1. Bitching to My Personal Trainer
An intense plyo circuit releases sweat and produces endorphin rushes. It also makes me spew verbal diarrhea. I typically begin by moaning about my physical aches and pains. “I don’t like to complain, but… my Achilles, my upper back injury, my left hip…yadda yadda yadda.” Then I moan about my personal life. “I love my baby, but…my exhaustion, my laundry, my empty fridge…blah blah blah blee blah.” Why on earth do I do this? Continue reading
Blah blah blee blah. Me at #girlbossyeg
Last month I was identified as a “Girl Boss” and invited to participate in a networking extravaganza, organized by Intervivos, a mentorship society in Edmonton. http://www.intervivos.ca. After saying yes, I googled “Girl Boss” to discover what in the hell that was. Continue reading
Being looked at is a powerful, identity-forming experience. Diego Velazquez, Rokeby Venus, c.1647-51, National Gallery, London.
So what have I been up to lately? You can spot me most mornings wearing sensible shoes and sporting thick eye bags as I push a stroller—my adorable son is inside—to the café, the spray park, the public library, the grocery store, or the Shopper’s Drug Mart. Much to my surprise, Sebastian attracts a lot of attention from just about everyone: male construction workers, female baristas, old ladies with boney fingers that like to poke chubby cheeks. Every single day, I hear the following phrases at least five times: “What a beautiful baby!” “Look at those eyelashes!” “What big blue eyes!” He is going to break all the girls’ hearts when he is older!” While I enjoy the first three comments, I bristle at the last one. I do not want my baby to be sexualized and/or hetero-sexualized in this fashion. He might grow up to be gay, trans, asexual, shy, or awkward. At least I hope so. These options are better than the proffered vision of him as an ultra-masculine sex bomb barreling through life, moving from one lady to the next. But I digress, for the main issue I want to discuss today is how this public reaction to my son’s appearance is literally creating his world. Continue reading
After years of their mothers shuttling them around, grown children suddenly hate riding in cars with their mothers.
Flicking through FM radio this morning, while driving to the gym, I hear two DJ’s talking about a Twitter survey they had just conducted. “If you had to take a long car ride with someone, who would you LEAST want it to be?” The first nine answers they received were, “My mother.” One tweeter elaborated: because she “always talks at me, instead of watching the road.”
Hey wait a minute…. Real feminists hate babies, don’t they? And what’s up with that nail polish, missy?
I am standing in line for the “family bathroom” at Southgate Mall, waiting to use the nursing chair. Although I am pretending to be relaxed—chatting with the mother of a one-month old son—I am in fact terrified. Are there any feminists about? I scan the crowd for the tell-tale signs of bra-less tits, angry fists raised in the air, and armpit hair. Continue reading