In defense of the sanctimonious women's studies set || First feminist blog on the internet

Month: June 2011

Bad Parents and “Go the F*ck to Sleep”

Go the F*ck to Sleep is the latest all-the-rage “children’s” book. It’s a Goodnight Moon-esque text where a parent begs their child to please, for the love of all that is holy, go the fuck to sleep (here’s Samuel L. Jackson reading it). It’s crass, and the tone is one of sheer frustration (“hell no you can’t go to the bathroom. You know where you can go? The fuck to sleep”); it’s also hilarious. I’m not a parent, but I have been a live-in care-taker for a small child, and “sure, fine, whatever, I’ll bring you some milk, who the fuck cares, you’re not going to sleep” is not unfamiliar. Parents across the interwebs seem to enjoy the book, because parenting can be really really really frustrating, and even though you love your kid, sometimes you just want them to go the fuck to sleep. Please. Oh my god please.

But if you feel that way, you are probably a self-pitying, rage-filled sexless yuppie.

One wonders if this hostility toward the child, who is naturally and rightfully manipulative, is just a tiny bit misplaced. If we are raising a generation that sees the whole world as an expanse of devoted maids and butlers, if we ourselves are overly beholden or enslaved to our children’s anxieties and desires, isn’t it our own fault? Likewise, if we can’t manage to hire a baby sitter and get out of the house, if we have made of the conventional nuclear family structure something stifling, airless, it can’t really be the fault of a 4-year-old, resourceful and mischievous as he may be. We are, after all, to blame for our own self-sacrifice, and if we are being honest and precise, it’s not exactly self-sacrifice, tinged as it is with vanity, with pride in our good behavior, with a certain showiness in our parenting, with self-congratulation.

The book, in all its cleverness and artfulness and ingenuity, raises certain other questions: Are they having sex, these slouchy rageful parents? Not enough, perhaps. When the father turns back to the waking child’s bedroom, we look out at the comfy, sexless, vaguely depressive scene of his wife sprawled asleep on the couch under an ugly old blanket. No wonder the slouchy dad is full of rage. No wonder all those slouchy dads and moms who just want to watch a movie and eat some microwave popcorn find this book so funny, so transporting; no wonder it makes them feel, as the publicity materials suggest, “less alone.” But if those sweet-faced children, so gorgeously drawn by Ricardo Cortés, could talk back would they say: “Put on a fucking dress. Have a fucking drink. Stop hovering over us. Live your own goddamned life.”

So I agree, actually, with the critiques of yuppie helicopter-parenting, and I’m really skeptical of the modern parental ideal that requires you (at least if you’re a woman) to put your children first, always, before yourself and before your partner, and to re-focus your passion on your kids (often at the expense of your sex life, or any effort to have a sex life). I’m skeptical of the idea that the nuclear family is the best model for life-long happiness, and that once you have a baby you should direct all of your efforts toward that baby or else you’re a selfish person and your child will be eternally fucked up. I’m skeptical of the idea that children should be the center of a mother’s universe, and that women should define themselves first in relationship to their children, and that a night out or a full-time job or a refusal to do more than 50% of the care work (if you have a partner) should be in any way guilt-inducing. I’m skeptical of the idea that women who have identities outside of (or in addition to) being a mom are not as nurturing or as loving as women who center their lives in parenthood. I’m skeptical of the idea that parenthood brings (or should bring) ultimate fulfillment. I loved this very controversial Ayelet Waldman essay about loving her husband more than her children, and I think that sounds like a great marriage and a healthy family dynamic.

But I also think maybe someone is reading a little too much into the book (and considering that “someone” is Katie Roiphe, well). Little kids don’t fucking sleep enough, and they also want Goodnight Moon read to them 37 times before they go to bed, and then they want to say goodnight to every object in the house, and then they want a glass of water, and then they want to pee, and then they want to say goodnight again, and then and then and then just go the fuck to sleep already. Sometimes, frustration at a child is not actually being misdirected from all other aspects of your miserable life. Sometimes, children are just frustrating — just like pretty much anyone you love intensely, from your partner to your best friend to your dog. Children are also not particularly receptive to the usual negotiating tools, like logic and rational argument and even appeal to emotion. Children are pretty much wholly self-centered, especially the smaller ones whose tiny brains are not yet developed enough to understand concepts like “Moms need sleep too” and “Mom is a distinct individual whose sole purpose in life is not, in fact, to meet every single need that you have.” That is the worst. Whining may also be the world’s most annoying sound. And I’m pretty sure that wanting your kid to just shut up and sleep transcends class, country, religion, region and race, and isn’t just a yuppie parent thing.

So, yeah. Sometimes yuppie helicopter parents focus way too much on serving every single need that they perceive their child to possibly have at the expense of their own identities and lives, and it probably makes a lot of people miserable. And sometimes telling a kid to go the fuck to sleep is just telling a kid to go the fuck to sleep. And you probably aren’t even saying it out loud, because I’m pretty sure yuppie parents don’t say “fuck” to their children.

Abortion and Public Opinion in the United States

Some interesting stats:

19% of Americans think abortion should be legal in all cases.
37% of Americans think abortion should be legal in most cases.
14% of Americans think abortion should be illegal in all cases.
26% of Americans think abortion should be illegal in most cases.

Americans who live in large metropolitan areas are much more likely to be pro-choice than those who live in rural areas (67% vs. 39%).

The terms “pro-life” and “pro-choice” aren’t particularly meaningful to a lot of people. “Seven-in-ten Americans say the term “pro-choice” describes them somewhat or very well, and nearly two-thirds simultaneously say the term “pro-life” describes them somewhat or very well. This overlapping identity is present in virtually every demographic group.”

While younger people are more liberal on the issue of same-sex marriage, they are not significantly more liberal when it comes to abortion rights.

More here.

Human beings are the best/worst species of all time.

We build cities, cure diseases and create art. Some of us also hide in port-a-potties at yoga festivals.

Police in Boulder are currently on the lookout for a man who was apparently hiding inside a porta-potty at last week’s Hanuman Yoga Festival. Let that sink in for a second.

Yes, our suspect was inside, like, inside the infernal device. A female yoga enthusiast, who will likely need years of therapy, entered the the portable toilet, only to notice “something was moving inside the tank when she lifted the lid,” according to police spokeswoman Kim Kobel.

Naturally, she found someone else to double-check what could have been some kind of yogic hallucination. But he, too, saw our peeping, uh, John “inside the tank, covered in a tarp.” And after the second witness left the porta potty, it mysteriously locked from the inside.

A security guard waited outside until the man emerged, shirtless, with “several cuts on his back and legs,” wearing two leather bracelets. “The supervisor,” Kobel told the press, “tried to detain the suspect, but he ran away, covered in feces.”

Police believe his name is “Sky.”

“Inside the tank, covered in a tarp.”

Thanks, Charles, for ruining my day with this link.

My Life as an Undocumented Immigrant

A must-read this morning.

I decided then that I could never give anyone reason to doubt I was an American. I convinced myself that if I worked enough, if I achieved enough, I would be rewarded with citizenship. I felt I could earn it.

I’ve tried. Over the past 14 years, I’ve graduated from high school and college and built a career as a journalist, interviewing some of the most famous people in the country. On the surface, I’ve created a good life. I’ve lived the American dream.

But I am still an undocumented immigrant. And that means living a different kind of reality. It means going about my day in fear of being found out. It means rarely trusting people, even those closest to me, with who I really am. It means keeping my family photos in a shoebox rather than displaying them on shelves in my home, so friends don’t ask about them. It means reluctantly, even painfully, doing things I know are wrong and unlawful. And it has meant relying on a sort of 21st-century underground railroad of supporters, people who took an interest in my future and took risks for me.


Really do read it all.

The Omnivore’s Dating Dilemma

Can vegans and meat-eaters romantically coexist? Sure they can. But I don’t think I could deal with it.

Well, it’s lasted, and I have to say, being in a relationship with a meat eater is the worst. Before I became a vegan, one of our favorite things to do together was go out to eat. We’d order a bunch of small plates and have a blast sharing them.

Now, picking a restaurant is pretty challenging. We often end up just swinging by Whole Foods, where we can order burritos within eyeshot of each other (there’s a vegan taqueria right next to the regular one) or prepare our respective beef and tofu pho. Then we eat our meals out of cardboard containers at one of the booths. Let me tell you, it’s romantic.

God bless you folks who can make relationships like this work, because if I couldn’t go out to dinner and share a bunch of delicious things with my partner, I would end the relationship. Food is too important. And cheese is way too important. I don’t eat all that much meat, but I do cook a lot of fish, and cheese is a dietary staple. Vegetarianism I could handle, but veganism would be a big deal-breaker, below being a pro-life Republican but probably above believing that Two and a Half Men is a good show.

Then again, I never thought I’d own a cat, watch The Bachelorette or date blond-haired blue-eyed white dudes, and I’ve gone down all of those sad paths. The world is a strange and mysterious place, and maybe in ten years I’ll be serving seitan at my wedding.

Article via Amanda.

Love in a Time of Calling Out

This is a guest post by Juliet.
When the action of “calling out” within social justice spheres is questioned, I think of my grandfather. He has good intentions. He’s trying really hard. We have a long, loving history. But because I can’t call him out and he can’t fully change, our relationship is still damaged.

Here, read the yuckiest wedding article in recent memory.

Photo of first wedding dance
17-year-old high school student meets 29-year-old McCain campaign staffer. He asks her out, because that is totally appropriate. They date, because why wouldn’t a 30-year-old man have tons in common with a high school senior? He proposes in front of the high school where they met, where she was a high school student and he was almost 30. She swoons that her father “wouldn’t have given me up to anyone else.” They have a 700-person wedding. There is a big dress and bigger hair and a pink ballroom. Somehow, I do not wake up screaming at the end of this nightmare.