Saturday we dropped nearly $300 in a couple of hours at The American Girl Place. The occasion was my daughter’s eighth birthday, and the outing required a two-hour trek (one way) from our semi-rural home to the upscale Los Angeles shopping center where the store is located. The multi-level doll emporium is truly a little girl’s dream, housing every American Girl doll, book and accessory, plus a movie theatre, photo studio and café – really, it is retailing run amok with glassy eyed little girls running around clutching $95 dolls while helpless -to-say-no- moms, dads and grandparents belly up to the cashier with credit cards extended. But…as someone who can sort of remember what it was like to be an eight-year old girl, I have to admit the place had me at hello. The bright airy feel, the delightful themed alcoves, the heart shaped cakes and chocolate pudding served in tiny flower pots? LOVED it.
I was a girly girl who loved dolls – baby dolls, Barbie dolls, talking dolls…you get the idea. As a child, I remember feeling intoxicated when I opened a new doll and inhaled that oddly toxic plastic odor unique to toys manufactured in the 60s. So when I bought my daughter a huge furnished doll house several years ago I was dumbfounded to find her bored with the whole concept. What was the point, she wondered, of rearranging the tiny furniture in each room or setting the miniature family in front of the itty bitty TV? I admit I had no answer for that, except that I did it when I was little and I kind of thought she would too. Sexist and backwards I know, but some parental expectations are simply pre-programmed.
Still. I respect my daughter’s independent streak – she knows what she likes and isn’t afraid to say so. For the next few years we steered clear of dolls in favor of more purposeful toys like Legos, board games and puzzles. Then she got an American Girl book and her perspective changed. For the uninitiated, nearly all American Girl dolls come with a back story – some are historical characters who grew up as slaves or during the Great Depression. Others are modern day heroines facing 21st century challenges like bullying and peer pressure. These dolls have a point. A purpose. My daughter was ready to be initiated and I jumped on the opportunity – a quick catalog call and the first doll was on a UPS truck to our door. Having already mothered a son through various phases of trucks, trains, guns, dinosaurs, cars, guns and more guns, I was selfishly eager to mix and match tiny outfits, style stiff synthetic hair, host doll tea parties, and rack up some serious mother/daughter time.
That was two years ago; we now have three American Girls in our collection – the third came home with us on Saturday. When we pulled in the driveway with our big red bag, I watched as my daughter raced from the car to show her drop-jawed little friends the bounty of her shopping spree. Shaking her head, one neighbor girl exclaimed with envy, “You are so lucky!” My daughter sighed, a beaming smile playing across her face. “I know.”
As flashbacks of my long-gone girlhood played across my mind, I thought “So am I.” Then I went upstairs to set up the tea party.
Monday, May 24, 2010
Monday, March 29, 2010
Just Let Them Eat Cake
My son turned 12 today and I did not send cupcakes to school. His birthday celebration took place over the weekend and was decidedly low key– his father took him and two friends to a water park for the day – I stayed home, got my hair cut, took a nap and ordered pizza for the slumber party later that evening. What a difference 12 years makes!
I recall with embarrassment the early years of motherhood when every birthday was celebrated as if my first born was the only child ever to turn two, or three, or four. Back then, I would launch myself into birthday party hysteria, hosting gala themed events replete with costumed TV characters, back-yard sized bounce houses, and cutesy menus (who can forget the Thomas the Tank Engine "Mr. Conductor Peanut butter sandwiches" cut into train shapes?) I've actually lost sleep wondering what to put in the goodie bags!
And it's not just me. My friend threw a circus for her daughter’s 7th birthday. A circus. There was face painting. Clowns. Balloon animals. Live entertainment. Seriously? What on earth is wrong with all of us?
Of course, like it or not, eventually you are forced to scale back. As kids get older their guest list gets smaller, typically narrowing to a few best friends rather than the obligatory entire class. Your audience dwindles too; parents start dropping off rather than staying for the festivities, so there really is no one left to impress. And as a mom, your involvement in the whole affair becomes increasingly optional. Apparently not convinced of this, I popped my head into my son’s slumber party late Saturday night to ask if they needed anything. I couldn’t help but laugh as three pre-pubescent faces glared silently back at me as if I’d asked them to sign up for summer school math. I got the message – get lost mom. We’re fine.
And you know what? I’m fine with that too. Maybe kids aren’t the only ones who mature over time. Still, my daughter will be eight in May. I'm wondering if Justin Bieber does house parties...
I recall with embarrassment the early years of motherhood when every birthday was celebrated as if my first born was the only child ever to turn two, or three, or four. Back then, I would launch myself into birthday party hysteria, hosting gala themed events replete with costumed TV characters, back-yard sized bounce houses, and cutesy menus (who can forget the Thomas the Tank Engine "Mr. Conductor Peanut butter sandwiches" cut into train shapes?) I've actually lost sleep wondering what to put in the goodie bags!
And it's not just me. My friend threw a circus for her daughter’s 7th birthday. A circus. There was face painting. Clowns. Balloon animals. Live entertainment. Seriously? What on earth is wrong with all of us?
Of course, like it or not, eventually you are forced to scale back. As kids get older their guest list gets smaller, typically narrowing to a few best friends rather than the obligatory entire class. Your audience dwindles too; parents start dropping off rather than staying for the festivities, so there really is no one left to impress. And as a mom, your involvement in the whole affair becomes increasingly optional. Apparently not convinced of this, I popped my head into my son’s slumber party late Saturday night to ask if they needed anything. I couldn’t help but laugh as three pre-pubescent faces glared silently back at me as if I’d asked them to sign up for summer school math. I got the message – get lost mom. We’re fine.
And you know what? I’m fine with that too. Maybe kids aren’t the only ones who mature over time. Still, my daughter will be eight in May. I'm wondering if Justin Bieber does house parties...
Wednesday, February 10, 2010
Sweet Hearts
My dad was my first Valentine. He was that strong, handsome, home-by-five provider that typified suburban 1960s life. I remember the years he worked a night job at a local country club – on holidays like New Year’s and Valentine’s Day there would be fancy, celebrity-filled parties – Lucille Ball, Jack Lemmon, Count Basie – these were the A-listers of my parent’s generation, and my dad served them all. On those nights I’d try to wait up for him because he’d always come home with great stories of who was the best (or worst) tipper, and he’d bring bags of leftovers and party favors: gourmet finger sandwiches, frosted tea cakes, pink and red balloons, streamers and more.
When I was older, February 14th was always celebrated with heart shaped boxes of candy. One for me, one for my mother, my daddy’s “girls.” Long before I dreamed of boys, I knew there was one man in my life who would never forget his Valentine. The tradition continued until I left for college, a relief I think since my taste in chocolate had gotten expensive by then. Dad had gone from grabbing $12 boxes of Whitman’s Samplers at the five and dime to waiting on line to shell out $25 for Godiva truffles, my favorite. Not that he ever complained.
I just ordered flowers for my parents for Valentine’s Day, and as I addressed the card, there were many things I wanted to tell my dad about my recent reflections, but couldn’t. The dementia that has stolen both his personality and our personal history leaves me no common ground on which to build a conversation, share an anecdote, or even reminisce. He will never remember our Valentine tradition since he will never again quite understand what this holiday of hearts and flowers and candy even signifies.
So I wrote this blog to say thanks to my dad, for showing me what romance should be: sweet, thoughtful, tender. A man of few words, my dad maintained traditions of love and loyalty that spoke volumes.
If you are loved by your father, you are blessed indeed. Happy Valentine’s Day, Daddy. I miss you so much.
When I was older, February 14th was always celebrated with heart shaped boxes of candy. One for me, one for my mother, my daddy’s “girls.” Long before I dreamed of boys, I knew there was one man in my life who would never forget his Valentine. The tradition continued until I left for college, a relief I think since my taste in chocolate had gotten expensive by then. Dad had gone from grabbing $12 boxes of Whitman’s Samplers at the five and dime to waiting on line to shell out $25 for Godiva truffles, my favorite. Not that he ever complained.
I just ordered flowers for my parents for Valentine’s Day, and as I addressed the card, there were many things I wanted to tell my dad about my recent reflections, but couldn’t. The dementia that has stolen both his personality and our personal history leaves me no common ground on which to build a conversation, share an anecdote, or even reminisce. He will never remember our Valentine tradition since he will never again quite understand what this holiday of hearts and flowers and candy even signifies.
So I wrote this blog to say thanks to my dad, for showing me what romance should be: sweet, thoughtful, tender. A man of few words, my dad maintained traditions of love and loyalty that spoke volumes.
If you are loved by your father, you are blessed indeed. Happy Valentine’s Day, Daddy. I miss you so much.
Wednesday, January 6, 2010
Melting Down
While on vacation over the New Year’s holiday, my seven-year old daughter experienced the mother of all meltdowns. As I learned later, it started as squabble with her older brother that left her feeling angry and misunderstood. Not wanting to be labeled a tattle, she chose to sideline herself as her brother and friends continued to play, seemingly oblivious to her self-imposed absence. Watching them laugh and joke without her only added to her frustration, and after festering in a stew of toxic emotions for twenty minutes or more, she finally just lost it.
It began as a low moaning whine and built into a crying jag jarring enough to raise the dead. Loud, relentless and borderline hysterical, she refused to be comforted. Hugs, threats, teasing, tickles and the tested and true “ignore her until she stops” technique all failed to halt the emotional tidal wave wracking her small body. Eventually we had her lie down to finish crying it out, and exhaustion quickly took over. She slept for three hours.
I’m not new to parenting and am well aware that tantrums come with the territory. But this experience caught me off guard. My daughter was not just unreasonable. She was unreachable, lost someplace inside herself we couldn’t seem to access. As I puzzled about her behavior, in a flash of insight I understood that while her uncontrollable crying was triggered by events of the day, the depth of her distress was rooted in experiences that occurred years earlier. An adopted foster child, she has already experienced more loss in her short life than I am ever likely to know. As a result, she’s been known to personalize even the slightest criticism, experiencing correction as rejection. And although maturity has tempered her tendency to overreact, she still has her moments.
Watching her sleep, all puffy eyed and flushed, I longed to take the brunt of the blows she’s been dealt. Kissing her still wet cheeks, I add my own tears to hers, heavy with the knowledge that I will never be enough of a mother to replace the one she’s lost. There is a hole in her heart my love can bandage but not mend. Then I do what I always do: I give her to God, healer of broken hearts, and ask Him to help my little girl sense the comfort of His arms around her. And I pray He helps me parent her with compassion and understanding. Especially when I don’t know how.
Today as I was putting on my makeup, I suddenly caught a glimpse of my own mother’s face staring back at me from the mirror. It’s an unsettling phenomenon that happens more and more frequently as I age. Then I realized with a start that my daughter is likely experiencing a similar phenomenon when she looks in the mirror. Her enviably high cheekbones, coffee-hued skin and luminous black eyes surely echo the face of the woman who carried her to term. I suspect this realization haunts her, since it's a face she has never actually seen outside of her dreams. When she was very young, she'd tug my arm in restaurants and stores, pointing to strangers and whispering, "Is that my real mom? Look - she's brown like me."
So I give her extra hugs. When she complains and frets, I do my best to console. And when all is said and done, I take to my room, close the door and have a meltdown of my own.
I can’t carry her pain. But I can follow her example and simply cry it out.
It began as a low moaning whine and built into a crying jag jarring enough to raise the dead. Loud, relentless and borderline hysterical, she refused to be comforted. Hugs, threats, teasing, tickles and the tested and true “ignore her until she stops” technique all failed to halt the emotional tidal wave wracking her small body. Eventually we had her lie down to finish crying it out, and exhaustion quickly took over. She slept for three hours.
I’m not new to parenting and am well aware that tantrums come with the territory. But this experience caught me off guard. My daughter was not just unreasonable. She was unreachable, lost someplace inside herself we couldn’t seem to access. As I puzzled about her behavior, in a flash of insight I understood that while her uncontrollable crying was triggered by events of the day, the depth of her distress was rooted in experiences that occurred years earlier. An adopted foster child, she has already experienced more loss in her short life than I am ever likely to know. As a result, she’s been known to personalize even the slightest criticism, experiencing correction as rejection. And although maturity has tempered her tendency to overreact, she still has her moments.
Watching her sleep, all puffy eyed and flushed, I longed to take the brunt of the blows she’s been dealt. Kissing her still wet cheeks, I add my own tears to hers, heavy with the knowledge that I will never be enough of a mother to replace the one she’s lost. There is a hole in her heart my love can bandage but not mend. Then I do what I always do: I give her to God, healer of broken hearts, and ask Him to help my little girl sense the comfort of His arms around her. And I pray He helps me parent her with compassion and understanding. Especially when I don’t know how.
Today as I was putting on my makeup, I suddenly caught a glimpse of my own mother’s face staring back at me from the mirror. It’s an unsettling phenomenon that happens more and more frequently as I age. Then I realized with a start that my daughter is likely experiencing a similar phenomenon when she looks in the mirror. Her enviably high cheekbones, coffee-hued skin and luminous black eyes surely echo the face of the woman who carried her to term. I suspect this realization haunts her, since it's a face she has never actually seen outside of her dreams. When she was very young, she'd tug my arm in restaurants and stores, pointing to strangers and whispering, "Is that my real mom? Look - she's brown like me."
So I give her extra hugs. When she complains and frets, I do my best to console. And when all is said and done, I take to my room, close the door and have a meltdown of my own.
I can’t carry her pain. But I can follow her example and simply cry it out.
Sunday, December 13, 2009
Untamed Heart
Fellow mom blogger Kyran Pittman penned a post recently that resonated with me. Her fabulous Notes to Self blog is my new favorite, and in it she offered a sneak-peak excerpt from her upcoming memoir. To read the full excerpt I encourage you to go to her blog, but the jist of it was that inside every honest woman there resides “a creature that can’t be domesticated.” I love that line and have pondered its meaning in recent weeks.
After 18 years of mostly happy marriage, a successful writing career, two kids, one dog, two consecutive suburban homes, a sensible sedan and several SUVs, sometimes I still wake up in the night panicked, wondering if my life has purpose. The security I spent years chasing down seems suffocating at 3 a.m., and that’s usually when I feel it stir, the seed of something I dare not feed or water. It’s a violent urge, this desire to shatter the wife and mommy mold I’ve strapped myself into so that the woman I lost along the way can claw her way back out.
As Kyran so eloquently says, this creature in each of us is restless and untamed. Like all wild things, it has an inclination to roam, a feral desire for danger, and a limited ability to form attachments – it will not be tied down. This creature, whoever she is, would not play nice at PTA meetings or bake brownies for Bible study. Nor would she even consider spending precious down time trolling recipe websites for 20-minute weeknight meals. She is Thelma and Louise. She is Glenn Close in Fatal Attraction. She’s the maneater Darryl Hall warned young men about, the one who only comes out at night.
Discontent is an elusive emotion. It’s rarely biting enough to spur change, yet it nags like a hungry child, whining incessantly but never satisfied with the very thing it demands.
My husband is not immune to these restless musings. We joke about quitting our day jobs, running off to Mexico and opening a taco stand. Pulling the kids out of school and traipsing around Europe for a year. Or moving to the mission field and living on faith and donations. But then he laughs, sets the alarm, and sleeps like a baby, while I stare at the ceiling and wonder how I will do this – live this life I’ve chosen – for the next 25 or so years.
But come morning, the creature slinks back to its cage. Routine relegate discontent to a dim corner of my consciousness I will not have time revisit any time soon. As I rush the kids out the door in a flurry of backpacks and briefcases, my “to do” list already dictating my day, I pause, suddenly aware of a low but steady purring, seemingly announcing the approach of a very large cat. I look around, expectant.
“Mom – you got new messages on your Blackberry!” my son shouts behind me, and I turn to see him scrolling the screen, fascinated with technology as only an 11-year old can be. I take the droning device from him and turn it off. Then I slide into my leased SUV, whisk out the driveway of my expansive corner lot, and chauffeur my kids to their pricey private school. Next it’s off to work, where I will spend the next eight hours earning nearly enough money to pay for the various trappings of my middle class life.
I do what I do to keep what I have. Like it or not.
After 18 years of mostly happy marriage, a successful writing career, two kids, one dog, two consecutive suburban homes, a sensible sedan and several SUVs, sometimes I still wake up in the night panicked, wondering if my life has purpose. The security I spent years chasing down seems suffocating at 3 a.m., and that’s usually when I feel it stir, the seed of something I dare not feed or water. It’s a violent urge, this desire to shatter the wife and mommy mold I’ve strapped myself into so that the woman I lost along the way can claw her way back out.
As Kyran so eloquently says, this creature in each of us is restless and untamed. Like all wild things, it has an inclination to roam, a feral desire for danger, and a limited ability to form attachments – it will not be tied down. This creature, whoever she is, would not play nice at PTA meetings or bake brownies for Bible study. Nor would she even consider spending precious down time trolling recipe websites for 20-minute weeknight meals. She is Thelma and Louise. She is Glenn Close in Fatal Attraction. She’s the maneater Darryl Hall warned young men about, the one who only comes out at night.
Discontent is an elusive emotion. It’s rarely biting enough to spur change, yet it nags like a hungry child, whining incessantly but never satisfied with the very thing it demands.
My husband is not immune to these restless musings. We joke about quitting our day jobs, running off to Mexico and opening a taco stand. Pulling the kids out of school and traipsing around Europe for a year. Or moving to the mission field and living on faith and donations. But then he laughs, sets the alarm, and sleeps like a baby, while I stare at the ceiling and wonder how I will do this – live this life I’ve chosen – for the next 25 or so years.
But come morning, the creature slinks back to its cage. Routine relegate discontent to a dim corner of my consciousness I will not have time revisit any time soon. As I rush the kids out the door in a flurry of backpacks and briefcases, my “to do” list already dictating my day, I pause, suddenly aware of a low but steady purring, seemingly announcing the approach of a very large cat. I look around, expectant.
“Mom – you got new messages on your Blackberry!” my son shouts behind me, and I turn to see him scrolling the screen, fascinated with technology as only an 11-year old can be. I take the droning device from him and turn it off. Then I slide into my leased SUV, whisk out the driveway of my expansive corner lot, and chauffeur my kids to their pricey private school. Next it’s off to work, where I will spend the next eight hours earning nearly enough money to pay for the various trappings of my middle class life.
I do what I do to keep what I have. Like it or not.
Friday, November 13, 2009
Don't I Know You From Somewhere?
Imagine a place where every disparate segment of your life collides. In this alternate universe you can spend quality time with people from your past, your present and possibly even your future. Your ninth grade nemesis is there. So is your first crush. Your high school prom date is chatting with the guy who dumped you for your (former) best friend. Your husband and your ex are chumming around too, bonding over music trivia.
Your old boss has shown up, and frighteningly, so has your current boss, along with a whole posse of girlfriends – college roomates, bridesmaids, work friends and PTA pals. Your pastor has dropped in, oh, and just for good measure, some of your crazy relatives did too: first, second, even third cousins and their kids. These people have no common interests and no real desire to get to know each other. Their sole purpose for being here is the fact that they have (or had) some kind of relationship with you. The problem is most of them know WAY to much about you (I mean, who introduces their Bible study friends to their drug buddies from back in the day?) Naturally, there are all kinds of alarms are going off in your head since clearly these people should NOT be mingling. But it’s too late. Even if you leave now, everyone will still be here when you get back. Watching. Waiting. Posting. Tagging.
Welcome to the very weird world of Facebook.
I just got a friend request from someone whose name was only vaguely familiar. Her picture offered no clues, but since she knew me by my maiden name I assumed it was a legit request and not some MLM team building scheme. I accepted. Turns out she and I were buds back in junior high – 7th grade according to her. A mere 36 years ago. She gushed that she was so excited to “find” me (really? She looked?) She assumed I remembered her – I’m still not sure I do, but I’m playing along. She wants to know what I’ve been up to. So… how exactly do you tell someone what you’ve been doing since you were 13? Who remembers? And why would you even want to? There’s a reason nobody goes to junior high reunions.
Of course now I’m in a junior high school friending freefall because accepting a friend request from one former acquaintance now opens you up to everyone else on their FB page – people who may also think they remember you from somewhere. I’ve already had two more requests from people I can’t place. It’s the “If you give a pig a pancake” rule of social networking.
Used to be there were old friends, former friends and new friends. This new category of FB friends has me baffled, because here the old become the new, former become the current, and nobody ever drops off the rolodex.
So where do you draw the line at ignoring people and hoping they just go back into the once closed door of your past where they belong? Is it rude to simply not respond to friendship requests on FB? Or is there a polite way to say “thanks…but no thanks.”
Your old boss has shown up, and frighteningly, so has your current boss, along with a whole posse of girlfriends – college roomates, bridesmaids, work friends and PTA pals. Your pastor has dropped in, oh, and just for good measure, some of your crazy relatives did too: first, second, even third cousins and their kids. These people have no common interests and no real desire to get to know each other. Their sole purpose for being here is the fact that they have (or had) some kind of relationship with you. The problem is most of them know WAY to much about you (I mean, who introduces their Bible study friends to their drug buddies from back in the day?) Naturally, there are all kinds of alarms are going off in your head since clearly these people should NOT be mingling. But it’s too late. Even if you leave now, everyone will still be here when you get back. Watching. Waiting. Posting. Tagging.
Welcome to the very weird world of Facebook.
I just got a friend request from someone whose name was only vaguely familiar. Her picture offered no clues, but since she knew me by my maiden name I assumed it was a legit request and not some MLM team building scheme. I accepted. Turns out she and I were buds back in junior high – 7th grade according to her. A mere 36 years ago. She gushed that she was so excited to “find” me (really? She looked?) She assumed I remembered her – I’m still not sure I do, but I’m playing along. She wants to know what I’ve been up to. So… how exactly do you tell someone what you’ve been doing since you were 13? Who remembers? And why would you even want to? There’s a reason nobody goes to junior high reunions.
Of course now I’m in a junior high school friending freefall because accepting a friend request from one former acquaintance now opens you up to everyone else on their FB page – people who may also think they remember you from somewhere. I’ve already had two more requests from people I can’t place. It’s the “If you give a pig a pancake” rule of social networking.
Used to be there were old friends, former friends and new friends. This new category of FB friends has me baffled, because here the old become the new, former become the current, and nobody ever drops off the rolodex.
So where do you draw the line at ignoring people and hoping they just go back into the once closed door of your past where they belong? Is it rude to simply not respond to friendship requests on FB? Or is there a polite way to say “thanks…but no thanks.”
Tuesday, November 3, 2009
Judgment Call
I recently read a blog by Irene Vilar, a self-described “abortion addict.” Irene had 15 abortions in 16 years, but today has two young children – she claims finally yielding to motherhood saved her from the cycle of habitual pregnancy termination. She also admits getting pregnant with the intent to abort – often waiting until the second term of pregnancy to end it. Her blog promotes her recently published memoir entitled Impossible Motherhood, which cites among other things, a background of neglect and abandonment that led her to end more than a dozen pregnancies. Her tone is one of measured remorse; she’s sorry, but it’s not her fault.
Whenever I read controversial pieces, I’m always eager to see how people weigh in. Many read this blog and expressed feelings of sadness, outrage and disgust. Others extended compassion and understanding. Some politicized and still others proselytized. Not surprisingly, quite a few people were harshly critical. But what struck me was the number of people who were quick to label anyone judgmental who dared question this woman’s choices. In response to one particularly caustic comment, one irate reader ranted: “Who are YOU to judge HER?” It’s a fair question.
As a Christian I know all about withholding the first stone. I’ve made some very poor choices of my own, including two abortions – one in high school and a second in college. Am I morally superior to Irene Vilar because her aborted children outnumber mine? Of course not. Some will of course argue that abortion is not a moral issue to begin with; I’ll table that for another discussion. What I’m wondering though, is when did it become virtually impossible to criticize someone or something without having the “J” word hurled your way? Frankly, in this case, I think if you put yourself out there and write a book about unconventional behavior, you are asking for reactions. Reactions do, after all, sell books.
I’m not purchasing the book but I do have a reaction. I find it abusive and irresponsible to abort for sport. To purposefully skip your birth control pills (which Irene says she did repeatedly to rebel against a domineering husband) is reckless and foolish. I also think describing abortion as an addiction minimizes the very real problems that afflict millions of people – dependence on drugs, alcohol and other destructive substances and behaviors. That Irene felt empowered killing babies she says she intentionally conceived is more mental illness than addiction. That she will now parlay her troubled past into talk show appearances and an income stream is akin to taking blood money.
True, I have never met Irene and did not read her book, so I’m ill-equipped to comment on the whole of her life circumstances. I can draw conclusion only from the facts provided: her pregnancies occurred primarily in the confines of a marriage to a man who did not want children. But he did not force her to abort; she never told him about the pregnancies.
For her part, Irene blames her choices on a “hypersexualized society that at once values the perfect mother, but also expects women to be sexually attractive to men and to achieve professionally.”
So it is society’s fault she had 15 abortions. A society that unfairly made her choose between her sexuality, her career, her marriage and her unborn children. Given her current age of 40, the timeline for these archaic ideas she felt beholden to was around the mid-80s through late 90s, so I can’t say I’m buying that idea. But if you want to play the blame game, then you are essentially admitting there is blame to be assigned.
15 children died at this woman’s whim – that’s more than half of your average kindergarten class, just to give some perspective. Who bears the burden of guilt here is not for me to decide, but I do have an opinion about it. And I don’t think that makes me judgmental.
To read Irene’s blog: http://community.todaymoms.com/_news/2009/11/02/3453446-after-having-15-abortions-motherhood-saved-her
What do you think of this story? Can you judge behavior without judging the person? And where do you draw the line?
Whenever I read controversial pieces, I’m always eager to see how people weigh in. Many read this blog and expressed feelings of sadness, outrage and disgust. Others extended compassion and understanding. Some politicized and still others proselytized. Not surprisingly, quite a few people were harshly critical. But what struck me was the number of people who were quick to label anyone judgmental who dared question this woman’s choices. In response to one particularly caustic comment, one irate reader ranted: “Who are YOU to judge HER?” It’s a fair question.
As a Christian I know all about withholding the first stone. I’ve made some very poor choices of my own, including two abortions – one in high school and a second in college. Am I morally superior to Irene Vilar because her aborted children outnumber mine? Of course not. Some will of course argue that abortion is not a moral issue to begin with; I’ll table that for another discussion. What I’m wondering though, is when did it become virtually impossible to criticize someone or something without having the “J” word hurled your way? Frankly, in this case, I think if you put yourself out there and write a book about unconventional behavior, you are asking for reactions. Reactions do, after all, sell books.
I’m not purchasing the book but I do have a reaction. I find it abusive and irresponsible to abort for sport. To purposefully skip your birth control pills (which Irene says she did repeatedly to rebel against a domineering husband) is reckless and foolish. I also think describing abortion as an addiction minimizes the very real problems that afflict millions of people – dependence on drugs, alcohol and other destructive substances and behaviors. That Irene felt empowered killing babies she says she intentionally conceived is more mental illness than addiction. That she will now parlay her troubled past into talk show appearances and an income stream is akin to taking blood money.
True, I have never met Irene and did not read her book, so I’m ill-equipped to comment on the whole of her life circumstances. I can draw conclusion only from the facts provided: her pregnancies occurred primarily in the confines of a marriage to a man who did not want children. But he did not force her to abort; she never told him about the pregnancies.
For her part, Irene blames her choices on a “hypersexualized society that at once values the perfect mother, but also expects women to be sexually attractive to men and to achieve professionally.”
So it is society’s fault she had 15 abortions. A society that unfairly made her choose between her sexuality, her career, her marriage and her unborn children. Given her current age of 40, the timeline for these archaic ideas she felt beholden to was around the mid-80s through late 90s, so I can’t say I’m buying that idea. But if you want to play the blame game, then you are essentially admitting there is blame to be assigned.
15 children died at this woman’s whim – that’s more than half of your average kindergarten class, just to give some perspective. Who bears the burden of guilt here is not for me to decide, but I do have an opinion about it. And I don’t think that makes me judgmental.
To read Irene’s blog: http://community.todaymoms.com/_news/2009/11/02/3453446-after-having-15-abortions-motherhood-saved-her
What do you think of this story? Can you judge behavior without judging the person? And where do you draw the line?
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