Motherhood Uncensored

Explaining the Unexplainable

I received news on Sunday evening that my mom's boyfriend passed away. With my mom being a fairly private person, I only met him early last year, though they had been dating for the entire year prior.

He was a gentle man, a retired loving grandfather who enjoyed my mom's vibrant company, and doted on her incessantly.

Admittedly, I was a bit jealous of my mom's time whenever I came to visit because he was always around, but considering the only other man who truly loved her was a complete asswipe, she deserved everything that her boyfriend gave her -- his love, his time, and his undying attention.

I could never complain about him, however, since his love (and his family's, who lent us car seats and playpens on a recent visit without ever have meeting us) extended to us as well. He'd hold Drew for hours, rocking him gently to sleep for our whole visit, or take Quinlan to the beach with my mom to give me some time alone. He spoke of them like they were his own grandkids. 

And quite frankly, on most days he was more of a grandfather to my kids than their own.

And so, I decided that since Quinlan knew he was sick and still often mentioned him when we talked about my mom, it was only right for me to tell her.

Except, how exactly do you tell a child about a lost loved one, particularly when you're trying to keep heaven, Jesus, God, and any other specific religious connotations out of it?

I decided that angels are indeed good company for our special people when they leave this earth, whevever they might be. I know they are fairly religiously related, but I could at least avoid the heaven conversation, something for which I'm not ready to delve into with my 3-year-old.

"Do you know who else is with the angels, Mommy" she replied, matter of factly.

"Who?" I asked.

"GAWD" she said, in a very knowing voice.

"Well then, I suppose that's a very wonderful place to be."

It's the best that I could do. Religion or not, here's hoping that in one way or another, I'm not that far off.

You'll be missed, Poppy Bill. 

Just in Case -- You Know, So He Doesn't Go to Hell

I attempt to avoid any and all deep discussions regarding anything more than why I don't like baked beans because I actually do but I'm breastfeeding and they give my son gas and so he doesn't sleep and then either do I and so I'm even a bigger bitch than usual.

Now just imagine when they bring up religion. Like yesterday.

Apparently my mother-in-law is obsessing over my son's baptism, and because Catholics can't make anything simple, we're having difficulty picking the godparents. I know, it's religion, and religion should not be simple or easy or comfortable.

Whatever.

But don't you think if you want to drum up some business, you know after the whole "I'm a priest who molested a bunch of kids and no one turned me in because God will punish me at some point in time but meanwhile I'll just go on preaching," you'd think they'd make getting a kid baptized fairly easy.

However, it's not. We're supposed to take a class. And the godparents have to take a class and then get some form that says they're a mass-attending, God-fearing Catholic.

If you're not Catholic, you're just shit out of luck, and if you are, but you don't go to church, then you're screwed too. So then we're stuck looking through a list of eligible family members that we know only through their picture Christmas cards but guess what? They're Catholics in goodstanding so they'll work.

Sort of defeats the purpose of godparents, doesn't it?

So the people we have chosen are not in good standing. And my mother-in-law is in a tizzy. And apparently my husband enjoys torturing her because he told her that "we'll just have to get him baptized in another church."

Holy Jesus Mary Joseph and 14 other saints no one knows but we're supposed to pray to anyway.

The shit hit the fan. No baptism = no sacraments = HELL. Big old nasty hot hell.

Now look. We had our daughter baptized. It's nice. It can't hurt anything. I'm all for it. And contrary to what you might think about me and my in-laws, I'm a pretty appeasing daughter-in-law.

But my kids' afterlife (or lack thereof) is my own business. And if the godparents can't be the godparents, then we'll just take our business somewhere else. What's good enough for me is quite surely good enough for God. And if it's not, then I guess we're all going to hell.   

And really, I'm not that scared. I mean could hell be any worse then where we live right now?

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If you want a good laugh, go read the Real Mom entries. They are truly hilarious.

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I hope you'll join me tonight (Tuesday) for my radio show featuring blogger Christina from A Mommy Story and her new blog Cirque Du Mommy as well as author and Director of Duke University Integrative Medicine Dr. Tracy Gaudet. Her new book Body, Soul, & Baby is probably the best pregnancy/post partum book out there.

We'll be discussing the "business" of babies and how we can feel informed as well as take control over our pregnancies and beyond without feeling intimidated or scared. Also, she'll talk about alternative methods to managing stress and pain in pregnancy, labor, and beyond.

You can listen live from 9-10pm EST from my host page or call in to comment or ask questions (646) 915-8634. If you prefer, you can email me or comment here if you've got a question for Christina or Dr. Gaudet.

You can always listen via the media player or subscribe via iTunes.

Motherhood Uncensored... Once a Jew?

I've always thought there was something to this whole concept of reincarnation. Granted I'm not so much for this whole "I'm coming back as a large Jersey cow" thing, but I've always believed that we were all someone else at one point in time. You know -- old souls, relatives that have passed...

Or in our case, old Jewish ladies.

Considering my 100% Chinese mother is a card carrying member of Jews for Jesus and the only Asian non-Jewish woman I know who can make a mean Matzoh-Ball soup, I don't think I'm that far off. In fact, the first guy she dated after my dad died was an 82 year old Jewish man who owned a deli and played for the 1940-something Israeli soccer team. And she owns a menorah.

Enough said.

Now, you won't see me chowing down on Gefilte fish anytime soon, but I do have fairly authentic usage of the word "oy" to which I extend to other sayings like "oya boya." When I lived in Mississippi, someone keyed "dirty jew" onto my car. And I tend to make up exclamations like "holy basmoyka" -- a Russian Jew, perhaps?

But lately, my daughter has been taking the Tezpishti with her unique and very Jewish sounding names of her "friends." There's Biza and Giza (bee-zah and gee-zah, the evil Jewish step-sister Barbies), Ho-ha and Schroda (the Jewish hooker and her aunt/pimp), and Kinsa and Quo-sha (the two missing Jewish Disney Princesses).

C'mon. You have to admit. "Schroda" does have a pretty nice ring to it.

And my favorite part of all of this, aside from inserting my own name in the Adam Sandler song, is that the very idea that we might have been Jews in a past life would totally piss off my in-laws. That in itself is worth celebrating.

Mazeltov!

So who were you or your kids in a past life?

Rosie O' Donnell... Not a Racist

We couldn't hear enough about Mel Gibson's drunk Jew bashing rant. Then there was Michael Richard's ridiculous scene that the media could not stop playing on a loop. Kanye West? He's said his share of ridiculous anti-white comments. And now Rosie O' Donnell has jumped on the bandwagon.

It's a joke. It's funny. It's how "their" language sounds to me. 

And so we endure yet another idiotic half-assed apology that includes the phrase "I'm not a racist" -- ironically from folks that you would never think (read: minorities -- women included here people) would say such things. But racism and all its many facets is all around us. We are not immune to it - regardless of our skin color and cultural identifications. In fact, for the most part, we've probably all had our moments -- perhaps they don't manifest as actual words, but we see a situation, hear a comment, and our experiences guide how we react.

And sometimes, it's not pretty. In fact, those comments could be considered down right racist.

God, he's such a retard. Dude, that's pretty gay. Why do black people insist on wearing fake hair? I don't mind black people, just ghetto folk. It's a mentality. Women are such shitty drivers.

But why are we so surprised that there are so many "racists" lurking among us? Are we pissed because "they" should know better, you know, being celebrities and all (some even minorities themselves), or is it because we realize that perhaps they're not the only ones who have said stupid shit that could be interpreted as racist?

If you don't try to expose your child to other children of different races, are you a racist? If you use a fork at a Chinese restaurant, are you being racist? When you ask a person "What are you?," is that racist?

When you make a stupid comment on national television, are you really being a racist?

Or is there more to being a racist -- perhaps when you continually and repeatedly perpetuate negative stereotypes that have infiltrated our brains for years and years? Doesn't it take more than one stupid comment? Or are we likening Rosie to a KKK member?

I don't deny that the comments made by the above-mentioned celebrities are racist in nature, with some being worse than others. and let's face it. Surely a comment made about a big butch lesbian would have set Rosie off - I mean, Kelly Ripa's comment about Clay Aiken was apparently homophobic. But I wonder if it takes just a little bit more than a stupid (and reprimandable by all accounts) comment about the Chinese language to make someone "A RACIST."

Because if takes one stupid comment, I imagine there are way more racists around us than we'd like to think. And we've got a way bigger problem on our hands.

If you're interested in more great discussions, news articles, and a fabulous podcast on race, make sure to visit Addicted to Race (and the Anti-Racist Parent). I'm co-hosting their podcast today (which will be up tomorrow) with Carmen Van Kerckhove. You can catch it here!

But What About Our Sons?

Upon his birth, my son (yes, you read that correctly) will have automatic membership to one of the most privileged clubs in this country.

The White Male Majority

He won't have to do a single thing except be born (and keep his balls and weener), and he will have something that I may never see in this lifetime, and be afforded opportunities that I might not have ever dreamed for myself.

And the more I think about the prospect of raising someone who I have secretly loathed and envied for many of my days, and who, in one form or another, has taken away opportunities, money, and recognition from me and other women before me, I wonder why I'm spending so much time worrying about my daughter.

Maybe it's time to think about our sons.

Don't get me wrong. The slut dolls, big naked butts on MTV, and the ongoing fight for our equality are always present on my mind. But thanks to the work of many women that have come before me and who now still work to forward the cause of women (including many of my fellow bloggers who continue this important discussion), I think we're doing fairly well.

But when I look at the number of rapes and assaults against women, the spousal abuse that continues in this country, and the negative stereotypes that are constantly perpetuated, I don't think about my daughter so much as I think about my son.

All our sons.

Maybe we don't need another woman calling herself a feminist. But perhaps we need her husband, her brother, her father, and her son to stand up for what's right for their mothers, daughters, and wives.

I don't excuse the male bashing that's associated with the women's movement, however if you take two seconds to research oppression, you'll find that anger, hate, and acting out are not uncommon. People look at the bitter gay man, the angry black woman, and the bra burning feminazi with disdain. But frankly, who can really blame them?

Years of oppression and inequality would make me pretty fucking bitter.

And the more I see how uneven things are in this world, the more I can feel my own negative feelings rumbling within me. Bitterness that I won't make as much as my equal (or even less that equal) male counterpart. Anger that some men still treat women like objects and property. Confusion as to why we women put up with it.

It pisses me off.

But part of me wonders if the feminist movement really needs another fist-shaking mother. Granted I'll be happy to shake my fists as long as I have a breath in me. And damnit, I'll raise my daughter to shake her BOTH of her fists.

But a fist shaking man with a mother?

YES.

A resounding YES.

They can speak to the masses where a woman is turned into an emotional hormonal freakazoid.They can rationalize when we are labeled as "just women." They can stand up with us when all our legs are tired from carrying the weight of many on our shoulders.

Don't get me wrong. My fight doesn't end here. Believe me. It's only just begun.

But maybe we need to worry less about our beautiful daughters who will no doubt hear the words of their mothers sounding loudly in their ears and think more about how we can foster these truths in our sons who might just be able to help us make a louder noise than we ever thought possible.

When Will I Be Good at This?

On most days I just try to get by unscathed. But it seems that either of us avoiding serious injury, either mentally or physically, is more challenging than I thought.

I didn't go into this hoping for "good." I just wanted both of us to come out alive, kicking, and still talking when she's off enjoying her own fabulously sucessful and happy life. But, good? I'm not even sure if I know what that is anymore.

I mean, some people think McDonald's is a good dinner, right? Fuck that gourmet healthy natural crap. I want a big old Homestyle buffeT (emPHAsis on the "T"). And are the kids of those folks really that worse off. I mean, don't they think their parents are good?

And then you've got those little brats on My Super Sweet Sixteen whose birthday parties look more like a P. Diddy Concert on a Yacht in France than a birthday party. They've got good parents too - at least I bet that's what they think.

I'm not one to criticize because I'm pretty sure I won't be winning any mothering awards ever. We play the same games, read the same books, and assemble the same puzzles. On some days, she eats baked beans and hot dogs - for lunch and dinner. And on more days that I'd like to admit, she sees the faces of Juno Baby and Elmo more than her own mother. And while I rarely lose my temper and I'm pretty darn patient, I'm not so sure that in itself makes me good at this job I've taken on.

It's hard to look at mothering in comparison to anything else, because in my mind, it's incomparable to anything else. I mean, who goes into a class thinking "I just want to do barely average. In fact, if I don't fail miserably, that rocks."? Or into a store thinking "I just want to buy something that looks okay on me. If my ass doesn't resemble a cauliflower, I'm fine."

I believe there's a little something in all of us that strives to do well in everything we do. Maybe we don't care about being the best, but we still want to be good, right?

But being a mother is not composing an essay, or doing a math equation, or a writing a blog. It's dealing with another human - a piece of you (which always complicates things, doesn't it?) - that has opinions and feelings and wants and needs. And no one tells you how to be good at that. There are no classes, no What Not to Wears, no NOTHING. It's trial, error, and a whole lot of hope.

I've realized that not feeling good at something is tough, but not feeling like you're good at mothering is worse, although more typical than I thought. I read your blogs and my own blog and think, "What do you know. We all think we suck! WEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE."

But really, I don't think we suck. I just think we're humans wanting to do well - wanting to be good mothers for our kids - and hoping that we don't fuck them up in the process. But I wonder how much of this "I'm not a good mother" shit is visible to our kids - how much of our guilt for not being what we think is award-worthy is in our voices and in our actions. And how much our desire to be GOOD makes us anxious and afraid as a parent.

I have no answers right now. But I do know I just want to do right for my child(ren). And if that makes me good, great, or just plain average, that's good enough for me.

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Speaking of good parenting, I've enlisted the help of Moxie over at my clubmom blog to help answer reader parenting questions. If you don't read her, check her out. She's definitely helping in my quest ot be a parent who does right for her kids. Feel free to email me a question for her as well. Her answers will go up every Thursday and I'll link your blog if she tackles your question.

To Whoever Will Listen

I've said my fair share of prayers. Growing up with Jesus as my stepfather, I've prayed enough to last me the rest of this lifetime. Most of them, however, were written in journals - enough to fill a large box I still keep at my mom's house.

Every page started the same. "Dear Lord" or "Dear Precious Lord" or "My Lord and Savior." You get the drift.

Some days I wrote four or five times, begging for high SAT scores, or a date, or for my dad to stop drinking and realize that he loved me.

I had a lot of faith back then. And for what it was worth, all that praying got me through some really crappy years.

But that's not the reason why I saved them.

I've since realized that all those prayers, when you strip away all the dear jesuses and the blessed lords and the religious overtones, are my wants and hopes. In my own way, I was putting my dreams on paper with the belief that they might actually come to fruition - that if I wrote them over and over and over, someone would hear me and something would happen.

I haven't prayed in a long time. It's hard to know who to pray to anymore and quite frankly, my hopes and dreams have become slightly enmeshed in my family's existence and my own fear; I'm not even sure what I believe in anymore.

But tonight, as I put my daughter to sleep, I decided that maybe we should start saying prayers. Maybe we should start talking about our hopes and wishes and dreams together.

And instead of hoping alone, we can hope together. For peace, safety, healthy babies, chocolate cakes, and new baby dolls. 

Because maybe when we say them out loud, to whoever will listen, there's a chance that they will come true. And that's something I want my daughter to believe for always.

Hello, Nice to Meet You, Where the Hell Did You Come From?

As we planned for the upcoming birth of our first child, my husband and I openly discussed everything first-time parents think about – you know, if we’ll have to wait the full 6 weeks to have sex again, if my nipples would ever not resemble large brown sunflowers, and how badly God was going to punish us for not going to church all these weeks with a crazy, lunatic devil child.

You know, the child that has every single one of your most unlovable qualities.

Most of the folks we talked with thought we were in for it. Considering both my husband and I have reasonably overbearing type-A personalities, as well as a penchant for being stubborn and bull-headed, we figured this kid was going to be a pure and utter joy… for the Swiss nanny we planned on hiring to raise her.

I mean, we all have our faults. My husband has an awful case of wife-diagnosed ADHD, and can hardly sit still for an entire commercial. I am constantly doing something or really tons of somethings, all while talking or singing loudly and dancing some weird African – ballet dance combination. It’s really quite lovely.

So combine those genes and we figured our child would be bouncing off the walls like a racquetball on crack.

But when she arrived, she barely made a peep. She just stared up at me with these huge eyes and a serious look that said “what took you so long to get me out of there?”

Since then we’ve been blessed with a cautious and very serious child, who enjoys reading, coloring, and playing alone. She has a kind, sweet temperament that anyone who meets her comments on. She says please and thank-you for everything, and will even say “you’re welcome” if you forget. She’s incredibly curious and loves watching and exploring and learning. And she has the most nurturing, loving, and gentle spirit I have ever seen.

And while she has her moments (more frequently when tired or teething) and loathes anything that has to do with sleeping more than a few hours in a row, she is amazing.

But on most days, I try to figure out where the hell she came from and what I’m supposed to do with her.

I think one of the greatest challenges of parenting is allowing your child to be who they are – and not who you want them to be, or worse, YOU. I struggle daily with allowing her be quiet, subdued, and “shy” (as people like to call her), and not thinking she’s sick, ill, or disinterested when she just sits alone, reads her books, and barely makes a peep. Because I’ve never been (or done) any of those things, and I’m pretty sure I probably couldn’t even if someone paid me large sums of money.

On some days, I know I go overboard – asking her a thousand questions, singing songs to make her laugh, and performing a ridiculous horse and pony show just to get some type of animated response from her.

But after the show is over, and my mild chuckle and smile are achieved, I remind myself that she is not me. And that’s okay.

I’m still trying to understand our differences, and how I can allow her to flourish as her own person. I just hope she knows how much I love who she is, who she will become, and that her mother is not a flaming lunatic.

Oh well, I guess 2 out of 3 isn't bad...

Fear and Self Loathing in San Jose

Amidst the babes and boobages, I actually learned a thing or two about myself at Blogher. I sort of figured there would be those "a-ha" moments, where light bulbs start flashing vigorously over my head like a red carpet paparazzi fest. And truly, I was not disappointed.

It doesn't take a genius to figure out how much a weekend away from home can do for a soul, particularly one fighting hot, humid, and deep fried surroundings (in more than one sense of the words). And I also figured out that no matter how cool your shoes look, if they're not comfortable and you take them off after 10 minutes, it sort of defeats the purpose of having them since no one will actually see them on your feet.

But aside from all those little snippets of reality, I realized that I have something in common with all mothers. Even Arianna Huffington. Yes. That Arianna Huffington.

And that is the big scary f-word.

No. Not that f-word, although considering that we all have kids, we probably have that f-word in common as well.

I mean the big F.

FEAR.

I realized that fear has slowly started to take over my life in a way that is almost hurting my existence as a woman and a parent.

Just a few years ago, I was scoffing in the face of fear. Granted you won't see me jumping off a bridge with a huge elastic band strapped to my ankles any time soon, and I'm not so in love with flying, but anything else, I laughed. Thesis? Books? Moving? Curriculum Committees? BAH.

Actually. TRIPLE BAH.

But then I had a kid. And she sucked away any brass balls I might have had. And fear took over.

I fear for her life, her happiness, and her joy. I fear that I will not be good enough and that I will fail. I fear that I will die not seeing her grow up, or that she will die and I will not be able to go on living. I fear that she will hurt herself or be hurt by someone else or get brutalized or terrorized or hurt.

And now, I fear that I won't see my baby's face next week at the ultrasound. That I will be alone with two children, living with my in-laws, and possibly having to do that damn elimination diet again. That I will be depressed again, even more so than last time, and that I will not have the will to get through it like I did before.

You get my drift. I'm practically medicatable.

And then I fear that, too.

The panel of fabulous women didn't have answers persay, but Caroline Little shared a story that hit me like a stone in my eyeball. She spoke of her conversations with her dying mother - the mother that hovered and wouldn't let go - and caused varying levels of rebellion, and tension in their relationship.

And the mother told her that she was just afraid. Fearful - almost petrified for her child. And the daughter (our speaker) told her that her mother's fear came across as a lack of trust. That her mother did not believe in her.

And so all my love for my daughter has now turned into fear. And the fear will do no good. It can't. All it does it take from what could be.

So I've decided to turn my fear into faith. And my terror into trust. And live conscientiously, with hopeful caution.

I must believe that my new baby will be okay, and that we all will make it through another day, week, and month, with a beautiful child that loves life and deserves to see it without her mother's fear clouding her every step.

Some people find their faith in church or in other spiritual outlets. But for me, I'm going to start with "the world."

I'm going to start believing in its goodness and that when we put good things into it, good things will come to us. It's the only way I can get through the days when it seems like everything around me is falling apart - with wars, violence, pain, and suffering. It's the only way things will make sense for me.

The world hasn't done me wrong yet - sure there have been bumps and severe road blocks, but I can't let those taint my view. And better, I can't let them take away what I believe about life. Because believing in all that is good means believing in my daughter.

And that's the best gift I can ever give her.

Owning Up

I realize now that I spent my entire first 6 months of my daughter's life pretending like I didn't choose to have her. Don't get me wrong. I love my daughter with every single breath I have. And always will. But, given all the hard times I had at the beginning, I guess it made me feel better to think that since she was a "surprise," I should get more sympathy for all the sleepless days and nights, green sludge poo, and general overwhelm.

Lame, right?

I'm pretty sure I asked myself "Why would anyone ever choose to do this?" about 10,000 times. I mean, seriously, who chooses to push an infant out their crotch, lose all semblance of life as they know it, and gain a certain level of anxiety, uncertainty, and on many days, utter confustion and frustration? I guess I thought I was owed something because I hadn't really chosen it.

"It chose you," I told myself. "You're just along for the ride."

But lately, I've come to realize that I indeed made a choice. You know, to have unprotected sex (gasp), keep the baby, get married, and stay home. And I'm generally not one to complain - in fact, I loathe those folks who complain about things they themselves chose. *ahem*

Hello hypocrite. How's it hanging?

And so, I have come to the conclusion that the only way to move forward, make positive change, and live an existence that would make me and my daughter proud (you know, a happy, fun one, without negativity, and an ungrateful spirit), is to own my choices - to say "I did, in fact, choose this life that I have right now, and no matter how much it overwhelms me, challenges me, and tests the limits of everything that I have, I CHOSE IT."

That doesn't mean I'm not going to bitch about living in Mississippi. Or complain that I don't have any friends. I mean, hello. How boring would my blog be? (rhetorical there).

But, it does mean that I'm going to be a little more proactive in engaging myself in my own life, instead of watching it go by and writing about it. And in doing so, I think it will allow me to be more comfortable with my new self and my new life.

And most importantly, it shows my daughter the power of choice, and how that right is hers to grasp and utilize for her own good - and the good of others.

How Do You Raise a No-Limit Child in a World of Limits?

Lest my blogging book-a-long cohorts thought I was using my book as a door stop, I figured I had better post something and fast. I have to admit that reading Wayne Dyer's book has been a little rough, coming off an enjoyable jaunt through David Sedaris' Naked, however, I agreed to do it and damnit, I'm going to do it.

So, if you're not familiar with the book here's the jist: How the hell do you raise non-dysfunctional, anxiety free children? Apparently, Wayne Dyer knows how. So, you have to admit, pretty good selling point. I mean, let's face it. Who sets out to raise co-dependent, Xanax popping kids? Um, not me. Sure, a little dysfunction never hurt anyone and frankly, it gives me a hell of a lot of blog fodder and great fuel for a novel or book. However, it's not what I hope for when it comes to my own daughter.

With that in mind, I embraced the book with a reasonably open arms. And considering it took me a good 4 days to get past the fact that he referred to an ORIENTAL GIRL (um, hello...okay, old book, I got that), it's really not that bad, that is if you want to feel like your child's total and utter sane existence (which you already sort of knew already) rests solely upon your shoulders. And I'm only on Chapter 3.

It all makes sense. Hell, I'm a therapist, so I should know all this shit by now anyway. But basically, you have got to live a no-limit, anxiety free life - thus modeling such behaviors and actions for your child. You need to take risks, laugh at the prospect of failure, and openly accept the world and what it brings you. And then you have to not do about 29 different things that can cause major issues in your child's psyche.

My beef with it. It's a little overwhelming for any average well-intentioned parent, let alone an overachiever psychology type like me. And everything is "don't" - don't tell them not to try something that you don't like just because you don't like it. Or don't tell them that they are going to fail before they even try it. And any good psych person will know that "don'ts" are actually a "don't;" really, everything should be phrased in the positive.

While he does give several positive suggestions, for the most part, I felt guilty and anxious after reading it- and although I have upped my game with my daughter thanks to his suggestions, I still feel as though it's just a little much for any one person to swallow.

And here's the bigger issue. His concept of no-limits are inspiring, but how do you raise a no-limit child in a world full of limits? - you know, where getting ahead, being number one, and achieving the highest level of whatever you do is paramount. And so, if YOU raise your child to be a life-long, innate learner, one who cares about living life rather than achieving it, how can they compete in a world that is extremely far from that without isolating them or hiding them in an underground bunker? I mean, the book is from the 80s - and I wonder, if he wrote a revision, what would he say now considering kids are taking advanced classes in preschool and SAT prep programs in junior high?

Perhaps the answers are just beyond what I've read so far. And until I read the rest of the book, please share your thoughts. What do you think about this?

*I'm happy to do a book trade with anyone after I'm done this one. Have a good read I'd like? Email me. Also, I'm looking for "The Truth Behind the Mommy Wars..." and I'll trade you Warner's Perfect Madness for it. Let me know.

Who Are We Fighting For?

I've always had a soft spot in my heart for veterans. And homeless veterans? That kills me. It seems like the thanks they receive (random national holidays and meager government assistance) just doesn't do them justice.

And now, here we are. In the middle of another war. Sure we could go on about how it's meaningless. How men and women (like those on 60 Minutes last night) are losing limbs, even lives, for something I'm not even sure is worthwhile. How these soldiers are away from their families for way longer than should be allowed. And how George Bush didn't find weapons of mass destruction in Iraq and should have just taken everyone out of there and gone home.

But saying there is no purpose to the military presence in Iraq does not honor those soldiers that died yesterday, today, and probably tomorrow. It does not pay homage to the ones who suffered brain damage, year long comas, and a prognoses of "permanent vegetative state." And it does not acknowledge the countless number of humans in our history that suffered immense mental and physical anguish in all the wars that, by many, are seen as unnecessary.

So, however you feel about the war, take a moment today to remember that there are dads that haven't seen their kids in a year. There are moms that won't be home for Christmas. And there are folks that have lost a piece of their body, mind, and/or spirit just so we can enjoy our days as they always have been. Free and comfortable.

If you want to do something to help, we featured a couple posts on Cool Mom Picks that might just be what you're looking for.

Losing My Religion

Considering that one of the biggest religious holidays is here, bringing with it a visit from my very religious mother, I figured I'd take this opportunity to take a stab at the subject. However, I can't take my mind off the whole Scientology thing that has everyone's panties, including mine, in a big huge wad. Have you heard the latest? Apparently, not only is a silent birth highly recommended, Katie will be strongly encouraged to remain silent for the entire first week of her child's life.

I know. Just when you thought things couldn't get any worse. The thing is, it's not the whole silence thing that really bothers me, but rather, the blatant oppression of women that Scientology, and oh wait, almost all religions (or whatever you want to call them) perpetuate. Hello. Would a woman-created religion EVER require a woman to have a silent birth let alone a silent first week of motherhood? Please.

What's interesting to me is that some people who have jumped on the "hate-Tom-Cruise-feel- sorry-for-Katie" bandwagon subscribe to a religion that continues to foster the notion that women are in one way or another less than men. Granted, the whole silence thing is more overtly crazy, but is it really any less oppressive than not allowing women to be priests or continuing to worship a male God, Lord, whoever in a book that was written by men?

I've experienced my fair share of heavy duty religion. I did the whole attend youth group, underline bible verses, pray to the Lord for good SAT scores, hate myself for having sex, and wear Evolution Sucks shirts.  I lived with a staunchly religious mother who endured years of abuse and oppression and who after nearly freeing herself, got suckered into taking her abusive, alkie husband back because he accepted the lord as his savior and promised to go to church. And, on occasion, I still get the public food prayer and "the lord works in myseterious ways" comments from her.

I "converted" to Catholicism so I could get married in the Catholic church, even though I cannot even grasp the multitude of craziness going on with them. Alas, I've been a very bad Catholic and I don't have one ounce of guilt.

When I got to college, I decided that having fun and not feeling bad because the church disapproved did not go well together. I threw off my shackles, carried around a good bit of sublimated guilt and an "I'm a sinner always and forever" complex, and loathed the church and everything it stood for. After I had rid myself from all of that guilt, I hated the church for continuing to oppress women. But even more, I got pissed at women for continuing to go to church.

In theory, I understand the value of faith and religion as part of most world cultures. The idea of a higher power and an ultimate being gives people hope and meaning in their life. However, it is very hard for me to grasp how women can rationalize believing in a book that was primarily written by men, and in most interpretations, oppresses women (and other minority groups) at one level or another. So, maybe we don't buy the whole "men are the head of the household" bullshit, BUT do we still go to church and listen to a male priest tell us about what the men said about a man? Or maybe you took the trust and obey part out of your marriage vows, but did you still get married (a historically sexist act) and change your name (historically done for exchange of property - including women and slaves)?

Look. Before you go and get YOUR panties in a wad let me say this. I got married. I went to church. I believe in a higher power of some kind or at least I think I do. I married a Catholic, and technically I'm one too. I'm not saying you are bad, wrong, or not a real woman for doing any or all of those things.

What I am saying, however, is that many of us are so quick to criticize crazy Katie for subscribing to the obviously female-oppressive Scientology tenets (at least when it comes to the birthing issues) WHEN at one level or another some of us  still subscribe to Western religion that is male-dominated and Western religious vales that dominate our societal norms (i.e. holidays, marriage, etc.). We criticize her choice, and yet, what about ours?

So, Happy Easter folks. Let me hear what you have to say.

Half Full or Empty?

This is a day to forget. You've had them. The ones where you find yourself sitting alone, in the dark, finally able to take one breath, feeling like you have just been hit with a ton of bricks.

I was enjoying a reasonably pleasant morning at babysign class when I received a phone call from the lab tech. It seems my HcG levels are not doubling. I know they are supposed to double. I even called my dear friend who has suffered numerous losses to confirm. They had only gone up 200 whatevers from Friday to Monday.

After calling what seemed like 5000 people trying to get the numbers faxed over so I could get yet another blood test and perhaps an ultrasound, the dr on base came through and I headed to the hospital for an ultrasound - on the belly and in the hoo-ha - all with my daughter sitting on top of me. Gotta love being straddled by your daughter while you lay half-naked with a condom covered penis looking thing that you are sticking up your crotch. Anyway, there is something in there - my uterus that is - but they can't see a heartbeat or a fetal pole. But, don't get disheartened just yet.

It is still early - they say only about 4 weeks - and alas, you can't see that stuff then anyway. BUT, it still does not explain my non-doubling numbers. After discussing it briefly with an unfriendly, bow-tie wearing, pearshaped 80 year old Cajun doctor, I felt like I had already lost the baby. And in fact, chances are good that I have - considering (as he put it) I had twins and lost one (that would actually be the GOOD thing) or I'm miscarrying early.

I appreciate the frankness, and the honesty, but can one offer ANY glimmer of hope at all? Would that be too hard to do? I'm repeatedly reminded about how women's health in this country (specifically in my lovely town) has gone down the tubes - where you become a NUMBER and a FIGURE and nothing else and where your feelings, thoughts, and intelligence level are not taken into consideration. I am constantly reminded of Naomi Wolf's book Misconceptions and how women's health has become a business as usual. Read it - it's amazing.

And through all this, I see my little one (the 19 month old) smiling at me. She blows kisses to dogs, birds, bugs, and anything else that lives. She cheers when I pull an extra fruit leather from my bag. She sings and dances to all my ridiculous songs. She gives me kisses, holds me tight, and reminds me about the beauty of my life. And I know that if it never happens again for me - if she is my only one - that I will be fulfilled - I will not be empty. I want more kids - for her and for us, but I never thought I would have kids anyway - she was my Brady (ala SatC's Miranda). And, I'm so thankful for her - oh SO thankful.

So, I'm a realist - an optimist for others - a realist for me. Always skeptical and cynical. Hell, I wrote a will in 1992 when I went to Switzerland with my youth orchestra fearing terrorist attacks since we were a big group of Americans on one plane. I signed a pact in my diary that I would never get married (even before I ever had a boyfriend). And, granted I'm still alive AND I'm on my second marriage, I'm not the BELIEVER in all things good and right. I still know bad shit happens to good people and as of late, it seems I am one of them.

So, tell me this, good readers and visitors of MU, how would you see my glass today if you were me? Are you half-fullers? or half-emptiers? or do you even bother with the damn glass?

PS: The prospect of this story being true cheers me up a little. And, this bloggers kind words, cheers me up even more. And if you want to cheer me up, click on my renter. I'd like to think I'm a good landlord, even in not-so-great times. Thank you.

It's A... BIRL?

I wholeheartedly admit that I'm addicted to those "I'm-a-glutton-for-punishment" TLC shows like "A Boy Whose Skin Fell Off" and "The 700lb Man." I'm not sure what it is about those shows that draw me in, but I watch, cry, and cry some more every single time without fail. The most interesting of the bunch, in my humble opinion, was the show on people born with two sexual organs.

I have a great interest in LBGT culture, specifically has it relates to health care treatment, being that I am a health care professional. Since having children, however, my interest has piqued, mainly because the trauma and life challenges faced by intersexed and transgendered persons has a lot to do with the decisions of their parents.

The firsthand accounts of these folks whose gender was essentially chosen for them by their parents and the attending doctors are heartwrenching. The struggle of feeling like a woman in a man's body or vice versa is difficult to imagine. The daily grief experienced in our either-or world is tragic. And yet, they survived - some alone, some with life partners and families, to tell their story and enlighten those who chose to watch.

We live in a male/female world with no room for in-between. If you have read any literature on gender formation and development, you will find that gender is not necessarily related to sexual organs, but rather a whole myriad of factors that are difficult to quantify. In plain English, just because someone has a penis doesn't mean they are a MAN. This causes most of our society much concern - I'm not exactly sure why - but it does. We seem to like black/white answers - and grey, especially when it comes to sexuality and gender, really freaks people out.

I can't say that I fully understand how it happens - regardless of whether the person has two sexual organs OR if they have one and identify with a different gender. BUT, I do know that I empathize with their pain and their challenge to find a place in this world. And now as a parent, I wonder what would I do if my child were born with two sexual organs?

I mean, my first instinct would be to leave them alone, give them a gender neutral name, dress them in gender neutral clothes, and go on my merry way. Let them decide if they want surgery - and a specific gender identification. BUUUUTTTTT... life is not that easy. Everyone wants to know "what you are having" from the time you are just a little bit pregnant. And EVERYTHING is either for a boy or girl. Gender roles are forced down our throats from early on - from toys to clothes to all else human... And, as a parent, I know my desire for my child is for them to fit in, find themselves, and live happily. But, how can I help them do that when everything is either blue or pink? Where are the success stories?

So, as I ponder this heavy issue with my new and old blog pals, I wonder, what would you do if the dr told you, "It's a BIRL?"

HOLY SHIT BALLS.

Really, What's So Wrong With Looking Gay?

As I was leaving music class the other day, I was talking with another well-educated, reasonably informed (or so I thought) mom about children's clothing, namely that there was really nowhere around where we live that sold really great stuff. Not that I'm looking for designer cute-ture (thanks GGC), but I do like nice clothes that don't fall apart after one washing, and I prefer to not have to dig through 1200 racks of shit to find ONE nice dress ala TJMAXX but WAYYYYY worse. Anyway, she agreed with me and then said "Well, you can't find any boy's clothes around here that aren't gay, and daddy doesn't want us [speaking to child] looking gay..."

And there you go. Just had to go there. I mean, really... You are an educated woman of the 21st century and you are still using THAT? And then I thought, I shouldn't really be surprised, since I hear it ALL the time from a lot of people - edumacated and not. Hell, they still use RETARDED down here (and I mean referring TO the folks with disabilities and for other things they believe to be stupid and dumb). AND, while we do live in gay-hate-country-I'm-an-ignorant-redneck USA, I know it's not isolated to this part of the country.

I think we all realize at some level that being gay is not a choice because if it were, then really, NO one would choose it - especially here in the US when as gay person, you can barely get married, have kids, and LIVE happily and safely, with equal rights. Wait let me rephrase, no one except women who have been burned OH too many times by asshole men, would choose to be gay *wink*. Anyway, now that we are in agreement about that, let's address the issue at hand, shall we? Looking gay.

What's so bad about it, I wonder? I mean, have you really ever seen a badly dressed gay man? Not me. And, have you really ever seen gay men only wear pink sweaters and light blue t-shirts? NOPE, can't say I have. And, have you ever seen a raggedy coiffed, nasty shaven, scraggly looking gay man? NOTTA - only when he's pretending to be straight (blllahahahahaha). Technically speaking, if someone says that to you, you should probably take it as a compliment, because based on my scholarly research (gay clubs, bars, and pals) gay men dress WAY better than straight men.

And then we get into gender roles in this society - ones that are so fucking messed up that I can't even find a gender neutral toy for my 18-month old. It's either kitchens or toolworkshops. It's either dolls or trucks. And, if you buy the one that is "opposite" your child's gender, people look at you like you are a freeeaaaaakkk. Can society jam the whole "women-love-domesticity" shit down are throat anymore? And really, why the hell do we as women continue to put up with it? *says while counting the number of dolls and purses laying around the house* Seroiusly folks, haven't you thought that the gender specific colors are socially programmed in our brains and REALLY girls don't prefer pink, but it's what is forced upon them by society?

And c'mon, can a baby really look gay? I mean I know we obsess about "who's gay and who's not" - try to pick them out at restaurants and dance clubs because we're total idiots (I for one refuse to engage in this stupidity...), but really, do people sit around at baby showers and play groups going "Hmmm... totally gay..."? I THINK NOT. How is it that if the MAN lets his SON wear a light blue shirt than that means clearly HE is gay? - although he is married, with a wife, and son, so clearly, unless he has internalized homophobia and hate gays because he is one (yes, it exists), then he's probably NOT GAY. HELLO!

Oh, and have you noticed it's mostly about MEN'S clothing - because, we the female oppressing society, still LOVE the idea of a lesbian. And therefore, we don't go around saying flannel shirts and mountain boots on a girl is GAY... it's just the purple argyle sweater in the Men's Section of BR.

So people. If you don't like the light blue shirts and the pink shorts for your son FINE. No big deal. But, why don't you just say you don't like them, or you think they're ugly, or even GROSS. But, I just don't think it's necessary to insult an entire culture of people (surely people raise eyebrows when we say "that's so LATINO" or "BLACK") every time we just think something is silly. Changing LANGUAGE leads to changing MINDS. 

Is Having It All Really What It's Cracked Up To Be?

I had always decided that if I ever had kids, I would surely leave my job and stay home with them (in one capacity or another). The thing was, I never really thought I was going to have kids, and I was chronically dissatisfied with my jobs, so I figured it would be a win-win situation (that is, if it ever really happened).

And then, I got pregnant. I wasn't married and I was at the beginning of an illustrious career as a college professor. I had just published my first textbook and I was working 12 hour days (by choice - mainly to avoid thinking about my recent divorce... but who cares about the details?) and loving it.

Thankfully, there was never really an issue between my now husband and I when I decided I would leave my job. Plus, I rationalized that we were going to be moving soon and it was a good time for the academic program that I directed to find someone new. I gave my notice, taught my last few classes, and looked forward to my new adventure as a MOTHER.

BUT, when I decided to take that job, I hadn't done my research. I didn't know what the hell I was getting myself into. And, I didn't realize that my life was about to change more drastically that I had ever imagined.

Thing was, I signed up for MOTHERHOOD. What I didn't sign up for, but what is apparently included in the job, is cook, maid, late-night babysitter, and isolation specialist. All of a sudden, I went from optionally and graciously cooking and cleaning to having to make it a part of my required daily existence. I went from going out on a semi-regular basis to being left home. Essentially, I went from a relative SOMEBODY to a NOBODY in a matter of 12 hours (long labor....). I was left home, alone with an infant, while my husband enjoyed his SAME life - same work, same clothes size, same gym, same going out.

Surely I am not the only career-minded mother who had the shit shocked out of her in the first year of motherhood. I imagine some retreat into seclusion and track suits, believing that THIS is motherhood and we should have known better. And seriously, isn't that it? It's not that we are isolated, lonely, tired, and confused and we need support, help, and guidance, but really, WE CHOSE IT... So, it's OUR fault. Maybe you're just not cut out for staying-at-home, they would say. It's not for everyone. And so I questioned my own ability as a mother and domestic engineer and my decision to take the job.

It doesn't help that professional motherhood seems to be very low on our lists these days. You go to parties and people don't want to hear about your child who can finally eat solid foods, or is only nursing one time a day. You say "I'm a mom" and they walk quickly away from you, like you have a big nasty rash on your face. Little do they know that attention, respect, and support is what we really need.

There are some days when I really miss working. I look at my daughter and I think, am I really giving you what you need? Did I make the right decision? I still have work that takes me out of the house and gives me some sense of sanity, but I'm way out of the "professional" loop. And as much as I want to work, I can't imagine ANYONE else spending more time with her than me. Even as silly or as clueless I might be, I still believe it's way better for her to be with me that someone else. I decided that raising a human on a full-time basis (especially in these formative years) is my life's most important work.

Feminists talk about women being able to have it all - equally satisfying career and domestic bliss - and I believe it's our right as women to decide our own fate. I don't judge my friends who are working mothers, espcially those who work out of necessity in order to maintain their current household. BUT, at the same time, is this really achievable? I mean, is it really satisfying to not see your kids for most of the day? Or, is it gratifying to be with your kids so much that you want to stick your head in the toilet and flush it? I mean, doesn't SOMETHING have to suffer? Don't we really have to let one thing go, just a little, or can it really be 50-50?

I think women need to start changing the definition of having it ALL. Maybe it's not really about this perfect marriage of career and domestic bliss, but rather it's about what's really best for our kids. Is it fair that WE have to sacrifice for our kidsand our husband's lives remain scarily unchanged? No, maybe not. It's our job to change perceptions and not get sucked into the vacuum that is motherhood. I've seen too many casualities...

But, with all it's shitty momments, it's 100% worth it. Sure, I gripe about it and wish for my quiet office and computer. But after spending the bulk of my time with daughter of these last 18 months, I think I have finally changed my focus away from having it all and more on having what makes me and my family happy. That might mean only 20% career and 80% family...But that's okay. It won't be like that forever. And through all this I guess I realized that maybe having it all is not all that it's cracked up to be.

Spam Fortunes

It seems that as of late, I have noticed a very bizarre trend in my spam (yes, kids, the EMAIL kind). I'm not sure what is going on exactly, but it's very scary. Not only are they forming complete sentences now, unlike the previous "crazy viagra tiger penis bitches," BUT they make sense and can be applied to my life. Mother doesn't need no fortune teller - she's got herself some SPAM.

For example, Petronelle Lacynu sent me this yesterday (subject heading, of course):

You can tell the size of a man's penis by his feet.

Amen, sister. You speak the truth.

And then, Carlosdacunha (yes, all one word - obviously a foreigner) sent me this lovely today:

You decided to put up with having no sex in your life.

Damn you Carlos. How did you know? Is it that obvious?

There you have it folks. Fuck Chicken Soup for the Soul. I've got Spam Fortunes and Life Truths 101 all over my inbox. I think I'm onto something.

Decisions...

She waits anxiously, unsure of her next move.

Her heart beats from anticipation, fear, and the unknown.

It's a dangerous venture. Does she have the will? the strength? the stomach?

Will she unfurl this wild beast and allow it to run free and naked?

Read this (including comments) and then post your opinion. Oh... and it's not for the faint of heart or *ahem* the weak of crotch couture...

What Does Your Blog Really Say?

I found this via Drowning in Kids. Pretty cool idea. Although I don't think I need a shirt with it - considering half the words are *ahem* unmentionables.

Go be a cool kid. Get your own done at snapshirts.

What Shoe Are You?

A wise woman once said,"You can learn everything about a woman just by looking at her shoes." I'm not sure if that was actually said, or if I just made it up, but I do believe it is one of life's truths. Like many millions of women, I am and always will be shoe obsessed. I have always believed that a kickass pair of shoes can make or break an entire outfit. Even when I was little, my mom said I always looked at people's shoes, and that's how I remembered them.

As I look back at my shoe collection, I realize you can really tell a lot about what was going on in my life by what shoes I was wearing. I don't really hold sentimental attachments to my shoes; I have no problems separating from ones that I haven't worn in a couple of years. Hell, you have to make room for the new ones somehow!

I did stash a few pairs away with the hopes that I would someday have a daughter and we could share some laughs (and perhaps, I could convince her I was indeed cool at one point in time) over them. Some I wish I had never given away... like my black strappy clear heeled numbers that cost me $19.99 but got me through tons of hot nights out at the gay bars of Philly. Or lace-up the leg platform Steve Maddens that I wore only once. Or my houndstooth chuck taylors. *sigh* Some people reminisce over songs and pictures. I go through the shoe collection kept neatly boxed and labeled in my mind.

Yes, those are jellies. They are not the exact ones I wore, IN COLLEGE, but they give off the vibe I was going for. Mine were HEELED, thank you very much, and a bit sassier, less I'm 8 years old and I like my little ponies. It was a carefree time for me. I thought I was really "different" and "cool." I paired them with this silver tank and cut off jean shorts. Ah, those were the days.

Then I went through a manly phase. I had gained some weight and I was feeling like crapy about myself. I wore men's shirts, big jeans, and these boots. Yes, it's a total tragedy, I know. BUT, I still believe I pulled it off pretty well. I will say I had no trouble giving up these bad johnnies.

Didn't we all have a pair of these? Mine were directly from a factory in England. I bought them off the assembly line for CHEAP and they were SO COOL. In fact, I still have them. I wore them on and off for years. I was coming into my own at the time - and I was going for a grunge chic kind of thing. It was also a time where I was angry and always on the offense. Hence the steel toes, I guess.

My favorite life phase - the platforms. I have always had self-worth issues, and I think being 6' 2" (I'm 5'11") made me feel literally ON TOP OF THE WORLD. I would tower over most people and I guess that made me feel more confident. Thing is with platforms - they are pretty comfy...

So, here I am now. I'm on the run chasing after my daughter and married to a short man. I'm not against the whole TC/NK now Katie Holmes deal, but the heels and heavy clunkers are hard on the bod.  I'm always a fan of a cute sneaker (I have about 4 pairs), and the handy zipper pouch holds my speed.(Just kidding there)... and well, flats can go a long way (except I still feel like they make my feet look like skis).

As I look down at my current shoe collection and the shoes that I wear most, I realize that they represent my LIFE and my attempts to adapt to my surroundings. Maybe I'm in a bit of denial to think that a pair of flats and glam sneaks is who I have become. BUT, I know deep down inside, somewhere, is the girl wearing the sexy leopard print manolos. And even if they only get to come out once a year... it's still good that I have them. I know they are there and I don't let them get dusty or forgotten. Just like me. The old me. The me I've put on hold for a little while.

So, my question for you today has to do with where you are in your life? What shoe are YOU?

Playtex or Tampax?

I hope my male readers (*giggle* I think it's just my brother) will stick with me here. I know it's painful to purchase tampons for your lady, etc. let alone read about it. BUT, I promise that I will not delve into the girly shit too often. With that said, put on your goggles and protective gear...

Notice that I'm not going to EVEN address tampons vs. pads because to me, that's an obvious GIVE-IN. I'm not out to offend the pad-users in this world, but the only time I would ever wear a pad again, was if 1) I just had a baby or 2) I just had a miscarriage. Note the two commonalities - both represent some type of trauma to the lower regions. Other than that, the pads go out the window (I even really hate panty-liners...).

So, back to the topic at hand. This came to me as I grabbed for a tampon from my TAMPAX box (not to giveaway my choice or anything) and all that was left was *gulp* a PLAYTEX gentle glide (whatever that means). As a young gal, I would grab whatever I could find (on the regular side of course, I don't want TSS from using a super or something). BUT, getting older, I've become pickier and well, playtex just doesn't work.

If you compare the two, you will notice that playtex are short and stubby with a really puny string while tampax are long and thing with a hearty string. Always made me feel better - I have this fear of 1) forgetting it's in there or 2) the string breaking and it gets stuck. BOTH are totally illogical - although I did have this friend who did #1 and had to get it removed. Gross. I digress.

So, what I wonder is, does the tampon you use have an indication about the size or shape of your vagina. I have to say, leakage, for whatever reason, occurs with playtex. So, what does that mean? I mean, we all talk about penis size - but what about, ahem, vagina size? And even better, does it have any indication as to what PENIS size we like?

Well there you have it - and dare I say more men will be examining the medicine closet to examine tampon choice. I'm starting a revolution.

Which Wiggle Would You Do?

While most of you are out enjoying adult contact of varying kinds, I am pondering life's deep questions. Today I wonder what wiggle would I do?

For those of you (lucky you are) that are unfamiliar with the Wiggles, let me enlighten you this wonderful day. These four lucky Australian blokes have made a fortune wearing colored t-shirts (okay, mock turtlenecks) and polyester black pants while singing god-awfully ridiculous songs. I hate to even call them songs as the rhyming is TERRIBLE, the melodies simple and pathetic, and the dancing, well, it's like a Jane Fonda video gone bad. Needless to say, kids LOVE them (including MINE), and they offer good, clean, educational fun at 9am CST every weekday on Playhouse Disney. Whoa - I've been watching it way too much. Note to self - Get Sex and the City DVDs immediately.

Anyhoo, the question remains - which one would I do? Let's analyze, shall we? Oh and for all your avid watchers, Captain Feathersword is off limits. Let's face it, I wouldn't even think about it with a name like that (ehem). Perhaps if he was Captain Longstick or something - might help his cause.

Jeff -- The small ethnic fellow in purple. He is always sleeping and is by far the worst dancer. A bit shrimpy and plays the accordian. Need I say more?

Greg -- Not bad looking, although he sings out the side of his mouth and plays NO instruments. He's a bit round in the gut area and personally, I think lead singers are highly overrated. NEXT!

Murray -- Guitar playing Murray is a favorite among the ladies (just kidding, I have no clue). He's kind of cute, but a little to nice and cheerful. Who wants that in bed?

Finally - my pick has to be (dadadadum)

ANTHONY -- Side burns, check. Low voice, check. Good dancer but not better than me, check. I think we have a winner.

Now it's your turn... Don't be shy.