Category: Life Lessons

The Question is Not How But WHY She Does It

kate and Diana
People Magazine

I’m not a royalist. Nor do I hate the royals. I find the new generation, Kate and Wills, charming in a saccharine. soda eating away at the enamel on your teeth way.

I have clicked through many a slideshow of the Duchess’ fashion, hair styles, and assorted aesthetic merits in the same way one keeps track of the popular girl from high school. What’s that Kate up to now?

In 2013 women around the world cheered as Kate emerged from that thousands of dollars per night Lindo Wing in maternity wear, postpartum belly showing, hands a bit veiny, tresses flowing. She glowed. She was a happy mother to a male heir of the realm. She conjured maternal Diana, in a shorter version of a polka dotted post-delivery dress that was approvingly noted as “modern.” Diana had been “frumpy.”  Hey, those were the 80s for you. The new parents’ movements were almost identical to that of the cautious, ill fated predecessors.

A few days ago a svelte Kate emerged from same aforementioned Lindo Wing, no sign of belly, infant held in the crook of her arm like a prop, 10 hours from the delivery. Gone was the idea that Kate might be a friend from down the road. In her place was a woman who clearly had an entire team of stylists at the ready and chose to use every one.

Now, I’m all in favor of (new) mothers spiffing up for visitors. On the night of a good friend’s first baby, I walked into her hospital room to discover her blow drying her hair with a drying hairbrush in preparation for visitors. I promptly bought the same device for everyday use and took it with me when we had our second son.

My friends all commented on how amazing I looked in the post delivery photos.

“Is that makeup?” Someone exclaimed on Facebook.

“Wait 24 hours and have your travel bag ready,” I advised the wary. No on the birthing table shots for me, thank you.

But Kate. Kate’s second made me sad. I saw the images and the subsequent “HOW does she do it?” chatter on Twitter, and wanted to eat a doughnut. The how wasn’t what bothered me. All the money in the world can get you a copycat look.

The why is what stung. Why do we women feel the need to be 100% perfect, all the time, even when doing something as miraculous and ancient as giving birth?

Why do we reward women for these campaigns of effortless perfection and punish them if they fall short?

kate-will-600x450
Getty Images

Signs You Might Not Get What's Going on in Baltimore

1. Posting quotes about non-violence from Dr. Martin Luther King Jr. and ignore the ones where he talks about pain and injustice. “…a riot is the language of the unheard.”

2. Swallowing the media bias in selective use of labels like criminals and thugs to describe rioters but those who celebrate or mourn losses after sports teams win football or baseball games, also destroying public property are rowdy college kids.

3. Saying that protesting police brutality and injustice is a “Democrat” problem and not an American problem.

The roots of anger flaring up in Baltimore and Ferguson are fueled by the countless victims in thousands of other cities across the United States whose names won’t make headlines.

We must realize that there are two Americas. And that many of us have no idea what the reality is like for those with a hue of skin that marks them as targets for systemic violence.

Without this acknowledgement as a common ground, there can be no conversation. And without listening, there will no change.

Tactics to Parent Yourself

Bad parenting, Part III by Sarah G
Bad parenting, Part III by Sarah G

During tennis lesson last week, I watched as our four year old clamored to gather balls his classmates had gotten to first. He grew increasingly upset, as one ball after another was swiped away from him. Meanwhile, there were more balls coming across the net from the pair who were practicing their backhand.

I called him over (though the coach takes offense to parental direction during class).

“Don’t look at the balls on the floor,” I whispered. I turned his head from the floor to the other side of the net. “Look for the next ball. No one is going after that one.”

His countenance brightened and he burst away, in pursuit of the new source.

We have a sequence of phrases I try to rehearse with him every now and then. The starter phrase is “I love you” because several years ago in one of our long car rides around the city, when I said “I love you,” he surprised me by responding with “I love you too.” Like a call and response in a religious service, we trade phrases in a sequence that remind us of what’s important.

The lesson from tennis class is the latest addition:

“We don’t look at balls on the floor.” (Me)

“We look for the next ball.” (Him)

I realize as we are tossing these lines back and forth I’m teaching him. As importantly, I’m reminding myself of those values I hold dear.

No matter what type of childhood you had, the odds are high that you also have a complaint about it. The stigma of trials are obvious. Yet my friends with well off parents also murmur that they too were at a disadvantage (too sheltered to be prepared for the disappointment of adulthood).

Becoming a parent is an interesting rhetorical move. Yes, you see glimpses of your parents and often not their best traits.

But also you get a chance to teach yourself as you’re teaching your child.

One afternoon I was home, the boys playing downstairs, and I threw myself on the bed in shuddering sobs. I crawled under the covers, like a tantrum spent toddler, and took a nap. I awoke refreshed. Not much else had changed but perhaps the most essential thing: my perspective.

Think what better people we could be if we saw everyone with the compassionate we give to children.