millions and she would make a life-long friend (if not several) by day’s end. (this of course would be thanks to my gene pool contributions.) so i don’t usually worry about BC in new situations. she goes through the same motions i do — she frets that she knows no one, then she just finds someone who looks like they could do with a friend, and voila! instant social scene.

this year, BC has already made her friend for the session. per usual, i asked BC which local school her new friend A is from. mommy, she replied, A is from saudi arabia. we have lots and lots of people from all over the world in these here parts, so i figured, sure, she’s from there, but where does she live now?

she lives in saudi arabia, girlfriend replied, getting irritated. her family is here for the summer and they sent her to camp.

alrighty. well, that’s got to be interesting, huh? has she told you anything about saudi arabia? i asked.

yes, she was born in philadelphia, but her family is from saudi arabia. that makes her american because she was born here, right?

i replied, yep. how lovely — you might make a new penpal, i replied, hopefully. where is this going?

she’s muslim. i helped her out today and told her that she shouldn’t eat the pepperoni on the pizza they gave us for lunch. she can’t eat pork, either, but i don’t think she knew what pepperoni was. so i helped her. i remembered DiDi (BC’s beloved friend from daycare, who is really named kareem and who is apparently still the man she wants to marry) can’t eat pork because he’s muslim. so i figured she couldn’t, either.

i scratched my head a little. my parents never had to navigate these sorts of situations. well, that’s a mitzvah that you helped her keep with her beliefs, honey. and besides, her beliefs aren’t that much different than yours are. does she know you’re jewish?

sure, BC replied, i told her. but she doesn’t know what jewish means.

should i chalk it up to youth? should i chalk it up to purposeful omission? i don’t know. but i believe that peace happens, one person at a time. i have to be positive and hopeful and not make assumptions, not jump to any stupid or misguided conclusions. because peace no longer just starts with me.

it starts with my kids.

guilty pleasure monday: homosapien (pete shelley)

guilty pleasure monday: homosapien (pete shelley)

oh, naughty pete shelley. call a song homosapien and think you can pull a fast one, huh? no. one. fools. the. BBC!

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=k3KzwpihR_U

i often wonder who at the Beeb is responsible for banning music. what his/her day must be like:

hmmm, let’s ban this one because of its political overtones. let’s ban this one because it sounds like an advertisement. let’s ban this one because he drops the f-bomb.

being the modern-day bowdler must be wildly rewarding.

[i laugh, especially since the aforementioned example dinged for political overtones (thanks to the falklands conflict) was eventually covered by aussie kiddy group the wiggles:]

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ey55AEW3muA

(i’m a mom. that’s how i know.)

so pete shelley, esteemed founder of hugely influential punk band the buzzcocks, pretty much trips through the BBC’s wires with this little dance gem. was this your coming out song, pete? i imagine it was, though there was certainly an element of sexual intrigue in lots of the buzzcock classics: ever fallen in love (with someone you shouldn’t’ve) took on a whole new meaning after i first contemplated shelley’s world.

so i often wonder: did the Beeb ban homosapien because of it’s overt sexual references — or did it ban homosapien because of it’s overt references to gay sex?

who cares. banning a song almost guarantees that people will clamor to hear it. and gay, straight, or otherwise gendered, anyone can dance to this song.

(and some can copy it, too — tell me this doesn’t remind you of shelley’s song!)

guilty pleasure monday: chicago (graham nash)

guilty pleasure monday: chicago (graham nash)

yippee! a song about abbie hoffmann and a few of his pals. seven, to be precise.

the story is a lot more complicated than this, but in short: protesters went to chicago to protest the war during the democratic national convention in 1968.  things got violent. hilarity did not ensue. the eight ringleaders of the experience were arrested: one, black panther  bobby seale, was bound and gagged and tied up to a chair as nash alluded because he was protesting that his attorney could not represent him (his attorney required gallbladder surgery) and he wanted to wait so that he could be represented by his attorney.  the judge was enraged, severed him from the trial, and threw him in jail for four years for contempt (an absurdly long amount of time for that offense, in my humble opinion.)

and then there were seven.

former hollies and CSN/CSNY member graham nash tends to write best when he’s protesting, like the gem immigration man. but chicago is an incredible piece of music. released in 1971, it may very well be the last song that had any ounce of 1960s optimism in it before it was completely beaten out of everyone (and they all gave in to a bummer of a bad trip known as watergate.)  in it, nash pleads with wildly-talented (and wildly-egomaniacal) bandmates neil young and stephen stills to join him in chicago just to sing. if the group got together to perform there, magical things could happen:

We can change the world
Re-arrange the world
It’s dying – to get better

unfortunately, i believe they both turned him down. i believe any convictions that the seven had were eventually overturned anyway, sans musical fanfare.

for me, this song brings back an extremely optimistic point in my life.  it was 1996, and i was working for a major american online service, helping to develop online content in a variety of areas. i had already helped develop an online astrology site, an online moms site, and a matchmaking site (which was eventually bought out by match.com), and i was truly enjoying a creative work period. it was definitely not one of the easiest parts of my worklife for reasons i’ll keep to myself; but in general, it was an exciting time to be on the bleeding edge of the popularization of the internet.

one of my boss’ secretaries had a boxed set of crosby, stills, nash and young, a box set i still covet to this day. other versions of many classic chesnuts appear in this four disc set — jerry garcia shows up with his slide guitar for a few numbers, for example. this wonderful woman let me borrow this set for what seemed like months; i listened to discs in my car on the way to work for a lot of that summer. and as i drove, thinking about all the novel ways that the internet was revolutionizing the world, the words had a particular resonance.

We can change the world
Re-arrange the world
It’s dying – if you believe in justice
It’s dying – and if you believe in freedom
It’s dying – let a man live his own life
It’s dying – rules and regulations, who needs them
Open up the door
We can change the world

sure, i was being absurdly idealistic; the next year, my job disappeared and only thanks to the deus ex machina known as my original company boss did i get another job in the company.

but for one brief shining moment, i really thought i was a tiny, tiny piece of a revolution.

guilty pleasure monday: ain't wasting time no more (allman brothers)

guilty pleasure monday: ain't wasting time no more (allman brothers)

what’s a nice jewish girl like me doing with a bunch of rednecks? getting inspiration, that’s what.

i think i had a mid-life crisis when i was 28. (i know, i know. i had it a lot earlier than i was supposed to. i’m an overachiever.) all my life, i had worked toward a goal, a goal which turned out to be someone else’s goal for me. i’d become a lawyer, i’d go into politics, i’d help to save the world.

after a month in a law school where people stole the books you needed to do your work, i decided that law school was really not for me. i had argued endlessly with the torts professor; and while i’m sure he knew his stuff cold and i was misguided, in my little bear brain, i knew that if what he was saying was correct, i didn’t want to be a part of it. i quit (and it became perhaps the most expensive lesson of my life), worked awhile, and earned a fellowship to graduate school. i loved my graduate school experience, especially the fact that my school’s mission was to prepare us not for a life of contemplating our respective navels but rather to get tools to actually make change in the real world.

however, washington probably hardly qualifies as the real world.

after stints in government relations, which is the non profit way of saying lobbyist, i realized that i didn’t care for the people who did the work i was doing; further, i didn’t want to become one of them. (case in point: one asked me where i went to school. when i told her rutgers, she literally turned away from me as if  i had poisoned the air by my very being. sorry honey, i wanted to say to her back, but not all of us have a keen desire to carry student loans into the next millenium. especially since i was still carrying that one loan for my ill-fated law career.)

so i went into the world of government work.

i loved the people i met in government work. my original boss is still my mentor; he still considers me one of his daughters (along with the other two ladies with whom i started.) i would be honored to be a government employee again in my career. however, at 28, i realized that i was not even close to a life i had envisioned. (i was going to already be in congress by 28, doncha know.) i was not satisfied, and i didn’t even know what the hell i wanted.

You don’t need no gypsy to tell you why
You can’t let one precious day slip by
Look inside yourself
And if you don’t see what you want
Maybe sometimes then you don’t

this was around the time i started listening to the allman brothers album eat a peach. i was quite sure i would one day have a daughter i would name after the song melissa; and i listened incessantly to ain’t wasting time no more as if it were a call to action. sometimes, i would listen to it on my little walkman on my way to work and wonder what the hell the song was saying to me. was there a message in there somewhere? (duh.)

there was. and one day, i got off my ass and took action. i saw a career counselor who told me i was in the wrong line of work in terms of what i actually enjoy doing: you need to be doing more creative work.

and that’s just what i ended up doing.

We’ll raise our children
In the peaceful way we can
It’s up to you and me brother
To try and try again
Well, hear us now, we ain’t wastin’ time no more
‘Cause time goes by like hurricanes
Runnin’ after subway trains
Don’t forget the pouring rain

high flying bird

high flying bird

in a word, oops.

somebody apparently forgot to tell people in manhattan and jersey city that the defense department was flying some big-ass birds for a photo op yesterday.  two f-16 fighters flew the low circuit around parts of new york and new jersey and scared the bejesus out of thousands, who feared a repeat of 9/11. the birds had flown in the grand canyon for a photo-op; now, some brilliant person wanted them filmed in the famous cavern of hell.

and no, i’m not making this up.

i can identify with these terrified people. see, i live in the flight path of national airport. i also live near both the pentagon AND, for the terrifying trifecta win, arlington national cemetary (our county motto: welcome to arlington: america’s graveyard!) we lived through our own local installment of terror on 9/11; and while we didn’t experience the  twin towers’ scope of damage, ye olde pentagon certainly had seen much better days.

(by the way, i write with only a microscopic scintilla of sadly-twinged gest: a friend’s wife was on the plane that hit the pentagon. so yes, it’s real. really, r e a l l y, real.)

and now, whenever some muckety-muck dies and wants to be buried among the gazillion, the proud, the dead military people, arlington cemetary presses the big guns into service.  over my neighborhood, we get fighter planes, we get scary planes — hell, one day, a B52 bomber shook my house’s foundations as it flew over to honor some very important soldier. (i wonder sometimes whether the raccoons in the nearby woods have some sort of post traumatic stress disorder because of it.) when we’re lucky, we get notice from the county that there will be some aircraft overhead that aren’t the usual jumbo jets winging to DCA.

and then, there are days like last thursday. i was out on a run (which should probably more accurately be termed as a run-walk, now that i’m the mom with the bionic knee… if only i could get the sound effects that go along with it!) when suddenly, there, in the sky… it’s a bird… it’s a plane… its THREE FIGHTER JETS IN FORMATION OVER MY STREET!

no one sent me the memo. my email, my cell phone, all devoid of info. shit! are we under attack??? well, nothing gets my ass zipping like the thought of the impending apocalypse. (if the four horsemen are going to be riding by, you bet my last moments won’t be spent jogging for my cardio enjoyment.) i flew, speedy-quick, into my house. i didn’t see anything on the computer monitor. so i did the next best thing:

i called BS.

(because, of course, my beloved spouse is the font of all information.)

honey, i cried, sweat pouring into the tiny holes of the cordless phone, i just saw… huff puff… three fighter jets over the neighborhood… puff huff… is there anything on the net about this? :breath breath breath breath: (because, of course, BS is always online; and when the revolution comes, it will be televised, but not after it’s been Facebooked, Tweeted, and probably even Flickr’d as well.)

i was still panting when i heard my beloved spouse’s annoyed tone. you know, if we’re under attack, they won’t be flying in formation.

uh. yeah. i knew that.

but apparently, what we had here was a failure to communicate. the DoD. forgetting to get the word out.

talk about your shock and awe.

hello

hello

just saying a howdy to anyone who might have wandered here thanks to the magic of television. i’m your host, wreke, and i’d love to tell you a little about the place.

i’m a mom. i’m a writer. i’m a webgrrl, too. i’m also the toilet paper fairy and apparently the only person in this house who realizes that bath towels do not jump up and clean themselves. oh, and i’m from NJ; and yes, i can trace the first 24 years of my life based on exits. (for you jerseyan trivia buffs, i grew up at exit 82A (GSP), went to college at exit 9 (Tpke), and have lived off exits 105 (GSP), 8, and 10 (both Tpke) until moving to the Commonwealth. and no, i do not sport big hair but i do sport a big mouth.)

i’ve been blogging since 2002. i tend to write about my kids, daughter Beloved Child (BC) and delightful hellboy Jools (an equally beloved child; he was just born after i had been blogging about BC for awhile.) as a political animal, i often tilt at windmills, large and small, in the political arena.

and i lurve music. every monday, i feature a guilty pleasure song that would make my music snob pals cringe. i’m evil that way. one month, i featured blatantly bad 70s songs, every single day of the month. oh, the humanity!

i don’t capitalize often. i do know how, and it isn’t an e e cummings thing. i’m just l a z y that way. unabashedly opinionated, i’m sort of like a cross between erma bombeck and iggy pop, only i don’t smear food all over my chest when i’m pissed. i simply write. (well, i irritate my Beloved Spouse, aka BS, generally. but the warranty is up, so he can’t throw me back, no matter how annoying i become.)

and occasionally, i’ll talk about CVID, something i wrestle with daily. it stinks, but i intend to live to be a pain in everyone’s collective ass for a very long time.

so welcome. poke your nose around. kick the tires. applaud me. argue with me. whatever floats your boat.

just don’t mind the dust bunnies. my masters isn’t in housekeeping, you know.

roll with it

roll with it

i voted for barack obama. and i’m still okay with him. except for one little thing.

online ticketing for the annual white house egg roll.

the egalitarian in me appreciates the idea that anyone should be able to have a chance to get tickets. i appreciate the sentiment behind this idea. but i wonder whether obama consuted with some pointy-headed wonk when this decision was made and not with someone actually familiar with a) the experience of online tickets and b) the experience of the overnight party campout that has been, for many years, the cornerstone of the white house egg roll experience.

is the white house the only group of people unaware of the scandals in online event ticketing? do they not realize that there are outfits in the world who harness the power of banks and banks of bots whose goal in life is only to call in persistently and in a lightning speed manner to snag tickets? this has been worse than trying to snag springsteen tickets. at least when you do that online, you get a message telling you that tickets are all sold out. this method prolongs the agony — when you can get through. and people who get through have been reporting that they get mucked about and sometimes, after waiting or even getting numbers, the server tells them that the tickets are then gone.

this is not a way to run a circus.

and then, there are the unhappy campers.  there are people who have taken lemons and made lemonade, and now, they’re back to lemons again. these people took spending a night on concrete in the District and have made it into an all-night family party. people take the days off, for crying out loud, to do this. yes, i know – not everyone lives here.

but do i really think that patti in paducah should be compensated for this by having the tickets go online?

hell, no.

you know what? i don’t get to go surfing in san diego. i don’t get to swim with dolphins in key west. i don’t get to rub elbows with celebrities in LA or NY. i don’t get to enjoy all sorts of wonders in this country because i don’t live in those places. there are plenty of exciting events that happen in places and i have no shot of doing them because i am here, not there.

well, guess what. i live here. i put up with all the crap i have to put up with precisely because there are events and experiences i deem important enough to make this wonderland of angst my home.  and by gum, i get so tired of everyone in this bloody country assuming that where i live belongs to them. i know, i know. nation’s capitol. la la la. but you know what? maybe if tourists treated this place and the people with a little more sense, maybe people like me wouldn’t be so bitter about it.

i mean, it has hit the point where locals can’t do certain things at certain times of year because so many blessed people from podunk get on their donkeys and ride the herd in to town. they are obnoxious because, of course, this is THEIR nation’s capitol. nevermind that they throw trash on the ground, behave like drunk morons in the streets and on the metro, and are often plain rude. their bodies crowd out other people’s bodies, people who might have classes in the museums or camps at the zoo or whatever.

and the best part about this? people on a message board in chicago were applauding this new system. now, “normal” families can attend. what? unlike the families who live in the washington metro area? unlike all the families who were sitting out in the cold and in the rain because they wanted to do something together? we’re not normal? our kids play t-ball and attend girl scout meetings, too, people. just because we didn’t vote for Dubya for the past 8 years doesn’t mean we’re aliens from another planet. it just means we’re more educated than you are. (which we are, by the way. go look it up in the surveys.)

anyway, i’m tired. four hours of trying, and i have nothing to show for it. this year, i’m not rolling eggs.

i’m throwing them.

mamma mia

mamma mia

a woman on my favorite list, DC Urban Moms, had the gall to share a well-written article from The Atlantic. (kudos to you, girlfriend.)  she asked not to be flamed, which of course incited some serious flames among the well-thought-out posts. (and i don’t mean well-thought-out in the sense that i agree with all of the posters’ points; i just thought they made some interesting and useful ideas known, as opposed to the ones who think that anyone who isn’t comfortable breastfeeding requires professional help. to which i’d reply, yes: cleaning, cooking, and other domestic professional help.)

anyway, i thought i’d share my response for those of you not lucky enough to be among the group. i got a little upset, to say the least.

as always, your mileage may vary.

~wreke

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

this article resonated with me. VERY deeply. i’m not being my usual politic self. apologies in advance.

i was unable to nurse my babies; and Dog knows i tried. with baby#1, i read everything known to humankind about nursing. a week postpartum, my DD was losing more than her normal share of weight (to the point where she may have been in danger) and i was freaking out. i was determined to make nursing work, even though my pediatrician — who is incredibly supportive of nursing, btw — strongly recommended  i supplement my DD with formula for her own sake. i pumped. i tried to feed her (though we were imperfect nursing partners.) i called la leche.

the la leche representative Brought. Me. To. Tears. this woman seemed far more concerned with carrying the torch for nursing than she was for the well-being of my child and myself. hello? yelling at an engorged, wildly-hormonal, first-time mother because she is considering feeding her starving child with formula is not the way to go.this was not the case of the expected one-week weight loss. this was a crisis in the making.

no one wanted to make this work more than i did. i was in an endless cycle: nurse the baby as best as i could, then supplement with formula, then pump. (oh, and i worked full-time and had to pump *in the bathroom* during the day.) for those of you who got the hang of nursing easily, it’s quite simple to turn your noses up at people like me and think we didn’t try hard enough. that we need professional help if we’re stressed because we can’t get the hang of the balance right with work and child and feeding. you simply have no idea of the pressure you feel when you fail. (or, as the author did (after nursing her first two) when you decide that you’re done.)

the AHA! moment came from an unexpected source: my husband. he had seen me in my round-the-clock-dance of nurse-feed-pump one too many times. and there i was, in pump mode, sitting in the middle of my kitchen floor. 3 AM. crying. “honey,” my husband said, “our daughter needs a sane mom more than she needs breastmilk.”

yes. exactly.

i understand that fewer women breastfeed in the US than in other nations. i get that people want to promote nursing. i’m on board with it as being a completely natural thing to do and get equally upset when women are told to hide or leave the premises rather than to nurse babies. i will admit  — and i don’t care if people flame me, btw — that i don’t actually understand why moms still nurse kids who are in kindergarten; but at the end of the day, it is their choice — not mine — to make, and so i respect that choice and stand ready to defend it if necessary.

but what i don’t get, and what i hear in this article, is the pressure that people in the breastfeeding camp have placed upon a whole generation of women. listen, sister la leche: those first five months with my baby? they’re gone, and they’re not. coming. back. Ever. and while they weren’t completely unhappy, they consist greatly of a blur of inadequate feelings Because I Could Not Nurse. And. My. Baby. Suffered. For. It. needlessly, i’d add. the pressure was THAT intense. my baby could have been happy AND HEALTHY with formula — what’s more, her mom could have been happy and healthy *with her*. but the message i received throughout my pregnancy and thereafter was that i was somehow failing my daughter in my very first task as a mom. that message is especially crushing for a first-time mother. i wanted to do what i understood was best for her. thankfully, when i grew mom-balls and started trusting my own judgement on what is best for my child (in this case, by giving her formula), life inched its way toward the quasi-nirvana we enjoy to this very day.

sometimes, i think that breastfeeding advocates, as well as rank-and-file moms on the upper/middle class milieu, often lose sight of the forest for the trees. shouldn’t we be supportive of WOMEN? some women are uncomfortable with the idea of nursing for reasons that might be more personal than you or i can fathom. some women, like me, simply are not able to nurse (and yes, i have receipts somewhere from the lactation consultantS i saw — for both babies, btw — i tried, and failed, again with baby#2.) whatever: it’s not for me or you to decide whether they should or should not be nursing. if they want to nurse, let’s give them information and help them along. if not, let’s support them, too, and not treat them like they are amoral, child-abusing, pariahs. the best thing we can all do for each other is to give each other the courage and support to make the best decisions for our children. and not just about breastmilk, either.

after all, there is so more to being a mother than whether or not you serve up lunch from your mammaries.

guilty pleasure monday: true colors (cyndi lauper)

guilty pleasure monday: true colors (cyndi lauper)

sure, she’s so unusual. but pay no attention to her hair or her newspaper shard skirt. really.

forget about the fact that this song has been used by countless advertisers — kodak included — to shill products. cyndi lauper’s true colors is a magnificent anthem about loving yourself, an appropriate song for a woman who has grown to become an important human activist as well as respected artist. [as an aside, i know the boys in BC’s 4th grade chorus think the song is a joke (the 4th grade is singing all 80s songs this year in their performance this week), but i hope some of the kids hear the words and take a little something away from the song.]

in the video, you watch lauper progress from a little girl to a confident grown woman. i always loved lauper’s videos — she rarely has conventionally pretty people in them, and true colors is no different (unless you’re the one person who thinks that her perpetual video love interest is attractive.)

what i love best about this song is how lauper’s voice starts in a child-like whisper and grows to become a full-out aural assault. when i listen to modern singers, i seldom hear any sort of artistic buildup in their voices. it’s all about the vocal acrobatics. not that people on american idol aren’t impressive (to someone; not usually my cup of tea, i seldom ever see that show); not that the folks out there who use never-ending vibrato and who glide up and down the scales a thousand times while delivering the star spangled banner don’t have talent. but for a lot of these folks, it’s about showing off their pipes, not emoting with them.

lauper can hit several octaves. she also knows she doesn’t need to use them in every. single. song. it’s all about using what you have to create a statement.

and that, combined with the powerful message of the song, is why i love it. so i won’t be afraid to let you all know that i adore true colors.

it’s beautiful. like a sonic rainbow.

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Cape Town, South Africa