Rabble Rousers

As part of the Celebrate Women blogging celebration, I'm adding my voice to the mix with today's theme, Strong Women and Feminism.

My life as a feminist was carved out for me even before I was in utero. I have strong rabble-rousing, foul-mouthed, revolutionistas in my history. My great-grandmother led the Pennsylvania parent's association for years and talked openly about desegregating schools long before that was a hot button issue. She stormed the capital once to demand better fireworks polices for Fourth of July celebrations because a young African American child had been blinded by an uncontrolled pyrotechnique. My grandmother attended college in the late 1920s and went on to write for newspapers at a time when women just weren't doing those things.

My mother offended her own father, first by being born a girl and then going on to college, to teach, and then to work in the big city while my dad did afterschool duty at home. My grandfather was so mad that my mother was not a boy that he called her Mike, instead of her name, Helen. She is, to this day, Aunt Mike, to my cousins. That's not always easy to explain.

Furthermore, my own father acted as homemaker for a much of my childhood. He taught me to perfectly steam broccoli, how to cook rice, trim the chicken, start the crockpot and the gas grill. Mom got home after he did; he made dinner most nights. He also was the expert floor cleaner. Mom did other jobs, like cutting the grass. My parents gave all jobs to all children. Boys and girls cut the grass, took out the trash, washed the car, checked the oil, unloaded the dishwasher.

I attended a college for women. On the first day of the first year, the indoctrination began; we were challenged daily to use our words precisely. I was no longer a girl. They referred to us as women. The transition still strikes me as funny; one day I'm a girl and the next a woman. (Not a lady. I don't want to be a lady. I'll tell you about that some other day.)

In fact, from all of these people I learned what a real feminist is. The world and I might have varying ideas of what a feminist is. And because I'm a *true* feminist, I'm totally cool with that. Being a feminist is not limited to being female. My dad was just my first example of this. My husband is also a great forward thinking man (even though I think it's stupid that I have to say he's forward thinking when in reality he's just him, with smarts). When he was ready to ask me to marry him, my husband did not ask my father for my hand. My dad had long ago told me that I am no one's property and I was not his to give. My husband understood this, both about my dad and me.

When we married, my father did not give me away. Instead, my parents both gave our union their blessing. I know that may seem semantic, a mere nod to untraditional, but it was important to me; I wanted to continue to establish my wholeness as a person.

Feminists believe that women are people. A feminist understands that for some women, staying at home with babies is imperative, while for others, returning to work holds the same import. A feminist decides for herself if she doesn't want babies at all. A feminist is a person who knows what she wants, knows how to get it, and will not compromise her character or other's to obtain it. A feminist can be strong, smart, emotive, funny, complex. Feminists exist as whole people whether in a significant relationship or not. A feminist understands that women have brains to make their own choices, about everything from which college to attend, to whom to marry and when, to when and how they give birth.

To me a feminist embraces choice. All choice. The right of every person to make his or her own choices. Of course, a wise person makes use of every resource available to her and will not make those decisions lightly or in a vacuum. I hope that I have even an ounce of my ancestor's rabble-rousing blood in me.

Love Day Diatribe

Maybe today isn't the best day for me to write this post. I woke up with a raging sinus headache that has literally left me speechless. If you know me personally, this is the kiss of death; I sure like to talk. My precious children are on a scheduled break from school despite having had only 3 full days of school so far THIS MONTH. And we're all about to go bonkers. In other words, I didn't just wake up on the wrong side of the bed. I dug a hole in the mattress and started growing roots.

I opened the dreaded facebook page to a smattering of Happy Valentine's Day wishes. Twitter was rife with the same well meaning drivel. All I could do was sneer. Bah! A pox on all these red hearts and "one of kind" corporately manufactured "sentimental" gold charms. Gag me.

To be clear, I have no problem with people expressing their love for one another. Fantastic. My problem with Valentine's Day stems from an early predilection for romance that has since been replaced with a deep and abiding love for myself and the people in my life.

Sure, sure. Romance is amazing. Who doesn't love the scene in "Pride and Prejudice" where Mr. Darcy confesses, clumsily, that the opinionated Miss Bennett has "bewitched [him]. Body and soul." Sigh. Sure, I loved the early days dating my now-husband of nearly 16 years. We couldn't wait to talk on the phone (people used to do that), we would pedal bikes through Pittsburgh snow storms just to be together. Delightful days, all. And yet, there is something so transient about those days. While now I can see, almost touch, something so adhesive about having come through the last 16 years together. And more.

But my abhorrence for Valentine's Day is more than just being content in my marriage. I can't help it; I'm disgusted with a culture that elevates couples and relegates singles to the sad little corner with their sad little single selves. It is not unlike the grotesque ideals of beauty women confront every day: thinner waists, bigger boobs, and a man on your arm. There is always someone telling us we are not good enough, pretty enough, or worth enough. The suggestion is that you're loser if you are alone today. And I will not abide that.

So, it comes to this. Women and men have value because they are inbued with it. Not because they've earned it. Second, people are of value, whether single, married, dating, divorcing, etc. Just simple fact. Finally, I love my husband every single day. I know he loves me every single day. I don't need card companies and jewelry makers to mandate my love.

I know some of you love this day and that's great. I will even smile if you tell me to have a nice Valentine's Day. As much as you can celebrate it, I can choose not to. So there.

I told you I was in a snit.

Mixed Emotions

You guys. You know it's Super Bowl Week, right? You know that all my favorite sports talkers (Dan Patrick and the Danettes) are in Dallas talking up the celebrities, attending Media Day, getting ready for the big game. You better know it. You know I bleed black and gold, just like all my fellow yinzers who are goin' dahntahn to watch the game and celebrate after the win, n'at.

As a kid, the paper printed a centerfold caricature of one Steelers player each Sunday. My brother and sister and I would carefully plaster this inimitable artwork to the walls of the staircase leading to our basement. By the end of the season, the stairwell was our own holy shrine to the Steel Curtain, our very own Pittsburgh-only Hall of Fame. Franco Harris, Rocky Bleier, Terry Bradshaw, Jack Lambert...we had them all. Now I've got Terrible Towels strewn about my house as if it's a known decorating scheme much praised in the world of design. My car scurries through town emblazoned with Steelers statements. You get the point. I'm tried and true.

This year I've been sitting on a very uncomfortable fence, stemming from allegations made against Steelers starting QB Ben Roethlisberger. His alleged sexual assault and/or rape, on more than one occasion, does not sit well with this feminist mother rabble-rousing Steelers fan. How can I stand behind a team that allows a suspected predator act as their strong armed savior? How does that square with what I want to teach my children about respecting oneself, that no always means no, that there is never a reason for such actions. How can I cheer when, by his height and strength and footwork, scrambles out of the pocket and finds my friend Heath Miller or Hines Ward downfield for a huge gain to win the game?

I'm torn between rooting for my team and throwing in the Terrible Towel in disgust. Allegations like these are hard to prove and even harder to talk about because of the celebrity status and money involved. It is easy to believe both sides of this story: that Roethlisberger is a total pig who needs to serve some time, or that these are women looking for easy paydays. These types of things boil down to he said/she said and carry the assumption of guilt for all involved. Public sports pundits want to wag fingers, cultural leaders want to advocate for tougher victim's rights laws. Spectators just want the game to go on.

In listening to sports radio, I've been disgusted at the willingness of men and women fans. We are all complicit, willing to keep watching the sport, to keep blaming the woman, proclaiming that "boys will be boys." All because we're uncomfortable talking about it.

But we need to talk about it. In light of recent proposed legislation to redefine rape, in light of a culture that's growing increasingly desensitized to aggressive sexuality, in light of our responsibility as adults, spectators, humans, to demand better treatment of our fellow humans. I applaud Terry Bradshaw for excoriating Roethlisberger and calling him to task for his inappropriate, possibly illegal, behavior. And if it's true, that Roethlisberger is indeed a changed man, when he gives praise to God on the winner's dias, I hope it's true.

But don't tell me you're a changed man. Show me.

Bring It

Fifty-six days until I turn forty. Can I get a woot woot?

I am not dreading this turn of events. I mean, it is inevitable, after all, right? The never ending ticking tocking sliding of the clock, thrusting us forward on our own little patch of earth. In fact, I say, bring it. Forty is the new black.

I have a friend who plans to get her first, maybe her only, tattoo when she turns forty. She's planning forty days of adventure leading up to it, trying something new every day until her fortieth. Love this idea. It banishes the black balloons and fake tombstones. It says "talk to the hand" to the adult diaper givers. It denies the denture cream. It says, "Yeah? So?"

Last year, when the eye doctor ever so gently reminded me that I was holding on to my thirties by a thread (yes, he so did), I got a little snippety. C'mon, dude. Like I don't know how old I am. And then, over the holidays, my husband said something that completely shocked me. I KNOW how old my parents are, and I am fully aware of what the forward march of time does to us as we march forward with it. But he said, "They're almost 70," referring to my parents. My mouth gaped. I about fell out of my chair.

Thinking about a number in the mid sixties is entirely different from "almost 70" because 70 is, like, a really big number. It takes a lot of years to get to 70 (about 70 if you want to put a fine point on it). If my parents are almost 70, well, hell. That means I'm, like, an adult! (Because even talking about them, it's totally about me.) If I'm an adult, well then I guess I better get some stuff sorted out.

And I am. Forget new year's resolutions. I've got daily resolutions, just like my friend who's having an adventure a day to celebrate.

I will no longer attempt to fit into other people's ideas of who I am.
I will stop whispering jokes to my husband and let him say them out loud.
I just might get me that tattoo I've always wanted.
I'm running a half marathon, so there!
I will plan a trip that is just me and my besties. On a beach.
I will stand confident and proud of what is past and square my shoulders to what's coming.

So, forty, bring it. I'm an adult, after all. I can take what you throw at me.*

*This is in no way intended as a dare, forty. Please, still feel free to be kind and to not throw too much at me. Okay? Thanks.

Resolving to Rant

After being out of town for ten days, our cupboards were bare. I wrote out the mother of all grocery lists and trudged off to the store. I wandered about, picking and choosing and finally finished this hated chore. Then I shoved my laden cart to the check out whereupon I was confronted with skinny models with their gaunt faces and bony chests. Where I saw "normal" sized women heralding the good news of how they dropped hundreds of pounds, posing gleefully with their super-sized pants beside them. I read the headlines. They were all the same, just spread across ten or so different titles, a loud cacophony of disapproval and shame.

"Get Skinny Now" yelled one.

"Get Skinny Fast" chastised another.

"How to tone your Tummy in 4 days" or whatever, barked yet another. They blended together.

I stood there, flummoxed, mad and really, just tired of the crap.

For one fleeting moment the huge words bombarded my self-esteem. I muttered to myself, "Well, but, it was just Christmas. I ate okay, and I run, and I'm busy and and and...." Then my woman-roar rose up strong in me and I mustered the courage to roll my eyes, instead of throwing every single one of them into my cart. I might have grabbed a candy bar just to thumb my nose in their general direction, if my cart weren't already so full.

I'm not saying, you know, don't lose weight or whatever. Do what you want. But don't do it because the lastest starlet has a new "cleanse" to push at you. Don't do it because you have that wedding coming up, or that reunion, or that...whatever. Do it because you want to.

But more than that. Don't let some stranger in a cold cubicle photoshopping images of deathly skinny girls be the arbiter of health and beauty for you. Stand back and assess who you are. You are more than a number on the scale, more than the sum of calories you put in your face everyday. You are gorgeous and you are amazing and you are you.

A friend of mine is going on a cruise and she wanted to lose some weight before she left. She did lose some weight and she looks amazing. Thing is, she looked amazing already. She looked amazing because she is amazing. She does more in one day than most of us could ever hope to manage. Her kids are awesome, her husband loves her, she always looks hip and pulled together. Is there really any more to life than that?

I'm not a huge fan of resolutions for a lot of reasons, and I can tell you about that another time. I do, however, realize that many people try to adopt change in the new year. New and good habits are to be encouraged. I understand a new year can mean a new job or lifestyle or a clean slate upon which to scrawl and dance your vivid next chapter. Go for it. Go big and go strong and go bold. Just... do it because it's you. Not because some stupid magazine disapproves of you. Because you are awesome. Just the way you are.

Can You Do Hard Things?

When I started working as a doula, 9 years ago, I had a whole duffel bag of goodies I took with me to labors. As I grew in security, ability and confidence, I found I needed less and less. Two weeks ago, I attended a birth and took in nothing with me but a piece of paper and a cup of coffee. All I really needed were my hands and my voice. It helps that I have clients who are educated and confident about their birth choices. But even the most confident, educated, determined women face a moment or two of doubt during labor.

In my work as a doula, I regularly try to convince women that they are capable of hard things. I'm not just talking about unmedicated birth. I believe that if we are serious about women making choices, then it must apply to all aspects of pregnancy and labor. (For that matter, it applies to where and how women choose to work, for those women who have the luxury of choice in the matter). From when and how conceived to where and how delivered. But this is not about how you decide to give birth.

Sometimes, a hard thing is asking the doctor a question that might sound stupid. For others, it's coming to grips with a loss of modesty during labor. For some, it's overcoming a negative birth experience. Some women have to face birth without a partner or an unexpected, unfortunate birth outcome. Most of the time, though, the hard thing is finding that place in themselves to conquer the one hard part of labor that knocks them off the confidence horse.

It's that little voice that says, "I can't." It's just the barest hint of a voice, but it seems like the echo of planets crashing against one another as it bounces through a brain. I've written about the voice of fear before, but I don't mean that one. I mean the voice of discouragement that tries to take your educated choices and slam them to the ground. Sometimes we can swat it away like a fly. Sometimes that fly grows into a swarm.

When my clients say, "I can't" (and they almost all say something like that at one point), here is what I say: "You can do it. I know that because you ARE doing it. And you will continue to do it."

When I hear that voice in my own head, telling me I can't do something, all it does is flick a switch of action. I say right back to it: "Oh, yeah? Watch me."

You can do hard things.

Thinking through the list of amazing women I know, here is a mere sampling of the hard things they have done, just in the past few months:
survived an ugly divorce, raised children alone with very little resources, ended unhealthy relationships, kicked the crap out of cancer, let go of children in an effort to help them, run marathons, confronted depression, put loved ones in nursing care, worked more than two jobs simultaneously, quit jobs to start businesses, started running, Lived with an unemployed spouse, tried IVF, with varied success, been in chemo, or been through chemo with children, watched family members die.

Can you do hard things? Heck yeah. You ARE doing them—right now. What is the hard thing you face? How do you handle the voice of discouragement? What does the voice of reason sound like to you?

How you Thinking?

Ever feel like you don't belong?

I have.

The day before the Tulsa Run I had to pick up my race packet. I drove to OU Tulsa and entered the "Fitness Fair." The name alone gave me a mild panic attack: "will they let me in? I'm not wearing my fitness clothes, I don't have a cute ponytail or blonde highlights. Someone will know I'm an impostor. But, I have to get that packet if I want my official time." I really want my official time. (Pretty good, by the way.)

If I thought the name of the fair was bad, inside was waiting a veritable gauntlet of gorgeous: someone cloned Denise Austin, dressed the many of her all up in running gear and made a human tunnel for me to run through. I did not belong here. My mouth went dry. My throat closed up. I looked about anxiously, trying to pretend like I was totally supposed to be here and I know what I'm doing, okay? I found the letter where my packet would be and, because my name has many letters that are unpronounced, the helpful fitness guy couldn't find my name. It took him forever. I started to sweat. "Oh, crap. They can't find it. I didn't register right. They know I can't finish the race so they pulled my name. Someone alerted them. Would it be bad if I started crying, right here, right now?" By now, I was so upset I almost didn't want to get in line for my t-shirt.

But I wanted that t-shirt, because, I told myself, if by some act of God I was able to cross the finish line, I planned to wear that t-shirt to every single public event I could get myself invited to. I did get my t-shirt (in a size smaller, thankyouverymuch), I booked it out there to find a glass of water and the privacy of my car.

That's when the "I-don't-belong-heres" kicked into overdrive. I started thinking about the race the next day. If there were Denise Austins all over the "Fitness Fair," what in the world would I find at the starting line? I swallowed hard and tried to calm my racing heart.

And here's what I did. I told myself the facts. I trained for this race. I trained well and hard. I ran that distance and farther and did not die from it. I knew a good pace. I knew how I would find it. And I told myself the biggest truth: I can do this. I needed just a bit more, though, so I talked to my runner friends, who repeated faithfully back to me what I'd already told myself. I called my husband who repeated faithfully, lovingly back to me what I'd already told myself. I looked at the cloud of witnesses: I'm not crazy. People I love and people I trust and people who know things think I can do this. Time to face the truth. I can do this. I will do this. I did do this.

It creeps up on us like a ghost, whispers its ugly lies in our ears and we swallow the whole thing in one gulp, choking it down like bad medicine when it's really poison. "You don't belong here," it hisses. "You might be running, but you're not a real runner." Quietly, the sound winds into our heads and we think, "I'm kind of sucking it up here today. I can't do it. I should stop.It says all the things the wicked witch would tell you.

But guess what? The wicked witch was undone with a bucket of water. Just a little bit of H2O and she melted away. Know what else? The wicked witch is fiction! Doesn't exist. Never did, never will. I've come to think of those lies the same way, because really, that's what they are. Lies are fictions that keep us from trying the challenges we want to face, from stepping up to something new, from embracing the uniqueness we each have.

I shook my head. I refused to listen to the voice that said "But, honey," so sweetly and earestly, "honey, it's nine miles. That's craziness." I spoke back to that lie and told it to bug off. Because yes, nine miles is far, it ain't no big thang. "But," I said, "I've run that distance before and farther. I can do it again.You think I can't run nine miles? Watch me." And I did. I ran the entire race, without music, in a crowd of fat, skinny, ugly, pretty, tall, short, weird, weirder, slightly less weird people who all had to talk themselves into that challenge. Maybe it was easier for some. But we all got our booties out of bed, refused to listen to that lie and ran our race. I changed my thinking. Finishing that race would not be by an act of God (although He did run with me; we had a great time). It would be the result of training.

It's not easy, especially if you're used to obeying the voice, trusting the lie. It can feel as if the world is askew, or even just wrong or arrogant to say, "I can do this one thing, and well." When I first started running, I would say I "run" using air quotes, "I'm not a runner." So people would know I'm not high on my own ability. Some people would say, "I'm impressed" and I would want to shun that, to reject it. Oh, how times have changed. You wanna be impressed with me? You go right ahead, because the truth is, I'm impressed with me. I set my eyes on a challenge and I completed it. I rock.

I no longer choose to believe the lie. In fact, I reject everything that says that I'm not good enough, not smart enough, not thin enough, not whatever enough. I am me. I do what I do. And that is what is required of me. No one is asking me to be anything other than what I am. Any restrictions on me I've either placed there myself, or allowed them to be placed on me.

Know what else? I'm as impressed with myself as I am impressed by the women around me. You all are amazing bunch. You run businesses and homes. You build companies, you build children, you create great art. You run, you walk, you listen, you cheer. You take photos, you write, you climb mountians, you wipe dirty bums and change yet another diaper. You are you and you do what you do. I want you to be as impressed with your self as you are with someone else. Look in that mirror and be your own Jack Handy.

How? At first you may not believe yourself when you say, "Look at me! I'm so awesome." You might even giggle, looking around to see if you were overheard. You may roll your eyes. "This is stupid." Might be stupid, but feels good, doesn't it? There is no rule that says valuing yourself equals arrogance or pride. But, it does equal a lesson for our daughters and sons and a way to live in the world as we were created. Do it. Tell yourself you're awesome. Find one awesome thing about you. Not about what you do, but about you.

Again, I'm not saying talk yourself into running nine miles, or summiting Everest. I'm just saying say no to the lie and believe the truth. You may not know the truth, or you disregarded it for so long you have to dig for it. Then dig for it. You can do hard things. You can do big things, amazing things, astounding things.

When did it become okay for us to demure, to demean, to devalue ourselves? I don't know, but I've decided it's not okay for me and it's not okay for my daughters (or my son). Who's with me?

The WHYs

I have a friend who trained for and finished a half marathon. Awesome, right? But when I hear her talk about it, she uses terms like "that stupid half marathon," and "I hate long run days."

When I started posting my runs to facebook, friends asked if I was training for something. Nope. (Remember, keeping the dog poo at bay.) I hated it. HATED IT. It hurt. It was hard. It was boring. I couldn't find the right music. It was too early. It took forever. I couldn't see any results (except for less dog poo in the house). I'm very good at complaining and justifying. But the power of the poo was strong, and I had to keep running. I was like my half marathon friend.

Over time, the power of the poo paled in comparison to what I had discovered. I discovered that I loved feeling like a total rock star at how many miles I'd logged. I smiled to hear my kids tell their friends how far their mom can run. I blushed to read so many nice comments from my completely cool friends. Rejoiced that my running clothes were TOO BIG! (Can I get a woot woot?) What I found was that my reason for running had changed.

Don't misunderstand. It was more than the weight, more than impressing my kids, more than getting my ego stroked. My reason had morphed from an external impetus (poo) to an internal one.

That's a long way of asking, "what are your reasons for running (or doing the thing you are doing)?" I asked my half-marathon-hating-friend to define hers. I don't know if she did but it occurred to me that maybe her reasons were like mine, outwardly impressed upon her.

When I act at the prompting of others, I can do the job, but I can't sustain motivation for it. I might lose the desire (if I ever had it) to complete it well. I could not keep running to prevent the poo because there would be a day when picking it up would be more appealing than running in the rain or cold.

When I act for a reason that I can firmly stand behind come rain, cold or fatigue, then I can get my running clothes on and get out the door like I'm headed to a party.

But here's the thing. Your reason will be different from mine. That's okay. You may start like I did, hating every single minute of it. That's okay. You may not really want to define it. That's okay, too. You may start with one and move on to another. Again, it's okay.

What I've learned is that when you have a reason that is strictly and solely yours, you will act with abandon and joy. You will own the track, or the class, or the whatever. You will be a total rock star.

A word of caution: Don't think it has to be a pretty reason, an altruistic reason, a glamorous reason. It just has to be yours and you have to believe it. It can even be as simple as "I want to."

Find your why, and write it down. Somewhere. Anywhere. You can tell it to someone if you want, but you don't have to. Just find it and know it.

Next time I'll tell you why I refuse to say the word, "should."

More Webby Goodness

In college I heard a speaker talk about the differences in how males and females communicate. While I tend to shy away from generalizations, this one struck me so deeply as gospel truth that it's stuck with me all these post college years.

The speaker said that men tend to think linearly. That B follows A and C comes after that. Their points line up in a logical succession. If a man is explaining how to fix a bike tire, he will tell you, from beginning to end, how to fix that tire.

She then said that women tend to think and communicate in a way that resembles a spider web. A spider web takes time to construct and follows a pattern that is decidedly not linear. A rough outline forms and then the web gets structure from supporting strands. In other words, if a woman were to explain how to fix a bike tire, she might start with the bike tire, but may branch off to tell you about her first bike, what color it was. You might hear why the bike was that color and how that color was her favorite from the ages six to twelve but not after that. You will, in the end, hear about how to fix the tire, but you might learn more than that.

Which is why I love running with my friend Ellen. (See what I did there? A spider web moment). We run together once a week; a highlight of the week for me. It's not about the run. It's about the talking. Our conversations have a flow to them that resembles the spider web pattern above. An issue we discussed last week weaves itself into this week's talk. There's no need for explanation. I can say, "And you know what else?" And Ellen will know exactly where it's coming from and often where it's going.

Sometimes, we might not even finish the discussion about how fifth grade math is going for our kids when we've moved on to the new restaurant or car repairs or why we like shoes that have white laces. It's okay. We'll get back to it. Eventually.

I find this true at Thursday coffees, though I haven't been in a while. A group of super cool, hip moms gathers at a local cafe every Thursday. The group is fluid, open and friendly. Depending on when I arrive, there might be three or fifteen women huddled around three or four tables, bubbling over with coffee and food and sometimes projects. If I sit still and watch, I see the same thing happening here. Smaller groups discuss a topic, someone from across the table jumps in to add a relevant bit and soon the entire table is discussing exchange students. Then a side issue arises and the smaller groups huddle off again. It tumbles along like a girl in a long dress rolling down a hillside. Pure joy.

Our minds and voices cause a stir in the air, create an aura of intellectual activity. We are seeking the right words to explain our feelings, ideas, thoughts, and giving the space to think out loud, challenge assumptions, arrive at new conclusions. Sometimes I don't know I'm worried or angry about something until it comes up in a free-flowing, thought-and-speech -for-all.

Working from home as I do, I tend to isolate myself. I get comfortable writing and sewing in my little spaces. But when I do venture out for these visits, I find myself renewed, excited, full. I don't know if all women are like this, and I don't know if all women need this kind of interaction.

But I need my spider web moments.

Dads, Daughters and Words

Our family went hiking at the Wichita Mountains Wildlife Refuge over Spring Break. With temperatures in the high 80s and three well rested kiddos, we had a fantastic time. I learned something about each of my children. Abby loves to climb and is so busy in her head that she doesn't notice any of the dangers. This should not surprise me as she has always been single minded.

Bronwyn did not, did not, did not like the heights and needed lots of encouragement but she did it and she's proud of herself. As are we.

Elliot is a maniac on the rocks. That boy jumped from rock to rock like a billy goat. He was sure-footed and confident and fast. He said "cherries," if he got nervous and then promptly returned to jumping like a super hero through the saddle of rocks between two mountains.

On our second day we hiked a short distance to the forty foot hole so we could watch them jump into the very cold water in the ravine. There they collected snails and started a snail zoo, tried splashing, ate apples and enjoyed themselves to the fullest.

Another family hiked to the same location, a dad and his son and daughter. The son was about 13 and also confident, maybe overly so. He made me start a few times as I watched him clamber down the side of the rocky gulch rather too quickly. I was sure we were going to be calling EMS. I wondered briefly how that would be possible. The daughter stayed behind to snap photos of his exploits as he descended and ascended. Then she made it down. Dad came along behind slowly and without confidence. He made me nervous too, for other reasons.

When we were all standing at the bottom, watching the kids, he told us his son usually gets hurt when they hike. (Big suprise.) He said his knees are bad so he, "hikes like a girl." Instant hackles.

I had to ask him what he meant by that. He said that meant he hiked like me. He could only hope! At least I could do it upright. I dislike that metaphor as it is usually used as an insult. Hiking, or running, or throwing like a girl usually means one sucks at it. I was offended but he had another little nugget of misogyny for us.

This dad then said, "We bring his sister along so she can take pictures."

Oh, right, because clearly the daughter can't climb as well or be smart enough to observe her surroundings or enjoy herself. She was an afterthought. I politely walked away while hubby talked to him some more about where to go. I was furious.

Now, in all likelihood, he didn't really mean what he said. He meant his knees are bad so he's not as able as he used to be. He meant, his son enjoys this more than his daughter. My husband and I talked about this for a while. It got me thinking about how we talk to our girls.

But more it made me wonder about that little girl. She was probably 12 and heard her dad use her as a prop, a cast off, an afterthought. I wondered what she heard when he said that. Did she hear, "She is good at taking pictures." or did she hear, "He doesn't really want me here."

Of course, I don't know but it was a reminder that our words matter and our words have a life of their own once they wisp from our lips.

Sisters: Please

The book club I attend just finished our discussion of Nancy Horan's Loving Frank. The book is a fictionalized account of the love affair between married Mehmah Cheney and Frank Lloyd Wright, the famous architect. Roughly 10 women gathered to discuss the book and its tragic ending.

Set in the early 20th century, it focuses on the intensely difficult choices a married mother faced when thinking of leaving her marriage and children to pursue this affair. While I in no way sympathize with adultery, I was left feeling that its much deeper than black and white. In fact, I felt that this woman faced the same choices and struggles women are still facing today.

Back then, women were overtly objectified; they grew up, maybe went to school, married, had kids and made a home. That was it. Maybe they volunteered, maybe they had quaint artistic hobbies, but that was it, especially for women of a certain class. Working was discouraged, even frowned upon.

I find today's objectification much more subtle. The fact that companies still advertise car parts to men and cleaning products to women gets my panties in a bunch. My daughter, who happens to love spiders, dinosaurs and dragons, often laments the lack of t-shirts with those things on them for girls. (We buy for her in the "boys" department if we have to.) Barbie, the symbol of all that is traditionally (and distorted) feminine just celebrated 50 years.

And women still ask themselves if they are making the right choices. Should I marry? Should I have kids? When I have kids, do I stay at home, giving up all I have worked for to stay home with them, or do I return to work outside the home? Which is better?

Many people have pontificated on this issue and they all claim to be experts. Books are written, studies are done, children are questioned, surveys are circulated. But just like Mehmah Cheney, is it really that easy? Is there a one size fits all answer for how we live our lives.

Clearly not; just look around. The variety available to women is staggering. So why don't women give each other and themselves the right to make their own choices. The most divisive thing we can do is fail to support each other. (This starts in middle school, but that's for another day.) When I hear a mom criticize another mom for her life choices I feel angry. What right do I have to dictate how another person should live her life?

As I have aged, my views on this and many other things have altered, which I suppose indicates growth. I used to think it was easy; you just have your kids and give them all. Wow is that hard. On the other hand, my sister returned to work shortly after her first was born. Wow is that hard.

You see? We are all doing hard work. We are all trying to make the best choices for our families. We simply have to get to the place where we are okay with difference. So Mehmah Cheney, in the book anyway, had to decide between a more artistic life outside of her marriage and with a married man and giving up herself to stay with her husband and children. Could she have lived a fulfilling life within her marriage? I don't know. And was leaving her husband really the best alternative? Was what she gained worth what she surrendered?

It was the public animosity that staggered her; and it is what tears us down still. We don't need so called experts to tell us what our kids need, if we are paying attention to them. We don't need some stranger to tell us that one choice is better than another. What we do need, though, is a community of women willing to accept all the different choices we can make in life.

Then we can teach our daughters, and our sons, that women can buy car parts and men can clean toilets, we can show them that the sky is the limit, we can teach them that there is no such thing as man's work and women's work. Isn't that they kind of world you want your kids to inherit?

This is gonna be so much fun

I am a genius. Thank you.

You know, I love talking to other women about the work they do inside their homes and out. If it were at all possible, I would like to have every job for at least a day. There are some fascinating and talented women in my life.

I am developing a weekly interview series with some of the great crafters and artists I have met in Tulsa. Next week we'll start with my friend Amy Poss of "The Possibilities" (cute, eh?). She is a Tulsa jewelry designer and metal artist. Her work is fantastic. You can view her shop at etsy.

Please tune in and also make suggestions. I know you're out there, awesome ladies and cool people.