The concept: Women shouldn’t be ashamed of shaving – their upper lips.

I’m sure this has been conceived before, by some hairy Betty, in some by-gone era that had a few faithful Sallys offering timid support, but it looks like Betty tucked that Bic away when the rest of her friends quit inviting her to bowling night.

But this hairy Betty wants to resurrect the movement. Here’s what I’d really love doing – no, let me be more honest than that: here’s what I really love doing:

Shaving my moustache.

There, I’ve said it. I know it’s a HUGE no-no, especially in Marin. The whiskers! The masculine image of it! The financial ease of it! At least wax (at home or in the parlor)! At least do something hi-tech like electrolysis! At least bleach! But whatever you do, don’t shave! And be sure to do whatever you do discreetly and privately. Do not tell your girlfriends and do not let your children or partners see you.

But what are we afraid of? Looking (or feeling) a bit prickly? Being too much like men? Well, guess what? Maybe we are. Maybe even growing moustaches is an inherent link we need to boisterously admit we share with mankind.

Sure, it’s significant that we even demurely admit we grow them. It’s a step forward that women have the option to wax, electrocute, or bleach unwanted facial hair. But what a step it would be if we could just shave.

Think of the progress we could make! Shaving our moustaches – in front of our husbands, our sons, our daughters, our friends -- could do more to equalize men and women than any amount of pants-wearing, bra-burning or corporate ladder climbing since Susan B. Anthony held up her first picket sign.

Of course, the ultimate step forward would be to proudly grow a moustache. No, really -- think of the fashion possibilities. Women could start their own Handlebar Clubs (Google it – you’ll see what I mean), cultivating the coveted “grass grin” or “splay press.” Hell, we could bring new meaning to the “bush puss.” Oh, the possibilities are endless if we could just own our ‘staches.

Unfortunately, though, we still live in an age where telling someone you shave your moustache is akin to telling them you wear a jock strap.

But maybe it’s time one of us untucked our brass balls and took on the challenge. I say: Game on, Shavers unite!

By Anjie “Betty” Reynolds

Labels: Anjie Reynolds, brass balls, jock strap, mothers, moustache, shavers, Susan B. Anthony

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**Giving each child half a mother.
**Shortchanging one almost all of the time.
**Putting the younger in the line of fire of an emotionally immature and unstable boss.
**Breaking up a tug of war over a favorite toy 12 times a day.
**Trying not to laugh when the little one ruins the older one’s elaborate tower of blocks and then looks at me and smiles.
**Consoling the little one when the older one tells him to "Go away!"
**Never having any time for yourself.
**Hearing them giggle every morning in the room they share.
**Satisfaction in knowing that they have each other.
**Being immersed in motherhood. One kid was dabbling.
**Crazy -- what were we thinking?
**Lucky -- we were thinking one of each would be nice.
**A family, one was an accessory.
**Holding them both in my arms and knowing I need nothing else.
**The little one adoring the older one.
**The older one adoring the little one, when it occurs to her.
**Seeing them smile at each other like they never do at anyone else.
**The older one teaching the little one how to play their new game.
**The older one reading to the little one.
**The little one watching every move the older one makes and trying to imitate her.
**The older one muscling in whenever the baby is getting attention and succeeding.
**Ganging up on Mom.
**A second chance to parent without nearly as much anxiety and paranoia.
**Watching the two of them run across the room to give each other a hug.
**Knowing that you love them both equally, but it was having your first that turned on a special light deep down inside you.
**The younger one keeping that flame going, when you think you have nothing more to give.
**Knowing that your second will never receive the massive amount and intense quality of attention that your first did, though you really, really try.
**Finally forgiving your own mother if you were a second child.

By Meeta Arcuri

Labels: Meeta Arcuri, mothers, older child, two kids, younger child

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Growing up, I knew two things: My mother loved her four children. And she hated the ancillary jobs that came with raising us.

My mother detested housework and considered cooking an unpleasant necessity to be gotten over with as quickly as possible.

For Thanksgiving when I was thirteen, she presented a pre-cooked turkey roll she had purchased at the grocery store. My mother’s pride in finding a shortcut to the burden of preparing a holiday feast wasn’t diminished in the least by my father’s complaint that it didn’t look like any turkey he'd ever eaten. She placed the steaming tube of poultry concentrate on the table with a “tah-dah!” next to the cranberry sauce that still showed rings from the can from which it had emerged.

I never heard my mother call herself or any other woman a housewife. When someone else described her that way once her face turned stony. Later she hissed to us: “I am not married to my house.”

I'm not married to my house either. But unlike my mother, I work outside the home so I guess that technically spares me from the unfortunate title that often haunted her. Still, the house has to be cleaned and the meals made. And, like my mother, I detest housework and despise cooking.

It's a distressing dilemma because I want to raise my two sons in a spotless home and I enjoy as well as anyone a tasty, healthy meal. My husband helps, but frankly his standards are a little, well, relaxed.

So I clean. I wipe down the kitchen counters grudgingly and announce in sarcastic joy how much I LOVE spending Saturday mornings scrubbing toilets.

And I cook. But I disappoint even my own low expectations with my heartless creations. There are, after all, just so many crock pot concoctions you can pour over rice.

I wish there was someone to help. Someone beyond the cleaning service lady who visits a few hours a month for whom I have to pick up so much that I might as well do the scrubbing myself.
Someone different. Someone devoted. Someone who really LIKES to clean. Someone who considers cooking -- every meal, three times a day -- an opportunity for creative expression.
Someone like the woman we once assumed the housewife to be.

As far as I can see -- she doesn't exist. She didn't live within my mother and to tell the truth, I never missed that.

My mother was an artist, a painter and photographer. She traveled, too, and cared for orphans alongside Mother Theresa in India and took me on a safari in Kenya. She gave me gifts she might not have to give had she been the housewife of my fantasies. I, too, have gifts my family enjoys.

Still, every now and then, especially when faced with a bathroom floor that needs mopping and the knowledge that even the space behind the toilet has to be scrubbed, the fantasy returns. And I wish someone would give me one more gift.

The gift of my very own housewife.

By Laura-Lynne Powell

Labels: cleaning, four children, Laura-Lynne Powell, mothers, working mother

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I just dropped my sixteen-month-old off at daycare for the first time ever, and it was tricky. Before today, he’s only had one-on-one care, and I’ve only worked part-time from home. I did this so I could sneak peeks at our son, watch him develop, and take pleasure in the joys of his being.

The week before, weird emotions surfaced. Was this my own separation anxiety? Guilt over planning to spend less time with my child instead of more? Am I thrusting him into an environment he’s not prepared to deal with?

But I knew he was ready, and I needed to take this step. I would still keep him home on Thursdays, I rationalized. I would still see him grow and change. He needs to socialize now, and
I need to work a little more -- we both need to grow.

I admitted my emotions to another mom. She said, “After you drop him off at daycare that first day and get back in your car, just go ahead and let yourself cry. It’s okay.”

That day came this morning. I dropped my son off, explaining all his little quirks to the new caregiver. I watched him play with the new toys and get scooped up by the new caregiver, who showed him around and played with him. I heard him laugh. I knew he would be fine. After a half-hour, I kissed him good-bye and left. I heard him cry, but kept walking. On the way home, I stopped off for a coffee and a scone. Quiet time was mine again.

I entered my house, went into my office and turned on my computer. The house was quiet, empty. I would get a lot done now, without the distraction of my son’s squeals of joy or cries of discomfort. I stepped into the kitchen for a snack and found our au pair there, this being her last week.

She asked how our son is. He’s okay, I told her. She asked how I am. Fine, I said. Really fine. In that moment, I started to ball, tears flooding out from I don’t know where.

Obviously, our hearts know something that our minds do not. The bond with our children runs that deep.

By Cindy Bailey

Labels: babies, children, Cindy Bailey, daycare, mothers

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I am writing this blog inspired by a blog I read last week.

A mother was recalling reading a bedtime story to her son.  She then remembered singing a lullaby to him.  She started singing, remembering all the words though evidently several years had passed since she had sung it to him. 

He did not find the words familiar.

We all have memories for different things, one child remembers the music, another the words, one the setting or circumstances, the people assembled, etc. 

My story is about my fourth daughter who remembered. 

I think some felt that Ann should have been a boy, but I always knew she was the perfect fourth child. Coming from an all-girl family, I thought having all girls was normal.  I always sang my children to sleep after reading a bedtime story, as they were so non-critical to the pitch and talent of my singing.

I often made up the words and rambled on until they slept peacefully.  I remember reading somewhere that lullabies often reflected the mother’s feelings or situation. A poor mother might be singing her woes such as in the song, “Poor little lamb what will I do wee you.” Or the rich mother’s chanting, “All the pretty little horses.”

My song for Ann was that of a mother who had three older children and knew that no matter how hard you tried, you could not guarantee your child a lifetime of happiness. Each child must strive to fulfill his or her own needs.

And so I wrote and sang: 

Oh Ann, these arms that hold you tight.

       Protect you but for infants night.

                                                And from these arms soon you must go.

                                                Into the world, where I don’t know.

And I will try to cast a spell.

To keep you safe and warm and well.

But I have no magic on which

time will not tell.

 

For Ann, these arms that hold you tight.

Cannot stop time in its flight.

And from these arms soon you will fly.

Into the worlds arms opened wide.

And since I cannot cast a spell.

I will try to teach you well.

To stand alone and find a home,

in which your heart can peacefully dwell.

Ann asked for this song over the years and soon remembered the words better than I. Then came the day of her informal outdoor wedding and she had found the home where her heart would peacefully dwell. 

At the reception there was an open mike where friends and relatives were invited to speak, congratulate the happy couple or relate how they happened to have met Ann and Paul. Then Ann invited me to sing her song with her.  She had the words in case I’d forgotten, but together we remembered. 

Today she is an OBGYN in Portland and has three children of her own.  I must remember to ask her if she sings our song to them.

By Ruth Scott

Labels: daughters, lullabies, mothers, Ruth Scott

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I’ve had years to decide what kind of Mom I would be. The criteria has been honed and re-honed in my head through the decades but always delivered with great conviction and certainty.
I started my “note to self” list as a child. Ogling the enormous, multi-tiered candy display at the grocery store after hearing Mom’s denial I vowed that my kids would get all of the candy they wanted! (I suspect the same declaration was made about toys, too.)

Now the thought of all that sugar combined with our inherited sweet-tooth would be… cruel! The visual is already interrupted by a deep “no way!” bellowing from my head.

In high school I swore that I would never be one of those moms who leave the house with curlers in her hair! Or an uncool outfit! Or just lookin’ like some frumpy mom.

Well, so far I haven’t donned the curlers, but I would have to claim the term “frumpy” on many occasions. In my defense, I now understand how being in public in an uncool outfit happens when the last time you shopped outside of Gymboree was several fashion fads ago.

The fine art of reason would be my way of disciplining, too. I think this idea arose from watching tired parents deal with kids’ meltdowns at the mall. If my future children understood why they can’t do something, they wouldn’t, right? Just dragging a screaming child outside the store doesn’t give them a chance to explain why they’re screaming.

Laugh aloud all you not-new mommies out there who have since learned that reasoning with a toddler is just plain exasperating and often getting out of the environment gives both parent and child a chance to cool down and recharge.

I swore that I would never yell, never bribe and certainly never spank.

Since then I have.

I find myself yelling to be heard, cajoling with bribes to get behavior turned and have twice spanked on the bottom in exasperation. I’ve failed what mattered most not to do in my envisioned loving home.

I wish I could say otherwise.

But I have used the opportunities to figure out what would actually work, clarify expectations and my reactions with the kids and to try, and try, and try to become the Mom I want to be.

To my three young children I promise that I will always aspire to be MOM.
I hope they will define that as their Mom who:
Is always there for her kids.
Has an open heart and open arms.
Tries to be a good listener.
Provides honest answers to tough questions where possible.
Joins in on the laughter and goofiness – even instigates it.
Gives “I will try” or “I tried” higher value than any accomplishment.
Establishes expectations whenever possible.
Firmly executes “time outs” and our “reward” charts.
Praises the virtue of empathy.
And admits mistakes.

What I still do know is that love, love, love will always be overabundant in our home. That promise to myself for my family has never changed.

By Maija Threlkeld

Labels: Gymboree, Maija Threlkeld, mothers

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Planning for my family’s June vacation to France started months before the trip. 

One of my first considerations was what books I would bring.  Paperbacks for sure.  No lugging of hard backs.  Adam Gopnick’s book of essays, Paris to the Moon, was the first book in my France stack. 

An eye-catching cover in blues and yellows with the name French Dirt caught my eye at Book Passage and that was the second.  I’d avoided Peter Mayle’s classic, A Year in Provence.  I wanted something a bit less known.  But when I found it used for six dollars, I added it as the third and last book for my time in Paris and Provence.

The books called to me from their shelf in my bedroom closet.  I’d run my hand over their firm edges and waiver in my resolve to wait until the plane took off. 

I held my desires in check.

I cracked open Paris to the Moon as soon as I could see clouds from my window seat.  The description on the back cover said the author had moved from New York to Paris with his wife and baby, and the essays were about their family life. 

Well, not really. 

The essays, brilliantly written, were more about French politics and cultural observances.  Little mention of the writer’s family was made.  Not what I was looking for.

I read about half the book before I switched to A Year in Provence.  The writing and nonfiction stories just did not grab me, even as I toured the area in which the book was set. 

I started French Dirt and alternated among the three for the rest of the trip.  I usually read one book at a time, from first page to last.  I did finish French Dirt, by Richard Goodman, about his year of living in Provence and tending his garden.  A pleasant read and my favorite of the three, but not quite enough depth for me.

I’m home now and ambivalent about finishing the other two.

I think the main issue with the books is that I didn’t find myself in them.  I now have my own story to write of an American family’s travels in France.  A grand story of love and adventure that I will hold dear for the rest of my life. 

By Marianne Lonsdale

Labels: Books, By Marianne Lonsdale, mothers, Paris, Provence, writing

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I’m reluctant to admit this, but my sorrow over the horror at the shootings at Virginia Tech keeps forcing these thoughts to the front of my mind. My sadness for the victims is overwhelming and my heart breaks when I think of the families they left behind. I can’t imagine a worse fate than being the mother of a murdered child.

Except, perhaps being the mother of that child’s killer.

I’m not sure it’s okay to admit this, but my sympathy lies with the killer’s mother, too.

It’s hard to imagine what she must be going through. Her child is dead. Though many would say he deserves to be, his parents are nonetheless facing the grief of his unexpected and violent end. And worse – the knowledge that he killed before he died. That he murdered explosively. That he destroyed so many lives and ruined the futures of whole families forever scarred by his one day of deliberate horror. That he put himself in the record books.

As a mother, I can’t help but reel at the pain that shooter brought to so many other mothers. And yet, I’m saddened as well by the knowledge that the one he may have hurt most was his own. A mother who must have known how sick her son was, how unhappy. She must have struggled to find ways to help him and agonized over her failure to do so.

My own family has been touched by mental illness. I know first hand how hard it is to reach someone who is ill and how nearly impossible it is to get them off the streets even when you know their sickness has twisted them into something foreign and horrible.

I can’t help but wonder what would have happened if my siblings and I weren’t able finally to force our mother into a hospital where she received treatment that now controls her symptoms. I can’t help but wonder what would have happened if the young man who became the Virginia Tech shooter had been similarly forced into treatment.

I’m sure his mother wonders that as well. She’ll probably wonder it all of her life. The question – what else could I have done? – will haunt her because she doesn’t stop being a mother just because her child committed a horrible crime.

And for that, the shooter’s mother has my pity.

By Laura-Lynne Powell

Labels: grief, killer, mental illness, mothers, victims, Virginia Tech

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My 4-year-old announced for at least the tenth time as we drove to the airport that she WOULD be taking her prized purple roller suitcase on the plane with her. The idea had moved to the top of her list of cool things to do ever since our last flight. It was then that she realized some passengers actually brought their luggage on the plane with them -- and she’d been missing out.

“We’ll see, honey,” I muttered under my breath. Not on your life sister, I thought.

I’m proud of her independent streak. But from past experience I know that in her hands -- in a busy airport -- the little purple suitcase can be a lethal weapon. I’ve seen terror on the faces of other travelers as they’ve narrowly escaped having their toes pulverized or knees bashed by this deadly duo as it steamrolls its way from curb to check-in counter.

“Okay, honey -- give the lady your case,” I instructed her when it was our turn to check in.

“NO! I’m taking it on the plane!”

“No, you’re not,” I said as the woman behind the counter eyed me and my tiny foe skeptically.

Minutes passed as we wrestled with the suitcase. My daughter’s protests grew louder. The line behind us grew longer. It was time to pull out the big guns.

“Honey, if you give the lady your suitcase, we’ll get jelly beans,” I cajoled, digging deep into my bribery arsenal.

Surely the promise of a favorite treat -- before breakfast -- would do the trick.

She just glared.

Peering over my shoulder, I saw a sea of hostile faces staring back at me. The woman behind the counter looked equally irritated. It was time for this showdown to end. And I knew I wouldn’t be the victor.

Trust me -- I don’t always cave in to my daughter’s demands. As a mom, though, I’ve found that living by the mantra “choose your battles” is sometimes necessary to preserve my sanity.

“You are NOT getting jelly beans,” I hissed as we walked away.

“But I want something UNHEALTHY!”

She didn’t get the jelly beans. But she did have an ear-to-ear grin as she lugged that suitcase onto the plane.

By Dorothy O’Donnell

Labels: children, luggage, mothers, vacations

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