Turn Out or Lean In

Sick of all the "best of 2013" lists yet? One notable book we're seeing on a lot of lists is Lean In by Sheryl Sandberg, COO of Facebook. We saw her speak at BlogHer 13 and were inspired to at least think of what we would do if we weren't afraid. But...this article attempts to pop the magic bubble: http://thebaffler.com/past/facebook_feminism_like_it_or_not.

Have a read and tell us what you think: should women need to lean in or just turn out?

Gray Mama

’Tis the Season

The holidays often include visiting, and I have been lucky enough to see many of the Secret Mamas recently. When we meet, our blog obviously comes up. We have been tired lately — and our trip to BlogHer 13 seems to have overwhelmed us more than invigorated us. As with many things in life, we left gung-ho, but then got home and life set in. We had things to do that didn’t include SEO and photo tagging.

We suddenly felt like our little blog wasn’t “right” or “searchable,” and so we put it aside. But here I am trying to get back at it. A gift to myself, perhaps, and the mamas I love so much.

Often when I share a moment with my kids I think of the blog — I think I should write this. I don’t expect anyone to read it, really, but I do know that it is something I do for myself that doesn’t require getting out of my pajamas, so I am all for it.

Here we go…

A Doll

Loulou is 14 months now! How does this happen? Time flies, pajamas get too small, nursing ebbs, and some sadness creeps in. The baby is gone, the toddler emerges. She is a happy girl and plays with almost anything, and with Christmas around the corner my husband and I have been wondering what Santa should bring. He obviously has to bring something for her because W can’t assume she is unworthy while he gets spoiled.

With the clock ticking and a Toys R Us coupon about to expire, I hit the mall this morning. I wandered the aisles and tried to think about Loulou as I browsed the (somewhat terrifying) selection of toys. As a second child she is already destined for a lot of hand-me-downs, so I wanted to pick something just for her. I touched ponies, tea sets; even a mini shopping cart held some appeal. Always with a voice in my head — GENDER! GENDER! GENDER! it screamed. Don’t buy pink! Be equal! No princesses!! However, she IS a girl and loves to put on her shoes and brush her hair (seriously).

So when I arrived in the Cabbage Patch aisle I knew I had to buy one. I knew she would love to feed a “baby” and touch its hair. I hesitated for a moment as I snickered and rolled my eyes at the names on their birth certificates — “Pax Adele” and “Clarissa June”  — and then I saw one whose middle name was the same as that of my oldest friend, and I took it as a sign! I bought the doll. I did it. I gender profiled LouLou! And, you know what, it felt good.

Tightrope Mama

[image: boy and girl playing doctor and nurse by H. Armstrong Roberts]

Heartbroken

I did something bad today. Something that all daycare parents know NOT to do. It is a cardinal rule of sorts: Don’t look back. Just go.

Today is Day 2 of LouLou’s fulltime daycare experience, and both mornings have been sad. She cries and grasps, but because I have done it before, with W, I feel stronger. 

I was feeling so strong today that I thought I would pop in and take a peep, since I was already in the building returning W from midday gymnastics. I crept up to the Baby Room and then I saw it, the sight that I can’t unsee. My baby girl, lying face down on a mat, whimpering, with giant tears rolling down her face. She wasn’t even wailing or bawling; that I could handle. It was just a sad, submissive, lonely cry. To me her face looked defeated. There was a daycare worker right beside her, holding another baby and talking softly to them both, so she wasn’t completely alone. Regardless, she looked miserable. They told me she had just woken up, but I didn’t really hear them because I flew to her, I scooped her up, and she sighed heavier than any baby should. She just silently laid against me for what felt like four hours, and then I nursed her. Which is yet another daycare sin. They should never really have the forbidden fruit within those walls because it is a tease. Daycare is for milk from cattle and snot.

A lot of the other babies were napping and the women in the room know me pretty well, so they let me stay for a while. LouLou was completely silent the entire time I was there, and then suddenly it was diaper-change time and someone was scooping her from me. I had intruded long enough; they had to get on with the day. And so did I, I guess. But I didn’t want to. So, even though there are no more bitchy lions around, I still went to work and cried. I cried for her loneliness and for mine. That pudgy little squirmer has just had her heart broken for the first time, by me. Her face, I can’t unsee it. I hurt her feelings. I feel like shit.

Tightrope Mama

[image: flower heart by Lydia Coventry]