Sunday, December 17, 2006
New Readers
Linda Pruitt here to speak straight to some of you new readers who may be wondering how to become a contributor! If you would like to submit your writing to our blog contact me at mamasays942@hotmail.com and I will send you the invite. I look forward to hearing from all of you!
Saturday, December 02, 2006
Growing up
My daughter has exquisite diction. Always verbally precocious she is on the fast track to being a masterful linguist. She is already a really strong reader and sharp speller...But even at four and a half there is one word she doesn't pronounce correctly and it is consistently one of my most delicious mama moments to listen to her say this word. It is the morning meal. It is what she calls "brek-fixt". In conversation the other day however she did indeed say with perfect composure "breakfast". A little something burst in my heart. What? What did she say?
I looked at her with a crumbly weepy feeling taking over. And then "brek-fixt" was back. I did not imagine it. She did say it correctly just once but once was enough.
Oh, brek-fixt, please don't go away.....
I looked at her with a crumbly weepy feeling taking over. And then "brek-fixt" was back. I did not imagine it. She did say it correctly just once but once was enough.
Oh, brek-fixt, please don't go away.....
Monday, November 27, 2006
Writing and Motherhood by Annie Downey
Writing & Motherhood
by Annie Downey
All rights reserved, Annie Downey, 2006
I remember the first thing I ever wrote about being a mother. I was eighteen years old, my daughter, Iris, was eight months old. We had a tiny one bedroom apartment in downtown Burlington. I had just begun my first semester at college and had signed up for a creative writing class. Our first bit of homework was one of those basic “How to ___” writing assignments. Classmates shared their ideas aloud—one hip-dressed student said she was going to write about how to make an Orgasm (like the drink!)—another student chirped up and said that he was going to write about how to get a hot guy in the sack. Everyone laughed. I remember being panicked about what I would write about.
My professor said to me, “Write about what you know.”
I went and picked up my daughter at the college daycare. As I pushed her stroller up the street to our apartment, I thought about how boring and dull my life would seem to my college classmates. At the same time I didn’t want their lives of endless partying and fast relationships. I liked being a mother, I liked the safety of it, and, I knew I was good at it. I liked the weight of my daughter on my hip, I liked nursing her, I liked folding her little baby clothes at the laundry mat, I liked mashing up food for her, and I loved giving her a bath, changing her diaper, and reading her stories. I enjoyed it.
After I put my daughter, Iris, to bed that night, I sat down to write. The words
flew out of me. It was something I hadn’t felt in a long time—me—alone—just me. And I
was O.K.. Typically, because I couldn’t stand the loneliness of the night, I would leave
most of the lights on in the apartment and go to bed along with Iris. But that night, while
writing my assignment, I felt cozy and good. I didn’t feel alone. I had words for company. When I finished the rough draft, I turned off the lights in the apartment and went to sleep.
When the next class rolled around and I shared “How to Change a Poopy Diaper”, the class loved it, and thought it was hilarious. It was so exhilarating to be both seen and heard by a room full of people. By incorporating my mothering experience with my writing—my first writing class became a place for me to share my stories of single motherhood which lessened my own feelings of isolation and I made me a happier mother, which, in turn, benefited my daughter. By creating a venue in which to share my joy of my daughter with other people (something I had always imagined married couples shared), I was able to also claim my own identity as a writer without feeling I was leaving my daughter, Iris, behind. At that time, I felt I couldn’t do anything that somehow didn’t include her without feeling tremendous anxiety and guilt. If I wrote “our” story, then those feelings wouldn’t tug at me— extinguishing the page—and thus extinguishing this new found freedom to become what I wanted outside of motherhood.
So, I began to write…I wrote everyday in my journal, I wrote poems, I wrote short stories, and I wrote essays. I wrote through a rocky relationship, another baby, and a break-up. I wrote through graduation from college, court processes, my mother’s illness, and a new marriage that has had its ups and downs. Writing has been my companion— my one other relationship— besides the relationship I have with my children— that has remained consistent and unwavering. I am always loyal to it.
Now that my children are older (my daughter now in her senior year at high school and my son in middle school) and are developing their own amazing identities—beginning to get a sense of their own crazy ideals and dreams—their own story—it is easier for me to allow them to do just that. It is easier to be at peace with them flying in and out of this little colorful nest of mine because of writing. Because I have been able to slowly claim my own identity that goes beyond being their mother—a part of my life that doesn’t necessarily always have to involve them—that doesn’t have to be “our” story—but is “my” story— that occasionally (when allowed and if invited) is intermingled with theirs.*
Sunday, October 22, 2006
A Calamity of Errors, Judgments, and the 167 dollar poop
We should’ve known.
You know when you have that sinking feeling about something, but fail to acknowledge or mention it? As my husband and I scrambled around, getting ready for a trip to Montreal with our 19 month old, she tried her new trick, sliding off a dining room chair. Only this time she had on slippery fleece pants and socks. She slipped right from the chair with a sickening thud, and onto our hardwood floor, face first. Her shrieks echoed in our small home, and I ran to her just in time to see blood in her mouth, her lips and nose growing puffier by the second. Kurt, my husband was in the shower. “Kurt! I yelled, I need you!” She cried and cried, leaning into me and whimpering. At that moment, both my husband and I were thinking: We shouldn’t go up to Montréal. Just had that feeling that we should bag the trip. But our logical, reasonable selves won out, because of course, now she was happily looking at my necklace, and toddlers fall all the time, we know. Error in judgment number one.
So we pulled out of our driveway and began the trip. My girl falls asleep almost instantly, and we were in business. See, we planned that she could have her nap while we drove the 2 and a half hours to Montreal. We had to make a few small stops to get a few things we needed (swimmy diapers for the hotel pool), but surely she would sleep through that. Error in Judgment number two.
She woke up after 20 minutes, and stayed awake the entire trip. We knew we were in trouble. Meanwhile, it begins to rain. And rain and rain.
We arrive in Montreal, and find our hotel no problem. We gather our ridiculous amount of baby gear, food and stuff and schlep it to our room. It is a beautiful room, just like online, with a kitchen, a dining room table, and a king bed. But something smells kind of like old people, a grandparent’s home from the 1950s, say, and we can’t put our finger on it.
We go out for a walk in the pouring rain, and the streets are filled with people getting off from work. We swerve in and out of people, stroller, huge umbrella, avoiding large puddles and aggressive city folk. This serves to over stimulate the Miss Tired Girl even more, which we do not realize. Error number three.
We come back in, and Kurt heads out to find an ATM. I take my girl up to the room, and notice the sign. It says: This floor is reserved for our smoking guests. I clearly requested a nonsmoking room when I made the reservation online. No wonder the room smelled like old socks. Mistake number four.
When I call down to the hotel clerk, after being on hold for 10 minutes, they tell me there are no other rooms left, and I had not requested a nonsmoking room. OKAY. We decide to stay anyway, despite the fact that I have a tacky throat, and my eyes burn a bit. Meanwhile, Addy keeps grabbing the stroller, and heading for the door. “Walk? Walk?” She says. “No honey, we are going to stay in here.” Not happy.
Miss Fussy begins many more moments of unhappiness. She falls on the floor again, cried and cries, and is finally calmed down. Only wants a few pieces of Veggie Booty for dinner. This is getting worse.
We bathe her, read to her and begin to settle her into her pack and play. We turn off almost all of the lights, scurry to the other side of the room, and eat our take out pizza in the dark. I have had FOUR bites when my girl stands up in the pack and play, and starts saying, “mommy, mommy, mommy…” I tell her to lie down and go to sleep. No avail. This continues for about a half hour. Then Kurt tried to lay her down. She stays for a few minutes and we silent high five. Premature. She pops up, “mommy, mommy, mommy….” I go to her, and here it is folks, she’s pooped. No one can sleep with poopy pants, right? Some lights go on, we change her, and then try to put her back down. She knows the deal now, and is wide awake. That passed tired, delirious, I’ll never sleep again awake, and we know we are completely screwed. We try all lights out cuddling in bed, and almost get her to sleep, but not quite. She cries every time we even suggest the crib.
Then she walks to the door herself, she’s had enough of this smelly place and opens the door (we thought it was locked). She finds it heavy, and promptly closes it right on her fingers. Instant, and earth shatteringly loud shrieks cloud our small room in hell.
There is no turning back. Her fingers are fine. It’s just her ridiculously tried, cranky and out of her element self that is inconsolable. She cries when walk around. She cries when we read to her. She cries when I sing and rock her.
My husband and I don’t believe in TV. We have no cable, and our daughter hasn’t watched more than 5 minutes of television in her whole life. But we love watching it, us adults, as a treat sometimes. Exasperated, and exhausted, we turn it on. This will surely put her to sleep, we think, boring TV drama. Mistake number, oh hell, should I even count anymore?
She watches for 40 minutes, and I feel like a failure parent the whole time. My heart sinks as I watch her eyes dull over but stay wide awake. Finally, we decide the whole family will get into the big bed, turn off all the lights and TV, and truly go to sleep. She will cuddle in and fall happily asleep, and then tomorrow we can take her to the Biodome as planned, then put her down for a nap, then go out for a nice, Montreal dinner. Yes!
All except that she won’t even lie down. We try to bring her into bed, and she protests, screaming. I try rocking, walking, singing. Nothing. An hour passes of what is wrong with her? What are we going to do? Is this room toxic? Are we damaging our little girl? My eyes fill with tears. Our last family vacation, before our next little baby comes, is slipping away. I become as upset as she is, which only makes things worse. My head pounds, and we struggle in the dark.
Finally, Kurt has had it. “Let’s just go home,” he says. I let it sink in. Spend 130 dollars for a hotel room that we don’t stay in? 30 dollars for pizza I didn’t have time to eat? Or simply watch my girl suffer and scream all night? After a few more minutes (which feel like years), when he says it again, I say alright. Lights on, my girl still screaming, Kurt begins compressing our lives into bags again, and half and hour later, we head for the lobby. When I open the hotel room door, I sense a change in her. She quiets for a moment, then cries again, but not as loud.
I wait for the car, as all the people in the lobby are treated to the cries of our toddler. I pace, and think how bad things can get, really fast. The car appears, I put her in her seat, and Kurt starts checking out. She sits in her seat, says, “Home………..Home.” Breathes deeply and falls right to sleep, instantly.
All I can think is you’ve got to be kidding me. I watch as a family enters the hotel. Toddler and baby in toe. THEY can do it. Why can’t we? What were we missing? What did we do wrong?
Of course, it is pouring rain. Endless rain, to match my mood. We start the drive home at 10 pm. It pours the entire time, and I struggle to keep us on the road. At the border, when they ask for my ID, I hand him my credit card. I can barely remember my name, citizenship, and job. How exactly is it that I should be driving?
We make it home shortly before 1 am. I drag myself to bed and lie down. One of Addy’s favorite expressions is "Oh well, it happens". I think, I am not quite there yet, but maybe after some sleep, I will be able to say that tomorrow.
You know when you have that sinking feeling about something, but fail to acknowledge or mention it? As my husband and I scrambled around, getting ready for a trip to Montreal with our 19 month old, she tried her new trick, sliding off a dining room chair. Only this time she had on slippery fleece pants and socks. She slipped right from the chair with a sickening thud, and onto our hardwood floor, face first. Her shrieks echoed in our small home, and I ran to her just in time to see blood in her mouth, her lips and nose growing puffier by the second. Kurt, my husband was in the shower. “Kurt! I yelled, I need you!” She cried and cried, leaning into me and whimpering. At that moment, both my husband and I were thinking: We shouldn’t go up to Montréal. Just had that feeling that we should bag the trip. But our logical, reasonable selves won out, because of course, now she was happily looking at my necklace, and toddlers fall all the time, we know. Error in judgment number one.
So we pulled out of our driveway and began the trip. My girl falls asleep almost instantly, and we were in business. See, we planned that she could have her nap while we drove the 2 and a half hours to Montreal. We had to make a few small stops to get a few things we needed (swimmy diapers for the hotel pool), but surely she would sleep through that. Error in Judgment number two.
She woke up after 20 minutes, and stayed awake the entire trip. We knew we were in trouble. Meanwhile, it begins to rain. And rain and rain.
We arrive in Montreal, and find our hotel no problem. We gather our ridiculous amount of baby gear, food and stuff and schlep it to our room. It is a beautiful room, just like online, with a kitchen, a dining room table, and a king bed. But something smells kind of like old people, a grandparent’s home from the 1950s, say, and we can’t put our finger on it.
We go out for a walk in the pouring rain, and the streets are filled with people getting off from work. We swerve in and out of people, stroller, huge umbrella, avoiding large puddles and aggressive city folk. This serves to over stimulate the Miss Tired Girl even more, which we do not realize. Error number three.
We come back in, and Kurt heads out to find an ATM. I take my girl up to the room, and notice the sign. It says: This floor is reserved for our smoking guests. I clearly requested a nonsmoking room when I made the reservation online. No wonder the room smelled like old socks. Mistake number four.
When I call down to the hotel clerk, after being on hold for 10 minutes, they tell me there are no other rooms left, and I had not requested a nonsmoking room. OKAY. We decide to stay anyway, despite the fact that I have a tacky throat, and my eyes burn a bit. Meanwhile, Addy keeps grabbing the stroller, and heading for the door. “Walk? Walk?” She says. “No honey, we are going to stay in here.” Not happy.
Miss Fussy begins many more moments of unhappiness. She falls on the floor again, cried and cries, and is finally calmed down. Only wants a few pieces of Veggie Booty for dinner. This is getting worse.
We bathe her, read to her and begin to settle her into her pack and play. We turn off almost all of the lights, scurry to the other side of the room, and eat our take out pizza in the dark. I have had FOUR bites when my girl stands up in the pack and play, and starts saying, “mommy, mommy, mommy…” I tell her to lie down and go to sleep. No avail. This continues for about a half hour. Then Kurt tried to lay her down. She stays for a few minutes and we silent high five. Premature. She pops up, “mommy, mommy, mommy….” I go to her, and here it is folks, she’s pooped. No one can sleep with poopy pants, right? Some lights go on, we change her, and then try to put her back down. She knows the deal now, and is wide awake. That passed tired, delirious, I’ll never sleep again awake, and we know we are completely screwed. We try all lights out cuddling in bed, and almost get her to sleep, but not quite. She cries every time we even suggest the crib.
Then she walks to the door herself, she’s had enough of this smelly place and opens the door (we thought it was locked). She finds it heavy, and promptly closes it right on her fingers. Instant, and earth shatteringly loud shrieks cloud our small room in hell.
There is no turning back. Her fingers are fine. It’s just her ridiculously tried, cranky and out of her element self that is inconsolable. She cries when walk around. She cries when we read to her. She cries when I sing and rock her.
My husband and I don’t believe in TV. We have no cable, and our daughter hasn’t watched more than 5 minutes of television in her whole life. But we love watching it, us adults, as a treat sometimes. Exasperated, and exhausted, we turn it on. This will surely put her to sleep, we think, boring TV drama. Mistake number, oh hell, should I even count anymore?
She watches for 40 minutes, and I feel like a failure parent the whole time. My heart sinks as I watch her eyes dull over but stay wide awake. Finally, we decide the whole family will get into the big bed, turn off all the lights and TV, and truly go to sleep. She will cuddle in and fall happily asleep, and then tomorrow we can take her to the Biodome as planned, then put her down for a nap, then go out for a nice, Montreal dinner. Yes!
All except that she won’t even lie down. We try to bring her into bed, and she protests, screaming. I try rocking, walking, singing. Nothing. An hour passes of what is wrong with her? What are we going to do? Is this room toxic? Are we damaging our little girl? My eyes fill with tears. Our last family vacation, before our next little baby comes, is slipping away. I become as upset as she is, which only makes things worse. My head pounds, and we struggle in the dark.
Finally, Kurt has had it. “Let’s just go home,” he says. I let it sink in. Spend 130 dollars for a hotel room that we don’t stay in? 30 dollars for pizza I didn’t have time to eat? Or simply watch my girl suffer and scream all night? After a few more minutes (which feel like years), when he says it again, I say alright. Lights on, my girl still screaming, Kurt begins compressing our lives into bags again, and half and hour later, we head for the lobby. When I open the hotel room door, I sense a change in her. She quiets for a moment, then cries again, but not as loud.
I wait for the car, as all the people in the lobby are treated to the cries of our toddler. I pace, and think how bad things can get, really fast. The car appears, I put her in her seat, and Kurt starts checking out. She sits in her seat, says, “Home………..Home.” Breathes deeply and falls right to sleep, instantly.
All I can think is you’ve got to be kidding me. I watch as a family enters the hotel. Toddler and baby in toe. THEY can do it. Why can’t we? What were we missing? What did we do wrong?
Of course, it is pouring rain. Endless rain, to match my mood. We start the drive home at 10 pm. It pours the entire time, and I struggle to keep us on the road. At the border, when they ask for my ID, I hand him my credit card. I can barely remember my name, citizenship, and job. How exactly is it that I should be driving?
We make it home shortly before 1 am. I drag myself to bed and lie down. One of Addy’s favorite expressions is "Oh well, it happens". I think, I am not quite there yet, but maybe after some sleep, I will be able to say that tomorrow.
Friday, October 13, 2006
Speak My Language
This morning Sophia had a lengthy talking to with her favorite homemade paper bag puppet, Butterfingers Pinky-Mouth. B.P.M. scolds back in a Grungetta from Sesame Street cadence. This is not because she has watched Sesame Street but because sounding like Grungetta when exasperated may be genetically predisposed. (You can pretend it is from my husband's side.) Sophia was insisting that BPM "speak English" so she could understand him/her?... Finally at the height of the exchange she leaned over and whispered to the puppet which did the trick. When she careened over to the kitchen sink I asked what they were talking about. She explained she just had to whisper to teach how to speak to Butterfingers. She was satisfied that they had a thourough understanding.
Hmmm. Is this perhaps beacuse when I sound like Grungetta, Sophia does not process my words but if I get up close and whisper I have a beter shot? Oy.
Hmmm. Is this perhaps beacuse when I sound like Grungetta, Sophia does not process my words but if I get up close and whisper I have a beter shot? Oy.
Monday, October 02, 2006
Mama Says Update: I'm Off
This is my last post. I will no longer be on Mama Says. Any further questions should be directed to LindaP: mamasays942(@)hotmail(dot)com
For all the subscribers and faithful readers: Thank you so much for your support.
I will be deleting the subscription service and handing it over to LindaP for re-activation. There may be a gap of time in between. If you have any questions about that, please contact her.
Again, I feel I have done what I could for Mama Says and it's time to move on.
You can find me at my blog, always Writing In The Mountains.
For all the subscribers and faithful readers: Thank you so much for your support.
I will be deleting the subscription service and handing it over to LindaP for re-activation. There may be a gap of time in between. If you have any questions about that, please contact her.
Again, I feel I have done what I could for Mama Says and it's time to move on.
You can find me at my blog, always Writing In The Mountains.
Saturday, September 23, 2006
Just A Reminder
Jesse Ahee's "With Child" exhibit will be at The Cheshire Cat in Montpelier, Vt for the Art Walk, Friday September 29th, 4-8 p.m.
Check it out!
Check it out!
Wednesday, September 13, 2006
Mama Says Commercial Free Kids
On the heels of Kris U's post it seems like the perfect time to unveil the project Mama Says Action has in the works. We are starting a local chapter of Campaign for a commercial Free Childhood. I have been in contact with them and have some events and meetings on board. BUT because I want this blog to be only for creative work I encourage you to follow links to our Yahoo newsgroup for more details.Also Times Argus September first issue published my letter on this topic- check it out at library...
Mama is at work on line illegally- got to go
Mama is at work on line illegally- got to go
Friday, September 01, 2006
Mama Says Update
Thank you to Kris U for all her work on the blog. Yes of course I, Linda will keep cranking. I have been doing Mama Says for two and a half years now and some of the projects on the horizon are the most exciting yet...
Kris's departure means I will return the blog to its original intent as an online version of the print newsletter. In other words it is a showcase for creative work-- poetry, reflective essays, creative pieces of length (no maximum word counts, plenty of space). One of the features I would most like to revisit is the "Interview with a Local Mama" which was so popular in print. Please get out there and talk to a mama you love and write her up for us with pictures, art etc.
Some of the bloggy flash will remain in terms of sidebar but this has always been about the power of each mamas voice. I want very much to return to that essence now.
I can't wait to share with you the amazing projects the political action circle is working on. I can't wait to hear from you, in your words, simply.
With mama love, Linda P
Kris's departure means I will return the blog to its original intent as an online version of the print newsletter. In other words it is a showcase for creative work-- poetry, reflective essays, creative pieces of length (no maximum word counts, plenty of space). One of the features I would most like to revisit is the "Interview with a Local Mama" which was so popular in print. Please get out there and talk to a mama you love and write her up for us with pictures, art etc.
Some of the bloggy flash will remain in terms of sidebar but this has always been about the power of each mamas voice. I want very much to return to that essence now.
I can't wait to share with you the amazing projects the political action circle is working on. I can't wait to hear from you, in your words, simply.
With mama love, Linda P
Mama Says Update
So, You may have noticed that alot of the sidebar is missing. Mama Says is being overhauled as I write.
I feel I have done what I could for Mama Says and that it's now time to move on. Whoever would like to pick it up from here, is more than welcome. (most likely LindaP)
I will be moving to another site later in the month (here). In the meantime, I will be reorganizing Mama Says and building my new site. All of my old posts from Mama Says will be on the new site as well as new material.
To our subscribers: Do not fear! You will stay on as such to Mama Says.
All the writing will stay as is on M.S., all the archives will be there and everybody who is on will still be able to post.
I will update as new things come along.
I feel I have done what I could for Mama Says and that it's now time to move on. Whoever would like to pick it up from here, is more than welcome. (most likely LindaP)
I will be moving to another site later in the month (here). In the meantime, I will be reorganizing Mama Says and building my new site. All of my old posts from Mama Says will be on the new site as well as new material.
To our subscribers: Do not fear! You will stay on as such to Mama Says.
All the writing will stay as is on M.S., all the archives will be there and everybody who is on will still be able to post.
I will update as new things come along.
Tuesday, August 29, 2006
Mama Says Announcement
Jesse Ahee's painting exhibit: 'With Child', featuring works of her daughter during pregnancy, has been extended another full month at Gifford Medical Center in Randolph. Go check it out if you can!
If you can't make it to Randolph, it will also be exhibited in Montpelier at Cheshire Cat for the Art Walk on September 29.
If you can't make it to Randolph, it will also be exhibited in Montpelier at Cheshire Cat for the Art Walk on September 29.
Sunday, August 27, 2006
Articles and Posts of Note:Mothers Movement Online
Mothers Movement Online Articles
Birth, Choices:Melissa Wilkins
An excellent article on demedicalizing the birth process.
Reviving the Feminine Mystique: Judith Stadtman-Tucker
Just a quick thought: It occurs to me that Betty Friedan's quote in 1985 (featured in the Stadtman-Tucker article) is purely right-on. I don't know if we will ever see something like the original Women's Movement or Civil Rights Movement again in our lives. This country would probably fall first before any of that happens.
Birth, Choices:Melissa Wilkins
An excellent article on demedicalizing the birth process.
Reviving the Feminine Mystique: Judith Stadtman-Tucker
Just a quick thought: It occurs to me that Betty Friedan's quote in 1985 (featured in the Stadtman-Tucker article) is purely right-on. I don't know if we will ever see something like the original Women's Movement or Civil Rights Movement again in our lives. This country would probably fall first before any of that happens.
Thursday, August 24, 2006
Kind Words for Mama Says
Many thanks to Annie Downey for the kind words about Mama Says!
Check out where this Hot and Bothered author will be in the coming months for book signings and other events!
Check out where this Hot and Bothered author will be in the coming months for book signings and other events!
Wednesday, August 23, 2006
Mama At the Movies: The Libertine
Mama At The Movies: One Non-Family Movie at A Time
“Enough of this Disney crap and singing chipmunks…I need some real movies!!!!”
The Libertine
I can’t remember the last time I actually saw a movie at the theatre. I think it may have been The Last Samurai with Tom Cruise before he turned Christian Scientist wingnut. I thought that was an excellent movie despite him being in it.
So, last night I saw the movie The Libertine (after The Girl's bedtime, obviously) with the fabulous Johnny Depp. I picked it up on a whim only knowing that it was about John Wilmot, the 2nd Earl of Rochester and Samantha Morton (of Jane Eyre) was in it.
It was released in 2004, and I never heard a peep about it. I can understand why: the movie is dark, gritty, the Earl of Rochester is downright ugly and grotesque in every manner imaginable (‘You will not like me’), there is content in the movie that absolutely would not appeal to the mainstreamer: there are no gaudy, drawn out battle scenes; no predictable, formulaic plot and dialogue, no clear cut hero/heroine.
I have longed to see Johnny Depp in a role such as this.
A lot of people thought this movie ‘boring’, ‘slow’, ‘one of Depp’s worst performances, if not the worst’.
Here’s what Seattlep.i.’s Arts and Entertainment had to say about it:
Wilmot was cynical, that is what the entire character is built upon. In the beginning of the movie, Wilmot does in fact say: ‘You will not like me.’ This is not a likable character by far, as it was intended. I believe it was further intended to be grainy and murky as well as claustrophobic-it’s called building mood. Also, this period in history was muddy and dark-they were dealing with The Plague epidemic for a year or so, decidedly on a much smaller scale than in the 14th Century; King Charles II was on the throne, the Restoration movement was happening, of course religion was an issue.
As for ‘meditations of life and art all ring false’, I beg to differ. The fact that this writer would even consider saying this is not ‘a great date movie’ further proves the lack of judgment for seeing what this movie really is.
The scenes in which Wilmot was dying of ‘the pox’ were undeniably hideous, yet so well played out-you could not help but look. Depp was so absolutely feral in the role. Normally, when I watch a movie, I get distracted by what is going on behind the scenes. For instance, What was that actor thinking when kissing Hugh Grant? Grin and bear it, or what? Or, if there is a scene where it is raining, I think: they’re using a hose for that aren’t they? Another one that comes up, usually during a period movie battle scene, when there are hordes of men running full-speed to the other end of the field: What are they thinking as they are running and screaming?
I did not do this with The Libertine, but once, when I squealed out: Samantha Morton must be thinking: “I just kissed Johnny Depp, the sexiest man alive!!!” Other than that, I fell completely into the movie. A rarity considering I could ruin a perfectly good movie for someone else (or myself) with my backstage comments.
Call me weird, even snobbish, but I thought this was one of Depp’s better performances. This movie is definitely not for the faint of heart, and not for the mainstreamers. If you could not decipher the dialogue, or thought it ‘too talky’ and boring, then let me suggest the latest Rob Schneider movie, or perhaps Snakes On A Plane.
“Enough of this Disney crap and singing chipmunks…I need some real movies!!!!”
The Libertine
I can’t remember the last time I actually saw a movie at the theatre. I think it may have been The Last Samurai with Tom Cruise before he turned Christian Scientist wingnut. I thought that was an excellent movie despite him being in it.
So, last night I saw the movie The Libertine (after The Girl's bedtime, obviously) with the fabulous Johnny Depp. I picked it up on a whim only knowing that it was about John Wilmot, the 2nd Earl of Rochester and Samantha Morton (of Jane Eyre) was in it.
It was released in 2004, and I never heard a peep about it. I can understand why: the movie is dark, gritty, the Earl of Rochester is downright ugly and grotesque in every manner imaginable (‘You will not like me’), there is content in the movie that absolutely would not appeal to the mainstreamer: there are no gaudy, drawn out battle scenes; no predictable, formulaic plot and dialogue, no clear cut hero/heroine.
I have longed to see Johnny Depp in a role such as this.
A lot of people thought this movie ‘boring’, ‘slow’, ‘one of Depp’s worst performances, if not the worst’.
Here’s what Seattlep.i.’s Arts and Entertainment had to say about it:
“Depp has a flash or two of charisma, but this may be his all-time worst performance. He can't convey anything going on in the character's mind beyond cynicism, his meditations on life and art all ring false, and there's just nothing to like about the guy.
Visually, the film is unpleasantly murky and claustrophobic, and its historical texture is thin. Like too many stage adaptations, the script is unnecessarily talky, and the first-time direction of Laurence Dunmore is flat and weak.
Despite its title, the movie could hardly be less erotic. Indeed, promiscuity has never looked more totally unappealing, and its final scenes of Wilmot's advanced venereal disease are enough to make you take a vow of celibacy. A great date movie, this is not.”
Wilmot was cynical, that is what the entire character is built upon. In the beginning of the movie, Wilmot does in fact say: ‘You will not like me.’ This is not a likable character by far, as it was intended. I believe it was further intended to be grainy and murky as well as claustrophobic-it’s called building mood. Also, this period in history was muddy and dark-they were dealing with The Plague epidemic for a year or so, decidedly on a much smaller scale than in the 14th Century; King Charles II was on the throne, the Restoration movement was happening, of course religion was an issue.
As for ‘meditations of life and art all ring false’, I beg to differ. The fact that this writer would even consider saying this is not ‘a great date movie’ further proves the lack of judgment for seeing what this movie really is.
The scenes in which Wilmot was dying of ‘the pox’ were undeniably hideous, yet so well played out-you could not help but look. Depp was so absolutely feral in the role. Normally, when I watch a movie, I get distracted by what is going on behind the scenes. For instance, What was that actor thinking when kissing Hugh Grant? Grin and bear it, or what? Or, if there is a scene where it is raining, I think: they’re using a hose for that aren’t they? Another one that comes up, usually during a period movie battle scene, when there are hordes of men running full-speed to the other end of the field: What are they thinking as they are running and screaming?
I did not do this with The Libertine, but once, when I squealed out: Samantha Morton must be thinking: “I just kissed Johnny Depp, the sexiest man alive!!!” Other than that, I fell completely into the movie. A rarity considering I could ruin a perfectly good movie for someone else (or myself) with my backstage comments.
Call me weird, even snobbish, but I thought this was one of Depp’s better performances. This movie is definitely not for the faint of heart, and not for the mainstreamers. If you could not decipher the dialogue, or thought it ‘too talky’ and boring, then let me suggest the latest Rob Schneider movie, or perhaps Snakes On A Plane.
Tuesday, August 22, 2006
Sunday, August 20, 2006
Sunday, August 13, 2006
Articles and Posts of Note: Yahoo! Post-Partum Depression in Dads?
Uh, yeah...I don't know quite what to think of this one. Post-Partum Depression in men that are Dads?
This is just a guess, but I think-hmmm-yes, I think it may have something to do with hormones, actually.
(Really??? No.....)
Is it any surprise, too, that both of the people they have chosen to quote are both men?
Here are some snippets:
If they forget to remember?
Alright, I don't doubt men feel alone, neglected, ostracized, ignored, and -dare I say it-sexually starved.
The attention has shifted. The roles of Motherhood and Fatherhood are, indeed, different and difficult at times. In some cultures, the father isn't even involved until after the child is weaned.
I also don't doubt that the father feels and experiences some sort of depression after a baby is born. It is a huge change. But I wouldn't call it postpartum depression.
This is just a guess, but I think-hmmm-yes, I think it may have something to do with hormones, actually.
(Really??? No.....)
Is it any surprise, too, that both of the people they have chosen to quote are both men?
Here are some snippets:
Fathers usually feel elation after a birth, Coleman said, but that feeling of "engrossment" can fade away, depending on family circumstances.
That can happen "if the mother is very, very controlling and wants the baby all to herself," Coleman said. "Also, fathers can experience frustration, sexual and emotional, if they forget to remember that the wife is not interested in sex at that time. If the wife is very motherly and maternal, he might feel kind of useless, on the periphery."
If they forget to remember?
Alright, I don't doubt men feel alone, neglected, ostracized, ignored, and -dare I say it-sexually starved.
The attention has shifted. The roles of Motherhood and Fatherhood are, indeed, different and difficult at times. In some cultures, the father isn't even involved until after the child is weaned.
I also don't doubt that the father feels and experiences some sort of depression after a baby is born. It is a huge change. But I wouldn't call it postpartum depression.
Articles and Posts of Note: Writing Time: Another Take on the Personal Essay
Writing Time is just a great site in itself. For all the (mama) writers out there, check out the Personal Essay post.
Enjoy!
Enjoy!
Saturday, August 12, 2006
Articles and Posts of Note: Yahoo! Co-sleeping
I found this article about co-sleeping on Yahoo! today.
Didn't the American Academy of Pediatrics (and Dentistry) at one point make a deal with Coca-cola to research funding a few years back? Whew. When I first read this, my immediate reaction was: How Ironic.
Why is it that the media and all these certified 'organizations' tell us what is right for our children, and make us feel guilty if we are not following the guidelines?
Perhaps co-sleeping is right for some and not for others. I am all for the co-sleeping. It has seen me through alot of nursing nights when The Girl was just a wee babe and it enabled me to get some much needed sleep. She doesn't nurse much during the night these days and we still happily co-sleep.
Didn't the American Academy of Pediatrics (and Dentistry) at one point make a deal with Coca-cola to research funding a few years back? Whew. When I first read this, my immediate reaction was: How Ironic.
Why is it that the media and all these certified 'organizations' tell us what is right for our children, and make us feel guilty if we are not following the guidelines?
Perhaps co-sleeping is right for some and not for others. I am all for the co-sleeping. It has seen me through alot of nursing nights when The Girl was just a wee babe and it enabled me to get some much needed sleep. She doesn't nurse much during the night these days and we still happily co-sleep.
Poem: Loss, Without Regret
Now, a name
Among millions
She sits without regret.
Still, the dreams persist:
Of love, of loss and gain
Reclaiming the child
Only to give it up
Again and again.
Through all attempts
The wound
Already a year and a half old,
Has refused to heal.
She sits through all attempts
Without regrets
Reclaiming the child
Of love and loss
Already a year and a half old
Only to give it up again and again
As the dreams persist.
Among millions
She sits without regret.
Still, the dreams persist:
Of love, of loss and gain
Reclaiming the child
Only to give it up
Again and again.
Through all attempts
The wound
Already a year and a half old,
Has refused to heal.
She sits through all attempts
Without regrets
Reclaiming the child
Of love and loss
Already a year and a half old
Only to give it up again and again
As the dreams persist.
Posts and Articles of Note: Sam Kolber's 'Jewel Tones'
Perhaps this is a little bit of shameless promotion, but check out Sam's pantoum, Jewel Tones. It's rhythmic-trancy and just well-written. I love it. I am jealous. I could never turn out a strict form poem so well. I suppose that will be a challenge to face. Try writing one and see how it goes. Sam gives an outline of the form on her site.
Friday, August 11, 2006
Savory Bites
From Sam’s previous post:
I bet I will go ahead and shower, but not before eating chocolate for breakfast. Sure, I could eat yogurt, a bagel, cereal, or a banana for a more healthy breakfast, but those don’t seem to fill my need, or stuff it down is more like it.
This inspired me to write a little something on FOOD.
It feels like I don’t have time to enjoy my breakfast or snack, double Latte, or even a plain old cup of black strong coffee.
Nothing tastes good to me anymore.
While The Girl is eating dinner (sweet potatoes tonight), I’m writing (as I am now), or doing some dishes (hey- I said some), or putting a weeks (or so) worth of laundry away finally.
My snacks are less than tasty, sometimes, and can end up being my dinner (i.e. Chocolate or cookies, a single banana or spaghetti for the third day in a row), or ‘well, at least I ate something.’ That last one appears quite often.
And coffee-oh coffee. I down so much of this stuff, I don’t even feel the buzz anymore. I should be bouncing off the goddamn walls. This could account for my sleep problem of late, eh? Part of it, anyway…
Everything is just so on-the-go these days. Even as we sit down to a meal: I scarf down whatever it is we are eating without even a thought of really enjoying the food; I’m too busy seeing if The Girl needs anything, or picking up food she dropped, or the spoon she threw, or whatever. We are always moving, moving, moving: to the library, going on our walk, doctor’s appointments, and errands. So much to do all the time. Much of society is like this, to put it in a broader perspective, always moving.
How did this happen?
How did I stop enjoying the taste of food? How did I stop taking pleasure in every bite? How did it get to the point of ‘at least I ate something today’?
I don’t know. Perhaps we all just need to stop, slow down and breathe once in awhile.
Life moves pretty fast, if you don’t stop and look around once in awhile, you could miss it.
Hey-most of us know where this is from…
Ferris Beuller’s Day Off
Sort of a long, terribly rambly kind of post….oh well.
I bet I will go ahead and shower, but not before eating chocolate for breakfast. Sure, I could eat yogurt, a bagel, cereal, or a banana for a more healthy breakfast, but those don’t seem to fill my need, or stuff it down is more like it.
This inspired me to write a little something on FOOD.
It feels like I don’t have time to enjoy my breakfast or snack, double Latte, or even a plain old cup of black strong coffee.
Nothing tastes good to me anymore.
While The Girl is eating dinner (sweet potatoes tonight), I’m writing (as I am now), or doing some dishes (hey- I said some), or putting a weeks (or so) worth of laundry away finally.
My snacks are less than tasty, sometimes, and can end up being my dinner (i.e. Chocolate or cookies, a single banana or spaghetti for the third day in a row), or ‘well, at least I ate something.’ That last one appears quite often.
And coffee-oh coffee. I down so much of this stuff, I don’t even feel the buzz anymore. I should be bouncing off the goddamn walls. This could account for my sleep problem of late, eh? Part of it, anyway…
Everything is just so on-the-go these days. Even as we sit down to a meal: I scarf down whatever it is we are eating without even a thought of really enjoying the food; I’m too busy seeing if The Girl needs anything, or picking up food she dropped, or the spoon she threw, or whatever. We are always moving, moving, moving: to the library, going on our walk, doctor’s appointments, and errands. So much to do all the time. Much of society is like this, to put it in a broader perspective, always moving.
How did this happen?
How did I stop enjoying the taste of food? How did I stop taking pleasure in every bite? How did it get to the point of ‘at least I ate something today’?
I don’t know. Perhaps we all just need to stop, slow down and breathe once in awhile.
Life moves pretty fast, if you don’t stop and look around once in awhile, you could miss it.
Hey-most of us know where this is from…
Ferris Beuller’s Day Off
Sort of a long, terribly rambly kind of post….oh well.
Excerpt from Sam's Computer Journal
25 July 2006
“Everything is purple. Why everything that is purple is purple through these glasses?” Emmett says as he wears fuchsia-colored batgirl glasses. Now he is whining about putting on a movie for him, and I don’t know why I haven’t been enjoying my motherhood role lately. I really haven’t been enjoying anything lately. And his incessant whining and power struggles don’t help. All he wants to wear is pajamas, day in and day out, so when I say it’s time to get dressed in the morning, it becomes a huge power struggle between us because I just recently made a rule against wearing pajamas all day long, especially to day-care. Now that I am at the computer with my fingers running over the keyboard I don’t want to stop; it’s reminding me how much I need to write, I crave to write, even if I just write about nothing…even if Emmett is climbing onto my lap chanting about “Stop, Look and Listen,” a Blues Clues episode he wants me to put in the VCR. When I finally stop, look and listen to him, he looks me in the eyes, his steel, green eyes so focused, and asks in a sweet voice, “Can you please put Stop, Look and Listen on please?” How can I resist? Especially since I know it will buy me more time for myself. I usually shower as he watches a morning video, but now I want to write something. I bet instead, since I am not feeling any inspiration to write anything specific, I bet I will go ahead and shower, but not before eating chocolate for breakfast. Sure, I could eat yogurt, a bagel, cereal, or a banana for a more healthy breakfast, but those don’t seem to fill my need, or stuff it down is more like it. I am disappearing into the real world, my writer self at odds with my need for financial stability, survival, ability to provide for my child. I am so angry I can’t rely on my creativity to make any money. I know I can if I can focus, but I just can’t focus. I am overwhelmed, depressed, not good. According to Steve in Blues Clues, I just need to “sit down in my thinking chair and think, think thiiiink. “ Because I can do anything that I want to do. If only I knew what I wanted to do.
“Everything is purple. Why everything that is purple is purple through these glasses?” Emmett says as he wears fuchsia-colored batgirl glasses. Now he is whining about putting on a movie for him, and I don’t know why I haven’t been enjoying my motherhood role lately. I really haven’t been enjoying anything lately. And his incessant whining and power struggles don’t help. All he wants to wear is pajamas, day in and day out, so when I say it’s time to get dressed in the morning, it becomes a huge power struggle between us because I just recently made a rule against wearing pajamas all day long, especially to day-care. Now that I am at the computer with my fingers running over the keyboard I don’t want to stop; it’s reminding me how much I need to write, I crave to write, even if I just write about nothing…even if Emmett is climbing onto my lap chanting about “Stop, Look and Listen,” a Blues Clues episode he wants me to put in the VCR. When I finally stop, look and listen to him, he looks me in the eyes, his steel, green eyes so focused, and asks in a sweet voice, “Can you please put Stop, Look and Listen on please?” How can I resist? Especially since I know it will buy me more time for myself. I usually shower as he watches a morning video, but now I want to write something. I bet instead, since I am not feeling any inspiration to write anything specific, I bet I will go ahead and shower, but not before eating chocolate for breakfast. Sure, I could eat yogurt, a bagel, cereal, or a banana for a more healthy breakfast, but those don’t seem to fill my need, or stuff it down is more like it. I am disappearing into the real world, my writer self at odds with my need for financial stability, survival, ability to provide for my child. I am so angry I can’t rely on my creativity to make any money. I know I can if I can focus, but I just can’t focus. I am overwhelmed, depressed, not good. According to Steve in Blues Clues, I just need to “sit down in my thinking chair and think, think thiiiink. “ Because I can do anything that I want to do. If only I knew what I wanted to do.
Wednesday, August 09, 2006
Changing Directions: On Writing/Journaling
You can also see this on The Whole Mom
(Preface: I know this is a long one, but please, take the time to read it)
I write regularly in my journal. I take that back-I used to write regularly in my journal. This past year, I have gone from being a faithful, detailed, everyday journal keeper to writing a sporadic, intermittent mix of half coherent fragments from the day. When I wrote on a regular basis, I could easily fill a two hundred page hard-bound journal within a month or less. These days, it takes me a disappointing four months to finish a book with the same amount of pages. In the new journal I recently started, I write half sentences, ideas that go nowhere, fragments of events that I wanted to record, all left hanging in mid-sentences.
These days, I find I put most of my journaling energy into the Mama Says blog. That, in a sense, has become my journal. However, I am not completely satisfied with this. I don’t want it to become my journal. A journal, to me, is something that is personal, a place where I can let it all out, stuff that I would never share with other mothers, let alone the world; a place where I can work through my crap ( definitely much cheaper than a psychiatrist!).
In this age of computer laptop journals, live journals and the blogosphere, I still prefer to draft things out with paper and pen. My handwriting is still decipherable, not yet reduced to chicken scratch. Besides that, I just love the feel of pen in hand. I don’t know why, but it seems I can put things together more efficiently that way. Plus, I’m a doodler. I like to scribble all over the page, cross out words and whole sentences, make squiggly arrows directing this sentence or paragraph to go all the way to the top (or bottom). After what seems to be sufficient doodling, I can go to the computer and make the final draft. I’ve always done that with poetry as well.
For me, journaling is a ritualistic process, I write out the drafts over and over, replacing this word here and that word there. There is a certain meditation in actual writing with pen and paper that cannot be found in banging out words on the computer. The blue-glow of the computer monitor can surely trance me out, but it’s just not the same.
I could say that most of my energy for journaling has been sapped by my two-year old running around the house. But it’s just not true. In fact, it’s just the opposite: she is my daily inspiration in many things, including writing. I turn out posts on a near-daily basis for the blog; some consisting of entire pages that could be turned into a possible articles. I just don’t have the interest for journaling right now. Never in my life did I think that would be an issue. Not me, the one with 40-plus full hard-bound journals and countless notebooks; the one who could never bear to skip a day, letting it go by unrecorded; the one who had to fill the page to capacity. Surely, I could never lose interest? I can’t even believe that’s what it’s come down to, but there it is.
These are the years of my daughter’s childhood. I feel I should be recording every little thing she does: new developments, what she’s feeling, how she reacted to the bug that dropped from the tree onto her sleeve. Will I look back on this time in my life and wish I had written more? Will I feel a certain sort of regret at what I didn’t record?
When I look back now on the journals from when I was pregnant with my daughter, I find myself wishing I had written a more detailed account of that experience; and I do feel something akin to regret at not writing more about it.
Perhaps I just need to accept the fact that it’s alright to not be interested in journaling at times. Right now there are plenty of other things in my life that require my attention. It’s not as if I won’t ever journal again. Perhaps it is the style of journaling familiar to me that is changing. Perhaps I am changing. Perhaps I just need to accept that as well. After all, life changes just as the wind changes directions.
(Preface: I know this is a long one, but please, take the time to read it)
I write regularly in my journal. I take that back-I used to write regularly in my journal. This past year, I have gone from being a faithful, detailed, everyday journal keeper to writing a sporadic, intermittent mix of half coherent fragments from the day. When I wrote on a regular basis, I could easily fill a two hundred page hard-bound journal within a month or less. These days, it takes me a disappointing four months to finish a book with the same amount of pages. In the new journal I recently started, I write half sentences, ideas that go nowhere, fragments of events that I wanted to record, all left hanging in mid-sentences.
These days, I find I put most of my journaling energy into the Mama Says blog. That, in a sense, has become my journal. However, I am not completely satisfied with this. I don’t want it to become my journal. A journal, to me, is something that is personal, a place where I can let it all out, stuff that I would never share with other mothers, let alone the world; a place where I can work through my crap ( definitely much cheaper than a psychiatrist!).
In this age of computer laptop journals, live journals and the blogosphere, I still prefer to draft things out with paper and pen. My handwriting is still decipherable, not yet reduced to chicken scratch. Besides that, I just love the feel of pen in hand. I don’t know why, but it seems I can put things together more efficiently that way. Plus, I’m a doodler. I like to scribble all over the page, cross out words and whole sentences, make squiggly arrows directing this sentence or paragraph to go all the way to the top (or bottom). After what seems to be sufficient doodling, I can go to the computer and make the final draft. I’ve always done that with poetry as well.
For me, journaling is a ritualistic process, I write out the drafts over and over, replacing this word here and that word there. There is a certain meditation in actual writing with pen and paper that cannot be found in banging out words on the computer. The blue-glow of the computer monitor can surely trance me out, but it’s just not the same.
I could say that most of my energy for journaling has been sapped by my two-year old running around the house. But it’s just not true. In fact, it’s just the opposite: she is my daily inspiration in many things, including writing. I turn out posts on a near-daily basis for the blog; some consisting of entire pages that could be turned into a possible articles. I just don’t have the interest for journaling right now. Never in my life did I think that would be an issue. Not me, the one with 40-plus full hard-bound journals and countless notebooks; the one who could never bear to skip a day, letting it go by unrecorded; the one who had to fill the page to capacity. Surely, I could never lose interest? I can’t even believe that’s what it’s come down to, but there it is.
These are the years of my daughter’s childhood. I feel I should be recording every little thing she does: new developments, what she’s feeling, how she reacted to the bug that dropped from the tree onto her sleeve. Will I look back on this time in my life and wish I had written more? Will I feel a certain sort of regret at what I didn’t record?
When I look back now on the journals from when I was pregnant with my daughter, I find myself wishing I had written a more detailed account of that experience; and I do feel something akin to regret at not writing more about it.
Perhaps I just need to accept the fact that it’s alright to not be interested in journaling at times. Right now there are plenty of other things in my life that require my attention. It’s not as if I won’t ever journal again. Perhaps it is the style of journaling familiar to me that is changing. Perhaps I am changing. Perhaps I just need to accept that as well. After all, life changes just as the wind changes directions.
Tuesday, August 08, 2006
An Assortment of Posts
Mother's Movement Online Articles:
A Mommy With An Attitude:
Motherhood Uncensored:
'The Hardships of Being a Mom to a Special Needs Child' on the Whole Mom, Laura J.
From Shape of a Mother:
Mom-101:
Poet Tree (Sam Kolber):
False 45th:
Finslippy:
Yahoo!
Didn't the American Academy of Pediatrics (and Dentistry) at one point make a deal with Coca-cola to research funding a few years back? Whew. When I first read this, my immediate reaction was: How Ironic.
Why is it that the media and all these certified 'organizations' tell us what is right for our children, and make us feel guilty if we are not following the guidelines?
Perhaps co-sleeping is right for some and not for others. I am all for the co-sleeping. It has seen me through alot of nursing nights when The Girl was just a wee babe and it enabled me to get some much needed sleep. She doesn't nurse much during the night these days and we still happily co-sleep.
Uh, yeah...I don't know quite what to think of this one. Post-Partum Depression in men that are Dads?
This is just a guess, but I think-hmmm-yes, I think it may have something to do with hormones, actually.
(Really??? No.....)
Is it any surprise, too, that both of the people they have chosen to quote are both men?
Here are some snippets:
Fathers usually feel elation after a birth, Coleman said, but that feeling of "engrossment" can fade away, depending on family circumstances.
That can happen "if the mother is very, very controlling and wants the baby all to herself," Coleman said. "Also, fathers can experience frustration, sexual and emotional, if they forget to remember that the wife is not interested in sex at that time. If the wife is very motherly and maternal, he might feel kind of useless, on the periphery."
Depression in a father leads to a well-known pattern of behavior, Coleman said. "He tends to work longer, to watch sports more, to drink more and be solitary," he said.
If they forget to remember?
Alright, I don't doubt men feel alone, neglected, ostracized, ignored, and -dare I say it-sexually starved.
The attention has shifted. The roles of Motherhood and Fatherhood are, indeed, different and difficult at times. In some cultures, the father isn't even involved until after the child is weaned.
I also don't doubt that the father feels and experiences some sort of depression after a baby is born. It is a huge change. But I wouldn't call it postpartum depression.
Writing Time
- 'Time to Kiss the Mommy Wars Goodbye' -Tracy Thompson
- 'Everybody Hates Linda'-Judith Stadtman Tucker
A Mommy With An Attitude:
- 'What the Hell Is Caitlin Flanagan Talking About? The Good, The Bad, And The Baffling!'
Motherhood Uncensored:
- On The Whole Mom: Essay: Having It All
'The Hardships of Being a Mom to a Special Needs Child' on the Whole Mom, Laura J.
From Shape of a Mother:
Mom-101:
Poet Tree (Sam Kolber):
False 45th:
Finslippy:
Yahoo!
Didn't the American Academy of Pediatrics (and Dentistry) at one point make a deal with Coca-cola to research funding a few years back? Whew. When I first read this, my immediate reaction was: How Ironic.
Why is it that the media and all these certified 'organizations' tell us what is right for our children, and make us feel guilty if we are not following the guidelines?
Perhaps co-sleeping is right for some and not for others. I am all for the co-sleeping. It has seen me through alot of nursing nights when The Girl was just a wee babe and it enabled me to get some much needed sleep. She doesn't nurse much during the night these days and we still happily co-sleep.
Uh, yeah...I don't know quite what to think of this one. Post-Partum Depression in men that are Dads?
This is just a guess, but I think-hmmm-yes, I think it may have something to do with hormones, actually.
(Really??? No.....)
Is it any surprise, too, that both of the people they have chosen to quote are both men?
Here are some snippets:
Fathers usually feel elation after a birth, Coleman said, but that feeling of "engrossment" can fade away, depending on family circumstances.
That can happen "if the mother is very, very controlling and wants the baby all to herself," Coleman said. "Also, fathers can experience frustration, sexual and emotional, if they forget to remember that the wife is not interested in sex at that time. If the wife is very motherly and maternal, he might feel kind of useless, on the periphery."
Depression in a father leads to a well-known pattern of behavior, Coleman said. "He tends to work longer, to watch sports more, to drink more and be solitary," he said.
If they forget to remember?
Alright, I don't doubt men feel alone, neglected, ostracized, ignored, and -dare I say it-sexually starved.
The attention has shifted. The roles of Motherhood and Fatherhood are, indeed, different and difficult at times. In some cultures, the father isn't even involved until after the child is weaned.
I also don't doubt that the father feels and experiences some sort of depression after a baby is born. It is a huge change. But I wouldn't call it postpartum depression.
Writing Time