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.