Tag Archives: motherhood

Parent and Baby's Hands and Feet

The Parenting Paradox

I’ve published my first non-academic book review over at BookTrib.  I reviewed Jennifer Senior’s All Joy and No Fun: The Paradox of Modern Parenthood (Ecco: 2014), which I adored. I recommend to all parents, and anyone who wants to understand why parents act in the erratic ways that we do. (Hint: It has something to do with living with mini-humans whose brains function differently from our own.)

Here’s a sample:

Like all other parents, I realized (philosophically) that a child changes everything. Other adults told me this as a warning, but I didn’t know exactly what they meant until my daughter arrived. A child makes you into a different person than your childless self in the most abrupt and exhilarating fashion. Children change us in intimate and profound ways that can’t be easily predicted.

Most books about parenting, however, might warn you that life changes, but they don’t worry about you at all. These books, instead, care about your offspring and your impact, good or otherwise, on them. There’s much more concern about how we harm our poor progeny than what they do to us. In our home, it is a running gag to evaluate which of our actions might lead to therapy or a tell-all memoir. Our parenting styles include heavy doses of paranoia and anxiety as we desperately attempt to uncover whether we are doing a good job. My huband and I analyze our kids for clues about what works and what doesn’t. Our kids ignore our attempts to decipher well-being, which is the best for everyone involved. The pressure to be engaged, perfect parents is fairly high; the cultural expectations for motherhood are ridiculous. Anxiety, guilt, and doubt are constant companions for modern parents. Yes, parents affect their children, but children also affect us. What do children do to us, really? What is their influence on the lives of adults?

Read more.

 

elf

Elf Surveillance

Yesterday, Religion Dispatches posted my piece on Elf on the Shelf as a prelude to surveillance culture. Here’s an excerpt:

“I need to be good because of the elf that lives my room,” my five-year old explained.

“The what? Who lives where?” I ask.

“The elf that knows if I’m bad or good,” she replies.

 “There is no elf in your room,” I say.

“Yes, there is. He’s invisible,” she notes.

I sigh wearily.

I lost this argument, like many other Christmas-related debates in our household. When I told my daughter that Santa can’t fulfill every gift on her list, she declared that “he’s magic” as if that would solve the problem. Her imaginary elf is a version of The Elf on the Shelf, an androgynous, rosy-cheeked elf toy that monitors children as Christmas approaches. 

The elf emerged from The Elf on the Shelf: A Christmas Tradition co-authored by mother and daughter, Carol Aebersold and Chanda Bell. The book alone has sold over six million copies since it was released in 2005. The story presents a “scout elf,” who journeyed all the way from the North Pole to watch children to find out whether they are naughty or nice. The elf surveils children during the day to uncover bad behavior, then it returns to the North Pole every night to report back to jolly old St. Nick.

For $29.95, parents can purchase the book and toy to start a new tradition—it is available in light or dark-skinned varieties and accessories allow families to transform the elf into a boy or girl. There are two rules that govern children’s interaction with their elf. First, the elf is magic, and a child’s touch can compromise its ability to return and report—its enchantment disappears if a child touches it for any reason. Second, the elf cannot interact with children during the day because its role is to observe and listen. The creators, however, encourage children to talk to their elves—especially to share secrets. The elf can learn more about the children, the more they share. Telling the elf secrets seems to secure a space on the nice list.

Read more.

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Not a “real” academic

This post is inspired by Rebecca Schuman’s post from a couple days ago. Go read it now. Also, check out the #NotARealAcademic on Twitter to see what other folks are saying.

A few years ago, I was at a graduate conference presenting on a panel on post-graduate life. I was the “part-time” panelist, the one who had not secured the vaunted tenure-track job but was adjuncting at a big state university. When I wasn’t teaching, I was in charge of my toddler. On the drive to and from the university, I dreamed of seeking some sort of balance between home life and career. As I drove back and forth, I mulled my life decisions. I agonized over my choices, but I realized that I wouldn’t have made different ones. More importantly, I couldn’t imagine putting my career before my partner and child, and I still can’t. That’s my decision, and it will always be my most important one.

Perhaps, I was not the best panelist to discuss the life of the post-grad.  I pretty much lacked sleep because of my anxiety about doing everything wrong, work, life, and especially motherhood.  Doubt was a constant companion, but so was naïve hope about the job market. I was waiting for my moment when all of the trauma would be washed away by THE JOB that tenure-track position that I had been trained for. Sure, the job market turned south, but surely, I could find a job, right? My book was coming out, and I had several articles coming soon. My advisor suggested that I was a strong candidate, and my CV made me a contender. My mantra was just a little more time and things will work out. Things work out for others, so why not for me? I still had hope at this point (I don’t any longer).

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Call Me Maybe

So, the big girl and I have a new song for the summertime dance parties (which unfortunately for all of you are invitation-only). Lately, we have both been listening to and singing along Carly Rae Jepsen’s “Call Me Maybe,” and we aren’t the only ones. NPR’s Ann Powers tackles the song’s infectious appeal:

Every note vacillating between major and minor chords along the tonic; every slice of a string section that seems real but’s just a synthesizer dream; every one of Jepsen’s hopeful, tossed-off “maybes” and time-muddling lines about how “before you came into my life / I missed you so bad” — these details add up to make “Call Me Maybe” one of those pop songs that doesn’t just describe or recall innocence, but aims to reproduce it, putting you smack inside that state of possibility.

Perhaps, its upbeat nature, and its repetitive lyrics that appeal to both a thirty-something and a three year old. It is fun to sing. But, I think it also the emphasis on the “maybe,” the potential of something not quite there, which resonates too. The almost potential, the possibility that Powers evokes, proves to be fleeting, charming and fun all at once. The optimism appeals, and smiling seems guaranteed. And folks on YouTube seem to agree considering the proliferation of “Call Me Maybe” covers from bikini-clad cheerleaders, baseball teams, Jimmy Fallon, middle school boys acting out the lyrics quite literally and even a rendition of what President Obama’s cover might sound like.

Powers finds the middle school cover to be the most endearing. She writes:

It’s just adorable. And though the makers intercut insistent testimonies to the group’s heterosexuality — “This is dedicated to the GIRLS WE LIKE!” — these young men are utterly comfortable acting out same-sex desire. Teaching tolerance may not have been Jepsen’s intention with “Call Me Maybe,” but she’s given these kids a forum to learn it together.

….This aspect of the “Call Me Maybe” phenomenon gives us pause to reflect upon how often bigotry is rooted in personal pain and disappointment. It’s worth it, sometimes, to try to reach back and remember what it felt like to not know somebody — or something, like a belief system — might let you down.

Right now, this gentle message feels very important. Public discourse abounds with hate speech and snap judgments as the political cycle heads toward a showdown. In the midst of such a cycle, small gestures like the responses to “Call Me Maybe” are a gift: that gift of a tickle. Wake up, be human, be happy, don’t turn your back on love.

Blogging, Motherhood, Essentialism (Historiann style)


This cowgirl is for you, Historiann!

Historiann has an excellent post up about her refusal to adopt parent or non-parent status as a blogger. The comments section are worth a look for all of you who affiliate or don’t with parental status. Here’s a brief excerpt:

For the most part, this is because I blog with my professional identity up front, not my personal life or reproductive history: in other words, I blog as Historiann, not Mommyann or Not-mommyann. I’m qualified to write about history and politics because of my training and expertise in American history, whereas I don’t think that motherhood alone (if it pertains to me) would qualify me to write about anything other than my personal experiences as a mother. As a good feminist historian, I don’t believe that there’s anything essential, unifying, or eternal about the experience of motherhood. But, this refusal to identify myself either as a mother or a nonmother has also raised questions of authority. This becomes apparent when commenters disagree with me [when I write about motherhood from my perspective as an American women's historian]—they sometimes assume that I’m not a mother, and therefore question my authority to write about issues pertaining to maternity. I had thought that essentialism went out of style in feminism more than twenty years ago—but the blogosphere makes it apparent that essentialism about maternity endures, even among women in the academy.

Authority as maternity is an important concept, and I think her larger point is about how this essentialism means that women becomes coded primarily as “mothers” or “mommies” in opposition to their academic agendas. Yes, women use maternity as will to power as well, but as a junior scholar, the question for me is more how does motherhood *mark* me  or *not* as a scholar. (For instance, I once had a colleague a while ago tell a student that “I was just a mommy” as opposed to scholar, writer, lecturer, budding fashionista, etc.) Gender matters, and so does the construction of supposed parenthood. What strikes me about Historiann’s post is how the label functions particularly for women to somehow suggest that we aren’t serious, dedicated, or scholarly as our male counterparts, in spite of their status as parent or non-parent. Perhaps, her strategic move is the best one: keep them guessing. I fear that I am too obvious, too easy to pigeon hole.

A couple of weeks ago, I typed up a post about my own struggle with how to parent, to write, to research, and to teach (not to mention how to stay sane), but I didn’t post it. This occurred partially because it would mean reflecting personally on my academic blog, but also because I wasn’t sure how this might appear to potential employers, collaborators, or anyone else if they happened upon this blog. Yes, maternity can function as will to power, a claim of authority over women, but  as Historiann notes, it is also as weighty tool to wield against women as well. Essential claims about motherhood signal all we need to know about a woman is parent or not.

So, now, I post Historiann’s excellent run-down of the situation, and perhaps, I’ll add my own contribution soon (or not).