SAHM Guilt

 This article got me thinking about the role of the mother and especially society's conception of the stay-at-home-mom. The article, and many like it, works off of two basic assumptions:

1. People should cling to their individuality. It seems like the biggest fear of people, especially women, these days is to lose themselves in the role of the mother or wife. Going one step further, it makes the assumption that a woman's identity is held within her sexuality. In order to maintain her identity a woman should exercise, wear make up, do pelvic floor exercises, and basically maintain the flirtatious, vixen attitude she had before having children. She must be a woman first, and a wife or mother second. It says very little about her being a human first, and a woman or wife or mother or whatever else in whatever order she prefers. 
2. SAHMs should feel privileged to be able to stay at home. They should not compare their labor to "actual" work, and they should feel guilty that they do not contribute financially. Most of all, they are not allowed to complain about their duties, or claim that they feel stress. Taking this further, there is the subtle claim that work within the household is worth less than work outside of the household, and that money is the biggest contribution you can make to your family. 

These assumptions, and all of the advice that comes out of them, continually irritates me. Truthfully, I usually click right past these blog posts and move on to something that isn't tinted with anger and/or guilt. But sometimes I can't help myself. Sometimes I stop and read these and wonder if this is really what people think about life. 

First of all, I want to say that I do feel extremely privileged that I will be able to be a SAHM. I realize that for many mothers now days that is not a choice, especially all of the single mothers working hard on every front. However, I think it is a choice for more people than recognize it as so. The idea that a family NEEDS two incomes to survive is absurd. There is the option to move some place cheaper, to cut back on expenses, to curb the consumer lifestyle and to get your basic needs covered through one income. Yes, not having the latest Apple products, or not sending your child to a summer camp may be a difficult choice to make, but it IS an option. From what I read this is becoming more difficult in America, and perhaps changes are needed on the societal level. If we are a society that still values the nuclear family then we should allow for basic family needs to be met through a single income. If we no longer value the nuclear family then we need to start making other arrangements for the raising of children so that everyone can continue providing just enough for themselves. 

With all of that being said, just because I recognize my position within the home as a privilege (which should be a right) does not mean that I intend to feel guilty about it, as if working within the home is less difficult than holding a job outside the home, or as if I am somehow worth less than working mothers and fathers. I refuse to agree that a homemaker does not know what stress is. Balancing budgets, creating family schedules, learning about nutrition and gardening are all fun things, but they can all be stressful. If you dislike your job so much that all you feel is stress and anxiety towards it, perhaps you should look into a different job instead of claiming that those who enjoy their societal role don't know what stress is. However, here we come to the big question: Is being a mother an actual societal role anymore? 

It seems like it isn't. Adults are identified by their jobs, and jobs are narrowly defined by the money they make. It is valid to be a housekeeper or a nanny, looking after someone else's children, but it is not valid to claim working within your own family as work. Perhaps it isn't fair to claim "mother" as a societal role. After all, there are plenty of single individuals struggling to make ends meet on their own, with no one to share household duties with. These people seem to hold a disdain for, "breeders," who would dare to claim that one income should support not just one person, but four people, while one adult does nothing except manage a home. Maybe they have a point. Maybe we have equalized ourselves right out of the definition of family. If so, I am quite sad. 

The other part, that a woman must at all times maintain her individual identity outside of her familial roles, just seems tiresome to me. People keep claiming that a woman should be able to support herself, in case her husband leaves her. She should not get lost in the relationship with her husband, and she should not get lost in her role as a mother. As an extreme there are women who have c-sections just because they do not want to change their sex lives. Perhaps a bit more normal is the idea that a woman needs to keep separate bank accounts, have a source of income, and maintain her sexuality through fashion and makeup so that her husband always wants her and she will be desirable if he leaves her. 

To me it seems like this is just operating from a stance of fear, constantly planning for the worst case scenario. When I got married I gave up my life as an individual. It was scary to consider before I met Nikola and yet it is the most relaxing, wonderful sensation now. We agreed that we would love and support each other forever, and I choose to believe in that. That means I have no problem combining finances, working to support his income efforts, or earning an income while he manages things at home. We decided to form a household, and to put that first. That means that I honor our household before my own fears and insecurities. 

Finally, I have to ask when being a woman meant being sexy and made-up. I feel like so much more than a piece of fashion. If I never have sex again I will still feel like a woman. Bearing children is a part of being a woman, for some people. Cooking is. Painting is. Writing is. Living, breathing, loving is. Being a woman is not about high heels and a fancy bag. It is not about wearing make up. It is not about having a tight pelvic floor. It is emotions and desires and interactions. "Be a woman first, so you can be a better mother," is just bad advice. Instead, allow being a mother to become part of your identity. 

I was wasting time on the internets and I decided to look for advice on how to pare down my overflowing closet. I figure that this whole pregnancy thing is a great time to get rid of the clothes I don't need, seeing how I don't fit in them in the moment anyways. This is everything that this woman left out for the season. Instead of being impressed by the minimalism of it I was struck by the second shirt from the left- the blue striped fisherman's shirt.

Immediately, I was swept into memories of high school, specifically of reading The Garden of Eden. Sometimes it seems like the only really important thing I ever did in high school was to read that book. There were a few days, towards the end of my junior year, when all I wanted was to live in that book. Spring had caught up with me and I was itching to be outdoors. That book expressed a certain feeling of freedom and lightness, and I carried the story in my heart as I walked down the ever-enclosing halls of my high school. Surprisingly, my obsession with the book had little to do with the sexuality of the characters. Although it was supposedly risqué, I found it completely normal. Nor did I care too much about the insanity of the main characters. (Although that was much more significant to me than the sexuality). Instead, it had everything to do with the writing. I was sucked into the story, roaming around the Spanish countryside, swimming in the sea, drinking cold beer, and living my entire life in a fisherman's shirt. Of course, I didn't have a fisherman's shirt back then, and I was too frightened to cut my hair so instead I pinned it up. But now I think about the rough texture of the shirts when they bought them, and how they washed them until they were soft, and then wore them everywhere, and it makes me indescribably happy. Interestingly, what I thought was a minor detail that I had latched onto is a common theme discussed when people review the book... apparently I wasn't the only one caught up in the story of that fabric.

I like alternative writing. I really do. I like things to get a bit descriptive and experimental. But the thing is that I constantly come back to Hemingway- a writer who did not rely on tricks or flowery language to make an emotion felt. He wrote so simply and just let his work be a sounding board for the human soul to resonate with. I always come back to him... when reading, when writing... when living. Can it be healthy to be so influenced? 

Don't Touch Me

The other day Nikola and I were in the center. I went to wait in line for a breakfast roll while he looked up where we were supposed to be going on my tablet. When I got to the shop it was packed, with a line snaking around in its small hallway. There was an older man, possibly mentally ill, possibly drunk, walking with the assistance of a cane. He was talking loudly to the man in front of me, obviously making everyone in the room uncomfortable. As I entered and took my place in line this man's focus shifted to me. He started reciting some traditional Bulgarian line about red and white cheeks on a young maiden, that I have heard all too often from older men. The entire time I was having the usual mixed emotions- the feeling of responsibility to listen when another person talks, the defiant wish to ignore him so he goes away, and a slightly panicked plea to the others in the small area to say something so he would stop.

When it comes to people I don't know approaching me on the street, for attention, for money, for anything, I tend to be cold and ignore them. It makes me feel quite guilty. I remember a friend of mine once saying that they are people too, and everyone just wants to be recognized, and part of me wants to take the time out of my day and the fear out of my heart and just recognize them. Partake in their delusions, ask them how they are... but they don't want a conversation... they just talk and talk, with no respect for me. Why, then, do I owe them respect? It is a never-ending circle of guilt I have in my heart.

But then he crossed a line. His old, wrinkled hand, thick and heavy, came down and rested on mine. I recoiled. I tried to end the conversation with a curt, "okay." I looked desperately to the other people in the room to just say, "Move along, leave the girl alone." No one did, and his thick leathery hands stayed on top of mine as I struggled to find a polite way to move them away. Polite. I didn't want anyone there to think I was a monster, not giving proper respect to a poor old man. Polite. Luckily the line moved forward and he was separated from me. I was saved by a technicality.

When I went out to meet Nikola I told him what had happened, and how I am so frustrated with people touching me. He has learned to accommodate my needs when I am frustrated, and instead of trying to fix it, or tell me I was overreacting, he allowed my emotions to flow. I asked him how many times in the past year someone he didn't know had invaded his personal space and touched him.

"They talk to me."

"Yes, they talk to everyone. How many of them touched you?"

"I dunno. None, maybe."

"I dunno how many have touched me either, but it is definitely a lot more than none."

It was such a simple interaction. It was almost meaningless, but it wasn't. For me it was nearing the final straw that makes me snap- that women are allowed to be touched and men are not... that not only individuals think this, but groups of people will allow that discomfort to continue in front of them, and they expect the woman to deal with it with grace and poise and politeness, even as the man (or woman) clearly follows no social rules. They expect a woman to accommodate. Always, always allow.

When I came home a friend of mine had posted on her facebook wall,

"A woman is not written in braille - You don't have to touch her to know her." 

And I wondered what had happened to her that day... 

Travel in Style

I have been thinking a bit about travel recently, and the different types of travel people engage in. There are the short vacations, site-focused trips or people-focused trips, the around the world putzing, the summer holiday, business trips, study abroad, etc. Over the past three years I have been able to do more travel than I ever imagined.

Even though I spent my childhood floating back and forth across the U.S., it never really felt like travel. When I became an adult my travel consisted of moving between San Francisco and Tucson, with the occasional weekend trip to the woods or beach. Occasionally I would take a flight to Denver to see old friends, but never places. I never travelled to cities (except for one business trip to Missoula, and a job interview in Chicago), and I rarely traveled for pleasure. It was more that I was smart enough to take advantage of the times when I had a need to travel, and fill it with little bits of exploration. My most luxurious trips included a night of camping in Yosemite, and a road trip up to Oregon. Then I started branching out. I moved to Guam for work, and I thought about traveling in Asia. I went to Tokyo for a week with my friend, and although we stayed on the floor of another friend's apartment, and kept to mostly unpaid attractions, it was the most extravagant trip of my life.

When I joined the Peace Corps and moved to Bulgaria everything I knew about travel changed. Because I was used to living a basic lifestyle I was able to save up money from my living stipend and fund a few weekend trips. Although I didn't have the time or money to see much of Europe, I began what I like to call, "Marathon Tourism." Because I had no idea how to go to a city just to be there, I found marathons to run, giving my trip a sense of purpose. Through marathon tourism I was able to see Athens, Rome (with a side-jaunt to Venice and Skopje), and Paris/Cheverny. However, I find myself watching travel shows on the history and science channels (now that we have a television) and I realize that I have never, and will probably never travel the way most other people do.

When I travel I am always concerned about money. I find the cheapest hostels to stay at, and I research how to eat cheaply. I avoid taxis and walk as much as possible. I budget to splurge on one meal in a decent restaurant, and perhaps buy a small souvenir for under 10e. Yes, I can afford to buy the plane tickets to get to places on occasion, but I cannot afford to view them as a tourist. I cannot jet from one site to another, pay admission fees, rent beautiful apartments, and eat where ever I happen to be passing by. I somehow doubt that will EVER be in my budget, and perhaps that is why I have never had much fun exploring cities. Everything costs, and I have been trained to feel each slight cost. I can't afford to get drunk and blow 200e on a single evening, monetarily or emotionally.

This makes me consider the way that travel has opened up to a lower class of earners. People who cannot afford to be tourists are traveling. It is almost like travel has become a right instead of a privilege. Everyone needs to make it off the continent. Everyone needs to have an adventure. Websites like couchsurfing and workaway make this even more possible, but they tend to either connect people who have a lot of money and want to meet new people, or people who have no money and want to be part of the traveling scene. I find that I am neither of those. I long to be able to travel how they travel on the television shows- renting cars, going on cruises, not having to ask three times how much something is before making a purchase... part of me can't help but imagine what it must be like to be able to book a weekend in Paris and go out to any bar or restaurant, walk into any museum, and not have to sacrifice another part of your trip to do so. I have traveled, but I feel like I have still not breached that upper-middle class experience of being able to travel in style.

Of course, I would not trade my marathon weekends for anything. 

The Third Trimester

Nikola and I decided before we got married that we wanted a kid, and soon. We weren't sure exactly when we would start trying. Part of us wanted to be responsible- set up our life together, get me moved to Bulgaria (or move for a few years to the States together) and enjoy a few years of play and travel. At the same time a biological time-bomb had exploded in me. Not even a week before I met Nikola I had been planning a completely single life of flirting and adventure. Within a month of meeting him I suddenly had these strange urges to get married and have a kid. It was whiplash to say the least, and I was tugged along by my late-twenties hormones- through marriage all the way to the exciting process of conceiving a baby (Which is so much fun when you are actually trying to do so).

So then I was pregnant, my time-bomb was satisfied, and I suddenly realized the reality of the situation. I spent the first trimester slightly freaked out. Even though we wanted a baby we weren't financially stable enough to be having one. We hadn't built a house, saved for emergencies, or explored much of the world on our own. How could we possibly raise a child?

The pregnancy progressed (Thankfully this thing is 9 months long, giving me plenty of time to get used to the idea) and during the second trimester I felt much better. My anxieties started to slip away, my energy levels returned, and I started nesting. Crocheting baby clothes, sewing cloth diapers, and researching basic baby care got me excited about the baby on its way. It was no longer a huge, overwhelming force in our life, but an actual person that we would come to know. I started taking yoga, practicing breathing, and began to feel the baby move. That was an amazing sensation.

When the baby moves it is sometimes a gentle tickle. It is sometimes a forceful, awkward jab. It sometimes feels like a nuzzling roll. I lay in bed at night, before falling asleep, with Nikola's hand on my stomach. The baby moves and Nikola squeezes back. They would happily play this game for hours, if I let them. When I feel the baby move the aching ribs, and painful lower back don't seem so bad. Issues with digestion and urination fade away, and the fact that I can't sleep more than six hours at a time, but need twelve hours of sleep during a day, feels worth it.

Now I am well into the third trimester. I am beginning to think seriously about birthing. How, and where, and when... We are painting furniture, buying necessities, and learning how to change diapers. Once again I am realizing this little fluttering in my stomach is eventually going to come out of me and be its own person, and I am scared.

I begin to realize how mother's fall into depression after birth even when their baby is right there. Right there doesn't seem like it will be close enough, not after having carried it inside me for nine months.

I am also becoming anxious about my skills as a mother. I am terrible with children. Honestly, they kind of freak me out until they can have intelligent conversations and realize cause and effect. I am reading about discipline and training. I am recognizing all of the social pressures for women to be the perfect mother while having the perfect body, being the perfect business woman, and remaining the perfect wife. It seems completely unattainable, and it is hard to sort through the mess of everything to figure out what is important.

I read how to care for a baby. It seems that everything is known to cause SIDS. Everything is known to kill babies. Reading these books I wonder how any of us ever survived to be old enough to make babies of our own. It's times like these that I begin thinking maybe the internet isn't such a good idea, and the expertise of science is really crap when it comes to choosing how to actually live your life.

One way or another, ready or not, we are having a baby in two months. Will I be a good mother? Who knows? But I will definitely be a mother. 

A Never-ending Relationship

Last night my husband and I were watching the L-Word. We were laying in bed and I all I could think was that every single character was absolutely insane. I had remembered some of them as insane, but this time around I realize that they are all dramatic and weak and basically have issues. I was also amused by the absurdity of every single kiss on the show. Every kiss they show is basically the same kiss, between different characters and in different settings, but it is a slightly rough, passionate kiss with immediate progression to boob grabbing. Here's the thing. In reality, lesbians have all sorts of different styles of kissing, just like strait-folk, and they don't usually grab each other's boobs in public, especially during their first kiss. But, maybe LA lesbians are different?

Anyways, the first time I watched the L-word I identified with Jenny. Absolutely crazy, barely able to function in the real world, and obsessed with writing. The only thing I was missing was some major guilt over my sexuality. This time around I can relate to her, but I definitely do not identify with her. It makes me realize how much I used to identify with my insanity.

I was an insane young adult. I suppose that many people did not realize how deep that issue went because I was also quiet, shy, submissive, eager to please, and basically likable. Even my friends who knew I would go for days without eating (not because of image issues, but because I couldn't remember that food was important), occasionally cut myself, and stay in bed for days at a time completely frantic in my fears thought it was something cute and manageable. I wasn't mean. I wasn't cruel (although at times I was so self-involved that I hurt others). I have no urge to be dominant and no sadistic tendencies, which made me safe. Unfortunately, this meant that I stayed wrapped up in the identity of insanity for much longer than I needed.

Identifying as insane is more than just having aspects of your life that are different. It is beyond having various treatable conditions. It is when you accept the craziness as the basic unit of your self. It got to the point that in my early 20's I clung desperately to my self-image of insanity. It was all I knew how to be, and if I wasn't insane then I would be nothing.

Luckily, things have changed for me. In my mid-twenties I moved away from the city. I no longer attended huge, hedonist parties on a weekly basis, and I got out into nature where things were quiet. I took a leadership role. Having other people depend on me made it so I couldn't sink into despair and anxiety. I am sure aging helped the process as well, as most people have a balancing out of their hormones around age 25. The combination of factors worked, and I slowly unwrapped myself from the identity of insane. That was perhaps the scariest time in my life. Screaming, pinned to the bed by nightmares, or waking up in the hospital was easy compared to the hard, daily work of telling myself that I was still a person even though I was not a dark, twisted creature.

Now I feel like I more or less have it under control. There are times when I just want to sink and dissipate. There was such power in the release of insanity, but for the most part I am happy being in control. I am beginning to build an identity that is so much more than what many people consider a disease. When I watch these insane characters I no longer identify with them. I understand them. I relate to them, but I am not them.

They say an alcoholic is always an alcoholic- always struggling with their relationship to alcohol. It is like that for me with insanity. The relationship will always be there, but it no longer needs to consume me. I, for one, am happy to no longer identify with characters like Jenny. For starters, she was a crappy writer. Who uses eviscerate in every single piece of writing?