Gendered

Lydia has a doctor's kit that she really enjoys using while pretending to be a doctor. She kind of reminds me of my own pediatrician, since she seems to relish giving me shots. Recently, her stethoscope broke, and she expressed interest in a new doctor's kit. The conversation went like so many conversations we have lately seem to go - in the direction of pink.

"Mom, I want a pink doctor's kit," she informed me. "With a pink stethoscope."
"Pink?" I scoffed, "Real doctors don't use pink stethoscopes!" I tried reasoning.
"That's OK. I'm not a real doctor."
Darn, her logic was unassailable.

The thing is, why do they even make pink doctor's kits? Don't get me wrong - I love pink. It's not about pink, it's about the gender norms it represents. Why are so many toys gendered from such a young age these days? Why are floaties, pull-ups, sippy cups, receiving blankets, popper push toys, bibs, strollers, car seats, kids' flatware/plates, and now even Legos (this list could go on and on) gendered? Why did we move away from babies in white gowns?

Photo of two babies taken 1905-1913, by Beverly

Everything around my daughters seems to be pink, even though I am a mother who actively resists societal norms about gender. Lydia definitely has gotten the message from the world around her that pink is for girls, and she always chooses pink if given the option. I find myself constantly being torn - I want to allow her to have agency to make her own choices, even if they are pink ones. I get that it is a normal part of development to understand and assert sex differences - the cognitive development questions at Lydia's 3-year check up included, "Are you a girl or a boy? Am I a girl or a boy?" Yet, I worry that if something doesn't come in pink - like a soccer ball, a science kit, a guitar, or hiking boots - she won't even see those activities as in the realm of her life possibilities. I'm concerned that she will see boys as so fundamentally different from her that she won't form healthy relationships with them. Despite the feminist movement, it seems like social norms about gender limit possibilities for our children at a younger and younger age.

I recently heard an interesting radio program on understanding gender non-conforming children. The one guest who is a mother of a gender non-conforming child shared about how her son gravitated towards Barbie and pink shoes starting around age 2, and how challenging it can be to support him as he is bullied and mocked by others for his gender non-conforming preferences and behaviors. The experts talked about understanding and support for gender non-conforming children, but what none of the guests talked about was the fact that pink is not something that is inherently feminine - that is an American social construct! There are biological differences between men and women, but the intra-sex variance is greater than the inter-sex variance on all of the areas of difference. It seems to me that at least part of the solution for supporting gender non-conforming children - and all of our children - is to stop teaching them from the moment they come out of the womb that boys and girls are so different that they each need separate toys, hygiene products and clothes. Yet, I haven't successfully figured out how to do that in the age of pink Legos.

Parting with my pump

Anna is just shy of a year old, and I'm packing up my breast pump to part permanently with it. It's not a fond farewell. For the first 3-5 months of their lives, it was with a hefty dose of pain and difficulty that I breast fed both of our daughters, but I grew to enjoy the breast feeding relationship as they grew older and overcame their physical struggles to breast feed. There have been many beautifully intimate moments nourishing my daughters cradled in my lap. However, what I never grew to enjoy was pumping. It is a huge burden for mothers who work outside the home while attempting to continue to provide breast milk. 

When I read Suzanne Barston's book about baby feeding battles, Bottled Up, I was intrigued by her reference to the scholarship of Orit Avishai, who has conducted qualitative research on breast feeding among middle-class American women. Particularly, I wanted to read her 2004 Journal of the Association for Research on Mothering article entitled, "At the Pump." Appropriately, I finally got around to reading it this week, just as I determined I am done pumping. Avishai sums up her own paper as follows: "The paper tells a pessimistic story of working mothers who often push their bodies to the limit as they attempt to meet a goal, measured in the number of ounces of milk extracted per day, and who are deeply ambivalent and conflicted about their lactating bodies." (p. 140)

Several things about the article resonated with me as I packed up my pump. First, Avishai discusses the challenging time bind that women who balance family and work outside the home find themselves in. She refers to it as a "'simultaneous double shift': pumping is experienced both as work, and as a maternal practice that competes with real work." (p. 142). When I was in college, I read The Second Shift (Hochschild 1997),  which investigated two-career couples and the time each partner spent on work and domestic duties. The women in the study working outside of the home were still doing most or all of the household chores and taking primary responsibility of the day-to-day care of the children, resulting in an extra month of work per year for women compared to men (dubbed "the second shift" by the author). I vowed that I would never enter in to a two-career marriage in which I took on all the heavy lifting of domestic duties. And I'm happy to say that I absolutely have not. But Avishai's reference to the simultaneous second shift of pumping is apt. Lactation is the sole responsibility of the mother, and I felt to be a good mother working outside the home, I had to pump. But unlike breast feeding, which at least has the potential to be an intimate act, pumping is work. In an average pumping session, I'd be rushing between meetings, attempting to hook myself up to a machine to express milk, while ideally working at my computer so I didn't "lose" or "waste" that time. I lugged my pump, hands-free pumping bra, nipple shields, breast shield connectors, multiple bottles, ice pack and cooler all over U-M campus for the first year of both girls' lives.

All the gear I daily lugged to my office in order to pump.

I felt I had to apologize when I declined requests to visit 3-hour classes, and bent over backwards trying to figure out how to attend professional events in locations without any lactation facilities. Once, I visited an environmental journalism course that had a field trip scheduled for the first 2 hours of class, so I pumped in my car on the side of the service drive of the Recycle Ann Arbor facility before speeding back to campus to meet the class back at their classroom. While moderating a series of panels on alternative academic careers that I had organized at Rackham graduate school, I rushed to take pump breaks in the public restroom to save time (the nearest lactation facility was a 5-minute walk away and required that I ask a building facility person for the key). When I heard other women come in to use the bathroom, I cowered in my stall hoping no one would ask me, "What in God's name are you DOING in there??" There were times with Lydia when I would stay up late or get up early to try to squeeze in an extra pumping session so that I could be sure she'd have enough milk the following day, and then go in to work zombified and exhausted. According to Avishai's interviews, I'm not special - all the women she interviewed reported a challenging, stressful and physically and emotionally draining juggling act to pump at work.

Avishai also talks about individual attempts to negotiate one's self-image as worker with the embodied practicalities of being a lactating mother. It's kind of comical the things that happened to confound my attempts to appear "professional," which I felt meant revealing as little as possible about lactation. Several times, in my rush to pump and work at the same time, I forgot to attach bottles to the breast shield connectors, leaving a pool of several ounces of milk on my dry-clean-only lap. There was also the conundrum of how to communicate that I was pumping to my coworkers. Initially, when I returned to work after having Lydia, I would put notes on my door saying things like, "In the library" (my first lactation space) or, "Will return in 20 minutes." My boss once came knocking at the library door thinking that the note was communicating to people where they should seek me out if they needed me - we were both mortified. But I felt I couldn't just put it out there and say what I was really doing, since people don't want to know about my biological functions. A coworker (and mother of two) pulled me aside one day when Lydia was about 7 months old and told me that I needed to quit with the euphemisms and just put it out there. So I did. By the time Anna was born, I had adopted a hot pink post-it note that simply said, "Pumping." When I was co-teaching a 5-hour professional development class, on the first day of class I shared with the 60 students that I would occasionally do a disappearing act because I'm a lactating mom. I figured better that they know the truth about my bodily functions than think I'm disrespecting their time. When I told my boss last week that I was finally done pumping, she (half-jokingly) suggested I put a hot pink post-in note up for a week saying, "Done pumping!" One of the women Avishai interviewed put the negotiation between her productive work self-image and pumping this way, "So I'm partially undressed in the closet with this weird apparatus that looks faintly obscene hanging from my breasts. For someone who's in a professional context, it's kind of a mind bender." (p. 145)

Needless to say, I'm not shedding any tears saying farewell to my pump. I also find myself wishing mothers didn't feel so much pressure to do a simultaneous double shift, though I realize that's not easy in our society where workplaces and homes are typically worlds apart and professional and private lives are largely separate. 

In celebration of 3 years: Lydiaisms

Lydia is three years old today.

Lydia with the birthday balloon she selected for herself.

I cannot believe she is growing so fast. And yet, with some of the things she says, sometimes I can't believe she's just turning three. In celebration of her witticisms and sly sense of humor, I present some gems I've kept track of over the last year of her life:

Post-nap, inexplicable tantrum.

5/6/12
"I don't want to go to night night in my big girl bed."

6/16/12
Lydia upon seeing a stuffed Angry Birds toy at Target: "Are those mad penguins?"

6/19/12
"Isn't daddy sexy?" while looking at a photo album with pictures of Jeff.

6/27/12
Me: "OK! It's bath time!"
Lydia: "I want to cuddle on your bed."
Me: "Oh, OK!" (cuddling commences)
Lydia: "I love you!"

7/22/12
Lydia: "I don't have a tail. I have a butt only. I can jump with my butt!"

8/13/12
As Lydia and Jeff Schram are having a rave dancing to The Glitch Mob, Lydia screamed at me, "Mama! You can dance - you have a tutu!!" 
For the record, I was wearing a skirt. 

Typical outfit for a basement dance party.

8/26/12
Mommy: "Do you want to go to church today?" 
Lydia: "Yeah!" 
Mommy: "Are you going to play with kids?" 
Lydia: "I'm going to cry and say, 'I want my mama.'"

Lydia the tattooed lady.

8/28/12
Lydia: "I farted!" 
Me: "Oh, yeah, I smell it. That's stinky." 
Lydia: "Yeah. It's a deep, dark fart."

9/7/12
Conversation that ensued when I went to get Lydia out of bed: 
Me: Opens door. 
Lydia: "Hi, Laura." 
Me: Laughs. 
Lydia: "Are you Laura?" 
Me: "Yes, but you're supposed to say, 'Hi, Mommy.'" 
Lydia: Laughs. 
Me: "C'mere. Gimme a hug!" 
Lydia: "No. Let's go downstairs."

9/27/12
Insight from Lydia on breast feeding: "That's not chocolate milk in your nipples."

10/3/12
"The whole wide world is my cookies."

Penny the pumpkin.

10/16/12
Me after Lydia fell in the mud: "We just need to change your pants."
Lydia: "We need to put on some new hand-me-downs."
10/22/12
Lydia's position on the philosophical debate about the moral status of plant life: "Apples and oranges don't talk."

A Michigan football Saturday.

10/27/12
We drove by Cobblestone Farm and said to Lydia, "That is where mommy and daddy got married!" 
She said, "Are you still married?"

11/4/12
On a new cheese sample: "It's like feta. It's stinky and yummy."

11/9/12
Lydia: "I wanna breast feed." 
Me: "You can't breast feed until you have a baby." 
Lydia: "I have a baby. A baby sister."

First underwear. She picked "Cars" themed.

11/20/12
Lydia's response to my statement that she is being rude: "I like to be rude."

11/26/12
Lydia says she has to sell tofu so she can "festicate." 

12/2/12
Me: "You can just sip your soup out of the bowl since that's how they do it in Japan." 
Lydia: "Where's Japan?" 
Me: "It is far away across the ocean." 
Lydia: "I wanna go to the ocean and find Japan."

12/7/12
Lydia was pretending to make me a pie, and I asked her, "Is it pumpkin pie?" 
"No, it's donut pie," she replied.

12/21/12
Lydia looked in her potty and told me, "I pooped a 's'!" 

1/4/13
Lydia: "I just got married!" 
Me: "What? Married?" 
Lydia: "I got pretend married." 
Me: "Who did you marry?" 
Lydia: "I married myself."

1/16/13
Lydia, whining. 
Me: "What's up?" 
Lydia: "I wanna love you." 
I try to hug her. 

Lydia's first Christmas concert.

Lydia: "Don't do that!!" 
Me: "OK!" 
Lydia, whining, "I LOVE YOU!" 
Me: "I love YOU, too!" 
Lydia" "DON'T SAY THAT!!!!!"

1/20/13
Lydia: (Burps.) 
Me: "What do you say when you burp?" 
Lydia: "Hai-YA!" (accompanied by a karate chop.)

1/27/13
Me: "Lydia, why are you throwing your costumes all over the floor?" 
Lydia: "I'm just sprinkling them."

2/7/13
What Lydia told me when I went into her room in the morning: "I can't get outta this bed cuz it has poop on it."

2/8/13
"I want to float in the air like Mary Poppins. I can do that when I get bigger." 

2/15/13
Lydia: "I want everyone to go to work." 
Me: "Really? Why?" 
Lydia: "I wanna be home by myself." 
(Long silence as I contemplate that this conversation shouldn't happen for at least 5 more years.) 
Me: "You can't stay home by yourself for a loooong time. Not until you are 12 years old." 
Lydia: "I'll do that tomorrow. When I wake up I'll be 12 tomorrow."

2/28/13
"My baby sister's not gonna go back in your belly."

3/8/13
"Mom, go away so I can be naughty."

3/31/13
Me: "Lydia, how was church?" 
Lydia: "The play church was really awesome, mom."


4/12/13
"Are you my real mom?"

4/14/13
Lydia: "Mom, you're married." 
Me: "Yeah. Who am I married to?" 
Lydia: "Me!"

4/16/13
As I attempted to get Lydia dressed after bath time, she informed me: " Mom, I'm a pirate. Pirates don't wear underwear."

4/19/13
Lydia is curious about other languages and kept asking me how to say things in various languages. She asked, "How do you say 'taco' in Spanish?" 

4/23/13
"Princesses don't pick their noses."

4/29/13

Jumping off her birthday gift.

While driving in Kerrytown, Lydia informs us: "This is near Zingerman's, guys." 

5/4/13 (Her birthday)
Her thoughts on her Toy Story cupcake that we baked together: "It's yum."

Stupormom

I have heard parents of older children talk about how challenging mornings are - getting everyone fed, dressed and out the door for school. I thought that I had a while before I would have to deal with that, since my kids are at home with our beloved Judy when I'm at the office. So in theory, they don't need to be dressed and fed before I'm out the door on the days I work outside the home. Yet, I usually feel like it's part of my motherhood job to feed my children each morning and get them dressed. I also feel like it's part of my motherhood job to prepare healthy meals for dinner and do laundry. I mean, I work at the office fewer hours than Jeff, and I actually love cooking, so our division of labor makes sense, right? Thus, I've been trying to do all that - meet my alter-ego Supermom! But several mornings lately, I realized I'm no Supermom. I'm Stupormom - barely able to respond to stimuli because I'm already spent by 8:30AM.

Take this morning. My parents are coming to town, and I wanted to have a nice meal ready for them. So I planned to make chili in the morning and have it hot and ready when I get home from the office to serve everyone. I also had baskets of laundry to do, and didn't want my parents to see our house in disarray and our kids with no clean clothes to wear. So, I figured I'd just do our morning "get fed, get dressed" routine while also doing these other few things. I showered and got the chili almost done before the girls even woke up, and was feeling like Supermom. I got them dressed pretty easily and we all sat down for breakfast.

Does it count as "getting my kid dressed" if this is the resulting ensemble?

I planned to cook some cornbread with Lydia and throw in a load of laundry after everyone was fed. There was one hour remaining until I had to leave for the office at that point - "This Supermom gig isn't that tough!" I thought to myself. Lydia finished her breakfast and was quietly reading a book, and Anna was still eating little bits of beets in her highchair (what baby doesn't love beets for breakfast?). I figured this was my moment to run up and get the laundry baskets, so I stirred the chili quickly and did just that. I jogged up and down the stairs and dropped the baskets in the kitchen - it felt like less than three minutes that I was gone. I looked up from the laundry baskets to find Anna covered in puke from head to toe, including lots of little chunks of beets, and holding a bottle of baby medicine. "Lydia, did you give her that??" I demanded. She confessed she did. Apparently Anna had gagged herself on the baby medicine bottle in my absence? Or choked on a beet? "At least she didn't choke to death while I wasn't watching," I thought to myself. I pondered what story I would tell the police if she had choked. I precariously tried to get Anna into the sink, while attempting to avoid getting my silk work sweater covered in green puke (before the beets, Anna was eating a spinach-based homemade baby purée that Stupormom's alter-ego Supermom had made). I got down to her diaper, saw it was covered in puke, too, and ripped it off. I discovered: poop! "LYDIA, I need HELP?!?!!!!" I begged my toddler for a baby wipe. She tottered aimlessly over to where the wipes are, and I decided I had to get one myself. I got to the wipes at the same time as Lydia, and she sweetly handed me one. We ran back upstairs to get Anna redressed, and I then dragged the kids back down to the kitchen to make the corn bread. I dumped my Trader Joe's mix into a bowl, and went to grab milk out of the refrigerator - no milk. I poured out 3/4 of a cup of half-n-half before deciding that would be too much saturated fat (gotta keep my family healthy!). I poured the half-n-half it back into its container and scribbled "MILK" on a running grocery list I have of ingredients that I am out of and need before the weekend, when I "have to" (in my mind) cook a feast for Lydia's third birthday party, including two homemade batches of "Toy Story" inspired cupcakes. By the time I was on my way to work 20 minutes later, I had spoken with various loved ones (my mom, Judy and Jeff) to talk with them about various things I'd forgotten to do for or tell each of them. I realized I also had forgotten my parking pass, and called in to the front desk at work to see if we had a guest pass that I could use. 

As I turned my office lights on and attempted to text my mom a grocery list, a coworker kindly asked me how I'm doing. I felt speechless. Stupormom.

The Parental Beatitudes

I've read some interesting academic discussions lately about whether parenting makes you happy. Renowned economist Daniel Kahneman led many to conclude parenting makes one unhappy based on his study of working mothers in 2004, in which he asked participants to rate how happy they were doing various tasks throughout their days. Lo and behold, mothers reported childcare-related activities did not bring them much utility. Based on a series of studies of parents (men and women), Sonja Lyubomirsky recently argued in her book The Myths of Happiness that folks are overall happier who have kids, despite the fact that they may not necessarily be at the heights of joy while performing childcare-related activities. She argues that parents report having more meaning in their lives, making them happier.

All this begs the question - what does it really mean to be happy? As I read these studies, there is some debate about what happiness is. Is it the feeling you experience moment-to-moment, or is it a steady state of overall life satisfaction? Much of the academic debate about whether parenthood makes one happy comes down to whether one is referring to that in-the-moment feeling or an overall sense of purpose and meaning. I was pondering this question just this morning as I struggled to get Anna down for a morning nap. I could interpret this experience of watching her fight sleep, whining and fussing in my arms, as incredibly frustrating. Or I could interpret this experience as an opportunity to comfort a suffering, helpless person. My interpretation of that event would determine whether this activity made me "happy."

As I pondered this, I thought of Jesus's famous teaching on happiness known as the beatitudes. Jesus basically tells us that those who society thinks are cursed - the weak, poor and suffering - are actually those who are most blessed. In other words, what is meaningful in life is not necessarily the same as what brings a person happiness in that in-the-moment sense of the word. I personally think all the academic discussion of whether parenting makes one happy reflects a very American notion that the pursuit of our own individual happiness is what matters in life. I'm convinced that the pursuit of feeling good isn't what matters in life - that's just hedonism.

Thus, I present:

The Parental Beatitudes

Photo by everdred

Blessed are the 9-months pregnant women, for they are about to bring life into the world.

Blessed are the parents feeding their children, for they are nourishing.

Blessed are the parents changing diapers, for they are cleansing another's most vulnerable parts.

Blessed are the parents of colicky babies, for they learn to comfort.

Blessed are the parents up every few hours nightly, for they have endurance.

Blessed are the parents of a tantruming toddler, for they attain self-control.

Blessed are the parents gently disciplining, for they are character builders.

Blessed are the parents of a hurting child, for they are healers of wounds.

I'm old fashioned, but I don't mind it.

While I love me some Ella Fitzgerald, I have no sense of whimsy and charm when the lyrics of "I'm Old Fashioned" keep popping into my brain these days. I find myself standing baffled and disgusted before the micro-mini frayed denim skirts in the toddler section at Kohl's, angered by the bikinis for infants in the Zulily promotional e-mails, and offended by the illustrations on pre-school board games.

When I was a kid, I loved the game Candyland. I mean, what can be more exciting to a child than drooling over gumdrops and ice cream on your race to a Candy castle? So needless to say, I was super excited when my sister-in-law got us the game for Lydia at Christmas this past year. I couldn't wait to play it with her and watch her enjoy it. Until I opened the box, and saw how Candyland has been sexed up. Because apparently being sweet - literally and figuratively - is no longer good enough for a preschool board game. You have to be sexy sweet in the "pour some sugar on me" kind of way. Princess Frostine looks like Paris Hilton - pouty lips, big eyes, and amplified bosom. When I saw this, I inwardly told myself to get over it, that it's not noticeable to Lydia. Within minutes, she remarked, "I like that princess!" I responded by telling Lydia that I didn't like her, and instead prefer the chocolate mountain grandma. Clearly noticing my chagrin, Lydia began referring to Princess Frostine as "the bad princess" every time we played the game together. Finally, I decided to tell Lydia it would be a fun art project to decorate our Candyland game with stickers, and I gleefully covered Princess Frostine up with several flower stickers.

I recently took Lydia to our pediatrician's office, and she wanted to read together in the waiting room. She selected a "My Little Pony" book, and I expected to feel nostalgia reading her a story about cute ponies from my generation. I was increasingly horrified as I turned each page. The storyline centered on the ponies forming a girl band and being fashionable, and the ponies themselves had been given a makeover - slimmer, bigger eyes, and fully accessorized. I didn't think one could sexualize "My Little Pony," but they have. The same is true for Rainbow Brite, Strawberry Shortcake, and even my most beloved Anne of Green Gables. They've all been given sexy makeovers - slimmed down, bigger eyes, blonder hair, and a more "mature" look.

I wasn't even shocked when I heard recently that Justin Bieber was hired to sing for the Victoria's Secret fashion show, and that the company was aiming to capture more of the tween market. The marketing of increasingly sexualized products that objectify women and girls begins in preschool, so it's almost old news by the time girls reach their pre-teen years. All the research suggests that the sexualization of girls leads to negative outcomes for them - eating disorders, low self-esteem, decreased cognitive performance, etc. There are lots of studies on this, but one that keeps coming to my mind as I see more and more bikinis marketed for infants and toddlers is the Frederickson et. al. (1998) study that found that young women - not men - performed worse on math tests and consumed less food after trying on a swimsuit. Our girls are being bombarded with messages telling them that their self-worth comes from their outward appearance and sex appeal, and it feels almost impossible as a parent to battle the negative consequences. I can't use my "let's cover the bad picture with stickers!" technique for much longer...

I never self-identified as prudish, but now that I am a mother of two daughters, I find myself outraged at the barrage of sexualized images that increasingly surround children from such a young age. I find myself grimly singing, "I'm old fashioned, but I don't mind it" to myself quite a lot these days.

Luxuries

At CRLT, we have put together a team as part of the Active U campaign at the University of Michigan to live healthier lives. Someone on team CRLThriving (go team!) posted in our break room an article on mindful eating. I laughed maniacally as I read it and tried to envision implementing that habit at our dinner table. This led me to ponder what habits I didn't realize were luxuries. Below is my list:

"Plucking" by Becky EnVérité

Plucking my eyebrows.
Finishing a sentence.
Finishing a meal.
Chewing before swallowing.
Showering daily.
Flossing.
Relaxing on the couch.
Relaxing anywhere.
Reading a book.
Reading a page in a book.
Doing laundry.
Folding laundry.
Putting clean laundry away.
Hydrating.
Clipping my toe nails.
Drinking a cup of coffee before it goes cold.
Smooching my husband.
Arriving on time. Anywhere.
Going to the bathroom... by myself.
Getting in the car in less than 30 minutes.
Making a phone call.
Finishing a phone call without interrupting the conversation to talk to a child.

I asked Jeff if he had any thoughts on this. The majority of his habits that have become luxuries since parenthood were intimate in nature. Here are some daddy perspectives on luxuries that are rated G:

Watching a movie in less than 3 sittings.
Peace and quiet.

Being a Princess is About Who You Are, Not What You Wear

I am proud to call myself a feminist, and don't think it conflicts with my other identities or belief systems. I don't think being a feminist means rejecting femininity, or believing men and women are the same. What it does mean to me is that women and men are equals; I think it's progress that American women have equal rights politically, educationally and economically. Despite the rise of feminism and the ideal of social equality between men and women, American culture today for little boys and girls is extremely gendered, and our household is confronting a princess craze.

I embrace the desire for girls to play dress up and think that imaginative play is an awesome thing for a child. I have fond memories of playing dress up myself with my lifelong friend, Elana. Her mother's closet was full of exciting things to try on, and we would prance around to show off our fashion ensembles. What concerns me, though, is the idea that being "the fairest of them all" is what matters in life, and a little girl's external appearance is what defines her beauty. The contemporary little girl princess culture emphasizes an ideal princess-perfect outward appearance. It's not only American women who are objectified, but American little girls.

Lydia has only ever even seen one princess movie, "Cinderella." And when she watched it, I was careful to talk with her about how kind Cinderella was, even when her step-sisters were cruel to her. We talked about Cinderella's character traits, and how beautiful she was on the inside. We discussed that what made her step-sisters ugly was their meanness. On our bookshelf, we have no traditional princess tales. We have lots of alternative princess stories that turn the stereotypes on their heads, like "Princess Pigsty" and "The Princess and the Pizza." We recently got a new book in this genre - "Do Princesses Wear Hiking Boots?" - that emphasizes that being a princess has nothing to do with what a girl wears. Whenever Lydia insists she wants to wear a "ball gown" (or a crown, or fancy shoes) because she wants to be a princess, I tell her, "Being a princess is about who you are, not what you wear." Yet the message seems to fall on deaf ears.

Evidence: see a picture of a potato head that Lydia assembled. She said she wanted to build a "princess" potato head. I watched her select the cherry red lips with perfect smile, the eyes with pink lush lashes, and the pointed purple shoes. I recently built a castle out of Duplos and proudly displayed it to Lydia, highlighting all its awesome features. When I pointed out the castle's princess, she said, "That's not a princess. She's wearing overalls." She saw me getting undressed one evening and pointed to my silky pink underwear, exclaiming, "You're a princess, mommy!"

I wonder to myself, if I'm trying so hard to send Lydia the message that being a princess is about who you are, not what you wear, how does she have such a clear concept of a princess as a girl with an ultra-feminine appearance, perfect features, makeup, and ideally clad in a sparkly gown enhanced with layers of crinoline? We hardly watch television in our house (no cable!), she's seen only one Disney princess movie, I don't wear any makeup, and we don't read traditional princess stories. I recently read Cinderella Ate My Daughter by Peggy Orenstein, which is an interesting book for parents with daughters. She details the rise of the Disney Princess product line, which didn't exist until 2000. A marketing executive went to a "Disney on Ice" show where he saw lots of little girls wearing handmade princess costumes, and realized Disney had a huge branding opportunity. Thus, the Disney Princess craze was born. And other toy manufacturers followed suit. Now we can purchase princess everything - bedding, costumes, lamps, hairbrushes, etc. Toys are divided into pink and blue to an extent I never encountered as a child. Even once gender-neutral toys like a popper are color-coded blue or pink. If one so much as takes her daughter on errands to the local grocery or big-box store, she'll be exposed to plenty of princess gear. Our daughters were surrounded by pink, ultra-feminine goods as soon as we shared the news, "it's a girl!"

And what is the message of that culture? That being pretty by wearing beautiful gowns is what will get you attention as a girl in this world. When Lydia wears her "princess ball gown" out and about, she gets tons of attention. Recently, she wore it on an errand and as we walked into a store, a random woman stopped her car, rolled down her window, and said, "I LOVE HER OUTFIT!" How can I blame Lydia for wanting to wear these outfits when she garners such praise and adoration while wearing them? I fear that already at the age of two she's concluded a woman's power is in her ability to look outwardly beautiful.

I know it's an age-old problem for women to struggle with social pressure to be beautiful on the outside. This is where the "fairest of them all" princess stories come from, after all. Yet, thanks to the feminist movement, our girls are (rightly) being told that they can follow their dreams and forge the path they want to regardless of their sex. I imagine there will be some cognitive dissonance for our daughters who hear they can pursue any dream, while being made to feel that their success is really determined by their conformity to traditional norms of feminine beauty.

Jeff pointed out to me that we, too, tell Lydia how beautiful she is. I love the outfits that she puts together - especially the wild ones! And I don't think there's anything wrong with that, but I'm trying to be better about telling her she's beautiful no matter what she wears. I tell her she's beautiful when she does something generous, like when she brings a toy to her fussy sister. I'm hoping that by reminding her, "being a princess is about who you are, not what you wear," my dream for her to grow up as a loving, self-assured woman will be a reality, rather than just another fairy tale.

I Quit the Gym

It may seem like quitting the gym has little to do with identity or motherhood. But for me, not so. For many years, my identity was wrapped up in running. To give a sense of my level of commitment, in high school when I began long-distance running, a non-runner friend referred to my long-distance track teammates as a cult.

I was never a natural distance runner, and only through disciplined training combined with good coaching did I become pretty good at cross country in my early college years. I ran both cross country and track my freshman year of college, which is the time most college kids away from home form their lasting friendships. My freshman year, almost all of my free time outside of studying and attending classes was devoted to training or competing. I ate dinner every night with the team, since dinner followed practice. As a result, the majority of my friendships were forged with other long-distance runners. A month before the beginning of track season in the winter of my sophomore year, I injured my foot - I succumbed to an "over-use injury." It was so painful that I could not put any pressure on my foot for weeks. I initially was in denial that I might not be able to run track in a few months, killing myself swimming for hours to stay in cardiovascular shape. When the injury wasn't healing, my orthopedic doctor asked if I felt any pain when I swam. I told him yes, every time I pushed off the wall with my foot I felt the pain. He prescribed total rest - no working out at all. It was then that I had to face reality: my core identity was rooted in working out. I didn't know who I was if I wasn't a runner. My friends from the cross country team no longer ate dinner with me, and every one of those friendships faded away as I was no longer a part of team training and activities. I realized how grateful I was for the handful of friends from my dorm and classes, who loved me despite my addiction to running, not because of it. When I finally healed, I did go back to running, but vowed never to let it define me again.

Road race with my graduate school workout buddy
(and awesome mommy), Michelle Allendoerfer!

Yet, it remained an exhilarating hobby. When I graduated college and took a job in New York City, I was awed every morning by the beauty of watching the sun rise over the Twin Towers as I jogged through Pier A Park in Hoboken. A few years later when I moved to Japan, I found peace in my quiet runs every morning along the Tokyo Olympic Park jogging path a mile from my apartment. It was a daily escape in a city that normally is nothing but hustle and bustle. In graduate school, exercise was my stress relief - when I wasn't teaching, reading or doing statistics problem sets, I was working out with my buddy Michelle. We laughed and we sweated together. I lost her as my gym buddy when she had kids, but around that same time, I got married and Jeff became my gym buddy. We discovered spinning together, and took this killer class several times a week taught by an amazing instructor, Beth. It was a fun part of our relationship to work out together - the mean girls-like clique at our gym sarcastically referred to us as "the happy couple." Even when I got pregnant, I continued to work out 5 days a week; between yoga, spinning and weightlifting, I was determined to be a powerful mama. I remember spinning in my second trimester of my pregnancy with Lydia, while Beth berated Jeff (she loves to harass the men in her classes) for not working as hard as his pregnant wife. In my first experience of labor, when contractions lasted for several minutes, I would envision the painful isolation drills we did in Beth's class, and told myself that I had already demonstrated I could do anything physically for a minute or two.

Despite my determination after my injury in college not to root my identity in exercise, after having kids, I was soon to realize that I had a hard time accepting I was no longer hardcore (literally and figuratively). After having Lydia, I only made it to the gym twice a week, if I was lucky. Jeff and I didn't want to leave Lydia in gym daycare after being apart from her all day at work, which made it impossible to go together. We took turns going to the gym, and I had to coordinate workout times around baby feeding times, which was often stressful and meant I had to leave classes early. When we had Anna, it became even more challenging. To get to spinning classes at the gym in enough time to guarantee a spot, I would have had to arrive a half an hour early. This was not just logistically challenging with unpredictable infant napping and feeding times, but undesirable - I don't want to spend two hours at the gym on a weeknight or weekend when I have two adorable kids who I'd much rather spend that quality time with. A few weeks ago, I got turned away from a spinning class for the third week in a row because I didn't arrive early enough to reserve a bike. And that was it - I decided to quit the gym.

"Exercising" at home with Lydia (and
Anna in utero).

I've had to face my identity issues as a result. I've had to accept I no longer have six-pack abs and awesome upper body strength. And not only because of working out less, but because pregnancy tears one's body up, literally. My abdominal muscles separated in both pregnancies, and in my attempt to be hardcore working out while pregnant with Anna, I pulled my round ligament. It was kind of comical because I pulled it doing lunges at the gym and suddenly found I could not walk. Picture a pregnant woman gripping her belly while holding on to the wall for assistance walking towards the exit, and you can imagine the attention I got from fellow gym goers!

I'm asking myself, why was I pushing myself to do intense workouts while pregnant? Why was it so hard for me to bite the bullet and quit the gym, when it wasn't working for our family? Upon self-reflection, one reason is that I like to think of myself as tough. A strong woman. One of my favorite poems by Marge Piercy is entitled "For Strong Women" (in her awesome book The Moon is always Female) and I think I've always associated physical strength with being an independent, secure woman. Another reason, I believe, is the insane expectation fueled by tabloid media to get back in shape after having a baby. I don't read or watch the gossip news, but I do our family's grocery shopping, and all I have to do is walk out the check out aisle to feel ashamed as a woman for not losing my baby weight. While pregnant with Anna, I saw Jessica Simpson taunted with unflattering pictures on magazine covers lamenting her pregnancy weight gain and failure to lose it, and right after I gave birth to Lydia the tabloids were abuzz with Gisele Bundchen's return to the catwalk just months after having her baby. The message to women is clear - you are a failure if you don't almost immediately get back into physical shape after having a child, pulled round ligaments and torn abdominal muscles be damned. Nevermind that women who've just given birth have a new infant to care for, are often getting 3 hours of sleep a night, baby feeding every few hours, potentially trying to care for older children, and are working (at home and/or outside the home). I'm guessing unlike the majority of us, Gisele probably had a personal chef, a personal trainer, a personal assistant, a house cleaning service, and at least one nanny to support her in making time to work out.

I'm trying to let go of my self-image as a physically tough woman, and remind myself what Piercy saw as true strength in a woman. "A strong woman is a woman who craves love like oxygen or she turns blue choking. A strong woman is a woman who loves strongly and weeps strongly and is strongly terrified and has strong needs. A strong woman is strong in words, in action, in connection, in feeling; she is not strong as a stone but as a wolf suckling her young."

With A Little Help From My Alloparents

When I was in search of childcare for Lydia, I was avidly reading the baby book of my generation, which is rooted in the attachment parenting philosophy. There is much to love about attachment theory and its promotion of the special bond between mother and child. However, I reacted with lots of self-condemnation as I read the section on mothers working outside of the home. While Sears - the popular media attachment parenting guru - is careful to say that the issue is attachment, not whether a mother works outside of the home or not, the advice given suggested I was a second-rate mother if I worked outside of the home. In the first section of the chapter, Sears gives suggestions for women undecided about whether to return to work outside the home, emphasizing only the arguments for why full-time mothering is important. Next, there is a section for mothers who feel they have to work for financial reasons, outlining strategies for getting out of the financial burden, like a shared job arrangement or borrowing income from parents (options that are unavailable to the vast majority of women). There is no section for women who feel they have a vocation outside of the home apart from mothering. There is no chapter on whether fathers should work outside of the home, because presumably it is really mothers that matter for healthy infant attachment. It seemed to me that while attachment parenting practices are wonderful in many ways, it was not an affirming philosophy for mothers who choose anything but working inside the home.

Pumpkin decorating with Judy.

When I did decide to work outside the home, we shopped around for childcare, and I kept telling people that I wished I could find a Mary Poppins. (As an aside, I recently watched the Mary Poppins movie, and I bristled at the depiction of the flippant mother who is not minding her children because of her "silly" mission to support suffrage for women.) After signing Lydia up for a daycare near our home, a very close friend's mother - Judy - actually agreed to take care of Lydia. We knew Judy, and had heard how wonderful she was with children. Although she does not have a magic carpetbag (that I know of...), Judy is an amazing, caring, creative, fun-loving woman who raised two awesome kids of her own. And she loves Lydia, which was and is the most important thing to us. We now feel like she is a part of our extended family, and that - like the girls' grandmothers - celebrations and life events would not be the same without her.

Yet, there have been hard moments. Like the times that Lydia cried when Judy left to go home for the evening. Or when Lydia asks about Judy on the weekend and we have to tell her that Judy has her own home. Given what I'd read on attachment theory, I worried that these multiple attachments might be hard on our kids, and felt guilty about the emotional impact of my work outside the home.

I'm currently reading a fascinating book by an anthropologist and primatologist on the evolutionary origins mutual understanding, "Mothers and Others" by Sarah Blaffer Hrdy, that expands upon attachment theory in a way that has been fascinating and healing. Hrdy asserts that the initial focus of attachment theory on mother-only care was myopic and "an impossible ideal projected onto traditional peoples by Western observers" (p. 129). Hrdy does not dispute how important mother-child attachment is, but the central argument of her book is that humans developed prosocial emotions as a result of the cooperative breeding arrangements that arose to help human babies survive and thrive. "Both before birth and especially afterward, the mother needed help from others; and even more importantly, her infant would need to be able to monitor and assess the intentions of both his mother and these others and to attract their attentions and elicit their assistance in ways no ape had ever needed to do before. For only by eliciting nurture from others as well as his mother could one of these little humans hope to stay safe and fed and to survive." (p. 31) As Hrdy describes, anthropological research on hunter-gatherer and foraging societies suggests that human mothers depend significantly more than other primate species on non-maternal others - "alloparents" - to help with their babies. Mothers are vital for children's survival and attachment, but unlike the traditional attachment parenting picture of a mother exclusively caring for her child, Hrdy details anthropological research that suggests alloparents - fathers, grandmothers, aunts, siblings and other kin - support mothers by frequently holding, nursing, and feeding their children. For example, although ape mothers have not been observed nursing youngsters other than their own, "shared suckling" is observed in 87% of human foraging societies (p. 77). (Sadly, this practice isn't at all common in modern industrial societies. If it was, I might have had more support for my nursing struggles.) This support and provisioning from alloparents has a powerful impact on the physical and emotional health of both mothers and children. Hrdy describes a longitudinal study of one foraging society (p. 107) that found that the number of alloparents a baby had at one year of age was correlated with how likely that child was to live to the age of three. Another study (pp. 129-130) found that that the best predictor of socioemotional development was the child's network of attachments (the magic number was three secure attachments), not just her attachment to her mother. As Hrdy puts it, "Well might anthropologists and politicians remind us that 'it takes a village' to rear children today. What they often leave out, however, is that so far as (...) Homo sapiens are concerned, it always has. Without alloparents, there never would have been a human species." (p. 109)

Lydia apple picking with her grandmas.

In modern societies, historians, anthropologists, social workers and psychologists have long found that both at risk mothers and low weight babies are far more likely to succeed when they have support from alloparents, especially grandmothers (pp. 102-103). I depend heavily on my network of alloparents: Judy, my mother, and my mother-in-law. There were moments - like when Anna suffered from colic - when I don't know how I could have taken good care of her without their help.

The version of attachment parenting promoted in most popular parenting books focuses almost exclusively on a mother's attachment, with an occasional nod to a father's attachment. This limited scope misses how vital alloparents - a network of supporters who care for and provide for a child - are for both a mother and her child. A support network actually promotes better attachment between a mother and her child. For children, multiple strong attachments help them grow to be socially secure and understand diverse others. Mothers are vital for children to survive and thrive, but so is the tribe that surrounds each family. We evolved to raise our young in community, not to be isolated in our homes with only the members of our nuclear families.

While I still haven't persuaded my mom to come move in to our guest room, I'm more convinced than ever of the significance of the alloparents in my life. The pressure created by popular media versions of attachment theory for mothers to do it all and be everything to their children is limiting (never mind an impossible ideal). Our daughters' relationships with Judy and their grandmothers will enrich their lives and expand their hearts. All mothers need several significant others.

My current momtra

When I last met with my lactation consultant - Barbara - about Anna's nursing struggles, she said something that was very powerful. She advised me that I needed to talk to Anna with an encouraging tone of voice while she was squirming, choking and crying. I tried it out, saying, "It's OK, Anna, it's OK." Barbara told me that the way I was saying, "It's OK," sounded tense and she modeled soothing Anna with a warm, "You can do it! Good girl!" I confessed that it was hard for me to be encouraging when I felt so discouraged, to which she replied, "You have to the the grown up here."

Ouch. Yet so true. I was choosing to be upset about the situation, and making Anna's problem about me and my failures as a mother. Anna needed my emotional reassurance and maturity. So I took a deep breath, told myself I had to be the grown up here, and focused hard on gently talking Anna through the pain.

It was a revelation to have someone speak that simple, powerful truth into my life. It must have been something I really needed to hear, because I hear Barbara's voice in my head often these days as a parent. I even find myself reflecting that I wish I had heard her advice sooner. When I took Lydia in for her first vaccination, I was literally shaking. My pediatrician growing up was a mean old man who yelled at me, "Stop being a CRY BABY!" when I had shots, so I was extremely tense about Lydia getting shots. The nurse saw how agitated I was and told me that babies can sense their mothers' emotional states and that, frankly, mine was not going to help the shots go well.

Me, with blanky. I want my mommy!

One of my parenting books asserts that the best way to approach discipline is to praise with effusive positive emotion, and to correct with a calm demeanor showing no anger. What they really should say is that in order to discipline, you have to be the grown up here. As the parent, I am supposed to be the one that has grown in emotional and spiritual maturity enough to not make the situation all about me. I need to have the fruit of the spirit - peace, patience, kindness, gentleness, self-control and love. But much of the time, I find myself wanting to run to my own mommy and pout. It turns out that the Toys R Us jingle was true - I don't wanna grow up. Romans 7 has taken on a whole new meaning to me as I work through motherhood.


Barbara's rebuke has become an important mom mantra (momtra!). Lydia is at the age where she is really beginning to push boundaries and assert her independence. When Lydia is having a tantrum or says the hurtful things typical toddlers do, my brain screams at me, "You have to be the grown up here!" If I want my children to grow up to be emotionally mature, loving adults some day, I guess I have to start by modeling what that looks like by being that person myself as their mother.

Mommy war within

I recently browsed the section in the library on the so-called "mommy wars" fought between "stay-at-home mothers" and "career mothers." It's been almost 25 years since the term was coined. Despite various assertions in the media that the war rages on, as I skimmed the books, the rigid line drawn between career and stay-at-home mothers didn't resonate with me. (Tangent - Where did the term "stay-at-home" mother come from? These women are doing anything but "staying" at home! They are "work-at-home" mothers.) Perhaps our generation is beyond this dichotomy - I know in my circle of influence, there are many women who work part-time or are entrepreneurs pursuing careers from home. But as I thought more about it, I concluded that the main reason the concept of the "mommy wars" doesn't resonate with me is because I myself am so torn on my own choice in this domain. I don't self-identify as a "career mother," despite the fact that I have a career, and instead feel like I have a war within over my work outside of the home. I always feel torn. I hear from many of my friends who are work-at-home mothers that they feel similarly ambivalent about their choices. Many have told me they think that amommymity is even harder for mothers who choose to work raising their children, since a career outside the home is one way that people forge an identity.

At work pregnant with Anna

When I was pregnant with Lydia, I was finishing up my dissertation, and had already concluded that a traditional academic career wasn't something I was interested in for many reasons. In the last few years of my graduate school career, I found the activity that got me most energized and excited was consulting with others about their teaching. Consulting about teaching was a side-job that I was doing to supplement my income as part of a group of graduate teaching consultants at U-M's Center for Research on Learning and Teaching (CRLT). I remember telling Jeff at one point that I couldn't believe I was getting paid to be part of the group, because it was so enjoyable. When I heard myself say that, I realized that perhaps I was better suited to a career in educational development than in academe. I loved talking about teaching, and found I enjoyed enabling others to make incremental changes to improve their teaching and being a mediator between students and instructors to improve the learning environment. Yet, as much as I felt the mission of educational development is valuable and found the work fulfilling, once I got pregnant, I wasn't sure if I even wanted to pursue a career at that point. I wasn't sure what was "right" for me.

I thought I might be able to take some significant time off after giving birth to Lydia, and then consider career options a few years down the line. However, an opportunity to work as a postdoctoral research associate opened up for me starting in August at CRLT, when Lydia was going to be about 4 months old. Jeff and I had a counselor - Tom - who we met with early in our marriage, and he had recommended couples come back once a year for a "check up" with their counselor. So when I was pregnant and considering taking the postdoctoral research scholar position, we met with Tom. I basically told him I wasn't sure about pursuing a career at that point. I had a work-at-home mother, and I felt that it is important for children to receive their mothers' attention and guidance. I remembered how my mother was always there (even when my dad often worked late and traveled) cooking for us, helping us with homework, shuttling us to various enriching activities, teaching us life skills, and shaping us into the people we were to become. A career mother friend told me that lots of people were qualified to take care of my children, but I felt no one could be as invested in raising my children well as I am. Like Anne-Marie Slaughter wrote in her awesome article on career and motherhood, "Deep down, I wanted to go home." I wanted to be the one to be there in those first few precious years. At the same time, I had pursued a Ph.D., and had developed expertise in both my discipline and pedagogy, and I could use those skills to improve student learning and to support instructors in becoming better teachers. I had an opportunity to start a career at the teaching center where I had developed a passion for educational development, and in the town where Jeff and I planned to stay. That opportunity likely would not present itself again. I put it to Tom, "Should I take this job? What is the right decision?" Tom smiled and listened, and said, "I can't make this choice for you." As Jeff had already told me many times, there was no "right" choice. Tom pointed out that if I chose to pursue a career, I could always change my mind and quit if I found it wasn't working for me.

True. But I knew about path dependence. One's current and future actions depend on the path of previous actions. I knew if I made the choice to pursue a career, I would likely get positive feedback for that choice, which would mean that choice would become self-reinforcing. I would have to disrupt an equilibrium to break from my career path, and the laws of inertia are such that disrupting an equilibrium is harder than going with the flow.

I consulted my parents about the choice. My mother, to my surprise, thought I should pursue my career, even while having young children. She said she felt we were never grateful for the choice that she made to stay home to raise us, and that I should not waste my education and skills. That really cut deep, since I had not sufficiently thanked my mom for being at home to raise us. She was amommymous to her own kids. My father - who had a work-at-home mom as his wife and mother - also felt very strongly that I should pursue a career. He felt that my mother - who is a bright mathematician and had worked at Bell Labs and General Electric before having children - had given up her interests, and he felt regret over that. He said I just couldn't get my Ph.D. and not use it.

I ultimately went ahead and took the job. I asked to work slightly reduced hours Monday-Thursday, and to have Fridays off, since Lydia was so young. I took my lunch hours to go home and breast feed Lydia, and even after she weaned I continued to go home to have lunch with her. When a permanent position opened up, I interviewed and took the job with the same part-time schedule because I found having that time together in the middle of the day and on Fridays made a huge difference in my relationship with Lydia. I was "having it all" - able to pursue my career, but also spending significant time at home. And when I am in a good place spiritually, I can be content with that and present where I'm at - with the girls or at the office - and accept that I'm doing a fine job at both. However, instead I often feel that by trying to juggle both, I'm doing neither well. Going home for lunch and working fewer hours than my colleagues means I almost never have open space in my schedule, and I usually feel like I'm drowning at work. People joke about my 4AM e-mails, as I try to cram work in any time I can find when kids are asleep. And at home, the pace of my time with the girls is frenetic as I attempt to enjoy them while juggling household responsibilities (laundry, cooking, grocery shopping, etc.). Time just for myself - to read, to meditate, to exercise, to pray - is a precious and rare commodity.

In her article, Slaughter compares career mothers to marathon runners. "Consider the following proposition: An employer has two equally talented and productive employees. One trains for and runs marathons when he is not working. The other takes care of two children. What assumptions is the employer likely to make about the marathon runner? That he gets up in the dark every day and logs an hour or two running before even coming into the office, or drives himself to get out there even after a long day. That he is ferociously disciplined and willing to push himself through distraction, exhaustion, and days when nothing seems to go right in the service of a goal far in the distance. That he must manage his time exceptionally well to squeeze all of that in. Be honest: Do you think the employer makes those same assumptions about the parent? Even though she likely rises in the dark hours before she needs to be at work, organizes her children’s day, makes breakfast, packs lunch, gets them off to school, figures out shopping and other errands even if she is lucky enough to have a housekeeper—and does much the same work at the end of the day." It's an apt comparison. Slaughter clearly thinks both career mothers and marathon runners are to be equally admired for their disciplined lifestyles, but the jury is still out for me. I wonder, is it admirable to be this disciplined? For years I was a long distance runner (10 pounds ago, I often joke). I finally quit when I realized that I could still work out and be physically fit, but spend a lot less time on fitness and use that time for other valuable activities, like community service and cultivating relationships. Yet here I am again, this time running on empty by choosing to pursue a career and motherhood. Like I said, it is a war within.

People (myself included) often say that the best mother is a happy one. Whatever makes the mother happier - working in the home or at the office - is what she should do. Because a happy mom will be better able to love and serve her children. Yet, I think that is a cop out. Contentment is a choice, just like when and whether to pursue a career was a choice for me. My war within is a symptom that I am not spiritually mature enough to be content in all circumstances. To call a truce on my mommy war within, I know I should focus less on being disciplined in balancing my career and motherhood, and more on seeing all my work as spiritual - at home and at the office. “We ought not to be weary of doing little things for the love of God, who regards not the greatness of the work, but the love with which it is performed” (Brother Lawrence, The Practice of the Presence of God). I guess I'm still in process on that one.