My husband knocks on the car window, and our son turns as he’s walking toward the school. My husband waves; my son waves back, then turns toward the school again.

He takes a couple steps, and my husband knocks on the car window again. Our son stops, turns to look at his dad waving again and shakes his head. Then a smile spreads across his face and he wriggles his fingers at him and turns back toward the school.

“What was that for?” I ask. If our son was six, and on his way into elementary school, it would have been cute, but he’s fourteen and in middle school.

“I’m building up his immunity,” he says.

“To what?” My brows pinch together in puzzlement.

“Being embarrassed so easily. If I embarrass him enough, he won’t take it so seriously when other embarrassing things happen in his life,” he reasoned.

I’m not sure how sound his theory is, but I do know that I love him for it. I love how he knows when to be dad to our son—an only child—and when to be big brother. He does it so well.

Father and son fishing photo via Shutterstock.

He’s an amazing dad in so many ways, but I think his ability to play both roles and understand the importance of both in our son’s life is really ingenious. I also think it’s remarkable that our son learned so quickly to tell the difference between the two roles and responds appropriately.

Those of us who have had older brothers or sisters remember well the lessons we learned from them. They toughened us up, taught us to not cry so easily, showed us how stupid we look when we threw tantrums, modeled how to talk trash and banter in way that is funny, but not cruel. They often pushed us farther than we wanted them too, but they always seemed to know when to stop. As much as we may have disliked older siblings as a child, they played an important role that many of us would not appreciate until we are older.

My husband uses his role as father for all the traditional reasons: to teach our son about life, to protect him, to mentor him, and to raise him to become a good man. His role as big brother has proved just as important and he uses it for a different set of lessons: to teach our son how to interact with friends, how to be competitive without being a sore loser, how to banter with the guys without being a jerk, and how to be a good man who shows compassion as well as strength.

When my husband is big brother, our son can talk trash with him, try to best him in games and pranks, poke fun at him, and wrestle with him. When he’s dad, our son knows that he has to be respectful, listen to the advice he is being given, and follow his instructions. There is a shift in both of them as they move between the roles of father/son and big brother/little brother. The shift is subtle, but both of them are so tuned into it now and rarely misread the other.

I love watching this dynamic, and smile to myself as husband taps on the car window again to get our son to turn around. I know he’s trying to annoy him, just like a big brother would, and our son knows it too. That’s why he rolls his eyes at him as he turns away, a reaction that would get him a reprimand in other situations, but is completely appropriate in this one.

My husband smirks back at our son as he walks away, and I marvel that a man who mostly raised himself knows so well how to be a great dad, and the importance of being a big brother, too.

She turned sixteen yesterday.

She's no longer the sweet chubby-faced baby I knew so well. I knew every inch of her, in the knowing way of mothers, from the curls that swooped around her curving ears to her fat little toes I kissed each morning.

I knew her quirks and her desires, how she liked her oatmeal and how her brother made her squeal. She made me beam with just her existence. And her face would light up like a mirror of mine when she saw me.

And so I find myself ticking off the passing years like counting on my fingers. Sixteen of them gone, lost in the river of time that flows away so rapidly behind me. Two more before she reaches legal adulthood, although there is already a woman that looks out at me from behind her big brown eyes.

She is stunning, this woman who has taken the place of my baby.

On her first birthday, she stretched her round rolly arms toward me, her face a brilliant smile. Back when I was her world and she was mine.

On her sixteenth, she stretched those same arms, now so graceful and slender with womanhood, toward a room full of her friends. Her arms spread wide like she wanted to embrace the world and all of the living she could muster.

So much time I've lost in the hectic schedule of our busy lives. Time lost to financial stress and folded laundry and my hopeless pursuit of the elusive clean refrigerator.

Time lost to "Hurry up and find your shoes!" and "Hurry up and get your pajamas on!" and "Hurry up, you're dawdling!" and "Hurry up, you'll be late for school!" And "Hurry up! Hurry up! Hurry up!"

I take it all back. Every useless time I felt like I needed her to hurry. Please, let me take it back.

I want to scream at her to please slow down.

I need more time. I feel like I ran through the years without paying attention. I was too busy trying to keep my head above water to enjoy the swim in the waves. Too busy trying to keep her fed and clean and safe to enjoy the person that once balanced so precariously on my hip.

Now she balances so precariously on the threshold of adulthood. Part of me wants to hold her tightly, close to me where she is safe, where she is still mine to hold. And part of me wants to nudge her through the doorway, ever-so-softly... because I know that she can fly.

I am a mother who is conflicted. I want my baby and yet I feel such pride watching her grow into all that I know she can become, watching her slip so comfortably into her potential, like Cinderella slipping into the glass slipper. She is still my princess (and I don't care if it's a horribly cheesy cliche).

It's one of the wild and complicated aspects of motherhood, that such profound sadness and such profound joy can reside in the same body at precisely the same moment. My heart is being stretched and twisted beyond what I think it can bear.

That wheel of parenthood, once it gets moving just rolls faster and faster, each year taking our babies farther away from us.

Two more years. It's not nearly long enough. There's still so much to do. So much to tell her. So little time to hold her here with me, before she bursts out into the world full of the desire for living.

So I will not tell her to hurry. Not ever again.

I wish I had never urged her to move faster. Because the days are long while children can be frustratingly slow.

But the years are short... oh-so-very short. They fly by too fast.

There's no need to hurry.

Originally published on Different Than Average.

The book Are You There, God? It’s me, Margaret by Judy Blume, who recently celebrated her 77th birthday, is the reason behind my first “sex” talk with my mother.

I don’t remember how old I was, maybe eight or nine when I read the book, but I do remember thinking that I was pretty savvy for knowing what a bra was. I guess that sounds fairly innocent now. Back then elementary school kids weren’t snapchatting pics of their privates. Anyway, I was proud of myself for understanding most of the material.

There was one thing about the book that I just didn’t get. What was this period thing they kept talking about? Why was Margaret so into punctuation? I needed answers.

Without our good friend Google to turn to, I did what most kids did back then. I asked my mom. I had no idea that what would ensue would end up being one of my greatest childhood memories.

I approached my mom nervously, unsure if this was an appropriate question to ask, and worried about what the answer might be. I asked her what a period was, expecting a simple answer.

My mom told me that “period” was another word for menstruation, and explained to me what that meant. I thought that was the end of it.

And then she busted out the encyclopedia.

I guess, I should have seen that coming. You ask a nurse a medical-related question, you are going to see some diagrams.

My mom went on to show me exactly how the female reproductive system works. I learned enough about ovaries and Fallopian tubes to render me a fourth-grade expert. It would be a few more years until I would get my period, but when I did, I knew what it was, and was mentally and emotionally ready for it.

Credit: bionicteaching.

I look back on that story and laugh at its inherent awkwardness. Yet, I am also thankful to have a mother who isn’t afraid to answer those sort of questions.

I think about those young girls, who, even today, are taught that there periods are shameful, or worse, not taught anything at all. Perhaps if they had access to a Judy Blume book and a guardian who took the time to help them understand what they were going through, growing up would be a lot easier for them.

As a mother now, whose body went through a lot of changes in the process of carrying and birthing my son, I am still grateful to have a mom who prepared me for all that would entail. Without her, I’m not sure if I would have known how much pain you are in after birth. I would not have known how to deal with engorgement and the many other challenges of nursing.

If I have a daughter, I hope she feels comfortable asking me the tough questions. And I hope I am brave enough to answer.

Gail Hoffer-Loibl
Maybeillshowertoday.com
The musings of one dirty mama

Students in class photo via Shutterstock.

"I'm not sure I want to go to college," my daughter said to me. I guess the look on my face made it pretty clear what I thought of that, and she hastily amended it with, "For the first year, I mean."

"You want to take a year off?" I clarified.

"Yeah. I just don't think I need to start right away."

I chewed my lip, considering my words carefully. I know this kid. Now is not the time to pick a battle, especially when college is four and a half years away.

"I've known people who decided to take some time off before college," I said. "And you now what? A lot of them never did go. They got jobs and car payments and apartments to pay for, and they didn't ever do it."

"I'm gonna go, Mom. I just think I should wait."

"For what?"

"I don't know," she shrugged. "I just… might not want to do that once I'm out of school. I might want to do other stuff."

"Like what?" I repeated. "What's your plan? Because you're not sitting on the couch eating Cheetos and playing on your phone all day. You don't get a year of summer vacation, you know."

She rolled her eyes. "I know."

"So what's the plan? What are you doing? Getting a job? Taking classes at a tech school?"

"I was thinking, maybe backpacking across Europe or something."

"Ah." I nod. "That does sound exciting."

"Doesn't it? Seeing the world, traveling to new countries! Touching buildings that have thousands of years of history and meeting cool people and stuff!"

Her eyes are shining, and I can't help but smile. I start to shake my head, ready to give her the "Honey, you've got plenty of time for that, do it after you graduate" speech. And then I stopped. And I thought. And I thought some more.

You see, I grew up in a house of low expectations. I'm not slamming my parents with that—they certainly wanted me to become a respectful, productive citizen and a good person, and they raised me that way. What they didn't do was raise me to expect or even plan to go to college.

For my mother, college was a puzzling, useless sort of thing for her daughter to consider. Why did I need it? If I wanted to get a job, I could go to secretarial school or something. But really, I didn't need a job if I got married, right? My mother didn't graduate high school, and for her, higher learning was something that wasn't a necessity, not if you were a girl.

My father was a little more realistic. He had no problem with me being interested in college. He just didn't understand why we should waste money on a Theatre degree. I understood his position, but it didn't stop me from wanting to go. I got the loans and financial aid I needed, and I paid for my college myself.

That particular degree and five bucks probably wouldn't buy me a cup of coffee at Starbucks, but having that degree has proven invaluable to me. It's put me ahead of people who were just as qualified when trying for jobs. It's given me networking opportunities. It's helped me move up from entry level to more advanced positions in various corporate jobs.

And my college years—as I look back on them now—were some of the happiest of my life. I made lifelong friendships, learned a lot of hard and invaluable life lessons, and moved on to relocate to another part of the country—something I probably wouldn't have done if I'd have stayed in town and gotten a job.

It's true that I want all that good stuff for my daughter, but it's also true that the landscape is changing out there. And while college certainly isn't for everyone based on their career path, my honors student/gifted in math daughter has her eyes on a STEM career, so college is pretty much a necessity.

I looked into my daughter's eyes—my daughter's shining, excited eyes—and I said:

"Okay."

"Really?" Those eyes widened in disbelief.

"Really," I affirmed. "Take a year off. Backpack. See the world. Teach English in Korea and play chess in Kiev and ride trains across Switzerland and get a job in a quaint little shop in London. Do it all and live every incredible moment of it. Do it before you get that car payment, or that mortgage, or get married and have kids."

"Awesome!" She beamed. "I just think I could learn so much!"

"You could," I agreed. "But that also means you're going to have to keep those grades up even more, since they'll be looking at year-old transcripts when you do go to college. Or maybe you'll choose to go to University in Europe; they'll want exceptional grades if you do. You might want to consider keeping a travel blog or working interesting jobs in various countries, so you can talk about your global experiences on college applications and to future employers."

"Okay."

"And you'll have to get a job when you turn 16, and probably start babysitting or maybe tutoring now. You're going to need money to bankroll that year."

She eyed me uncertainly at first, then with renewed determination. "Yeah. I guess I will."

"I'll agree to it, Anna, but you need to have a plan, you need do it safely, and you need to pay your way," I said. "And once that year is over, you need to have a plan from there. And it ought to include college, if you're still serious about the career path you're shooting for."

"Oh, I am," she assured me.

"A lot can happen between now and then," I reminded her.

"I know, Mom. And maybe I'll go straight to college after all. Most of my friends will be doing that anyway."

And with that, she made herself a sandwich, and we talked about whether or not she should curl her hair or straighten it tomorrow, since she was wearing those new jeans and she wasn't sure which way to wear her hair with them. Because she's thirteen, but she won't always be.

Someday, she'll walk out that door, and the world will be hers to take. I'm going to let her do that, on her terms, with my guidance and her father's guidance and hopefully a good head on her shoulders that leads her to consider all the pros and cons as she goes.

I want her to want it all. I want her to have it all. And I have to let her define her all on her terms, not mine.

This past week I received some pretty amazing compliments about my older teenage children. It means a bit more because... well, I'm closer to the finished product with them. It's almost time for me to unleash those boogers out into society (God help us all!), and it's nice to know that maybe, just maybe, I haven't completely effed up this mothering gig. (Although right now I have major doubts as I listen to the two boys practically screaming at each other because someone isn't cooking biscuits the right way. Ugh.)

It's rough, this mothering thing. While I have days when I completely feel like Super Mom—days when everyone gets along, the house is (mostly) clean, we've studied multiplication tables and American history, and I've cooked a nutritious meal we've all enjoyed at the dining room table (and miraculously no one threw mashed potatoes up against the wall or told a sibling they smelled funny)—most of my days leave me feeling like I've left something important undone. There's always a nagging feeling in the back of my head, like I've left the house with the front door open and the oven on, or somehow failed to instill healthy initiative, persistence and self-motivation in my offspring.

So when my daughter's employer from her part-time job tells me how much she's going to be missed once school starts back up because she's an impressive multi-tasker and great with people, it's a big deal. When a friend of the family mentions how wonderful my children are, how they seem genuinely grateful and honest and smart, it's a big deal. When my oldest son's new boss tells me I have a great kid, that he's got a good work ethic, it's a big deal (even though the guy had had a couple of beers... and at least one glass of wine... but it's too late now; it's been said and he can't take it back now).

Because most days I feel like a failure, days when the house is a wreck, and I'm refereeing fist fights, and the kids spent four straight hours playing video games, and I've lost my temper and yelled and been generally nasty, and we've eaten McDonald's three days in a row, and the kids all kind of smell funny because I haven't sufficiently nagged them into actually bathing. Most days I worry about the emotional baggage I'm heaping on them in moments of irritation and exasperation. Most days I'm worrying about the gaps in their education I can't seem to fill, and how horrible their handwriting is, and how mean they can be to each other.

I have this friend whose kids are awesome. They are some of the most polite and precocious kids I've met... and yet she worries. She worries just like me that she's doing everything wrong. She questions her decisions and agonizes over what books they read and what shows they watch and whether or not she spends enough time with them. She agonizes over all of her mistakes, both real and imaginary. And yet she has awesome kids.

And I have other friends with really awesome kids, kids who are motivated and smart and conscientious. And guess what? Those moms still obsess over whether or not they are doing this parenting thing right. But their kids are fantastic human beings.

Because behind every great kid is a mom who's pretty sure she's screwing them up.

It's because we love our kids so very much, and we want to do everything that we can to prepare them to be successful, caring, responsible adults who don't turn out to be mass murderers or weird cult leaders. (Or both. Ack!)

So we tend to blow our mistakes largely out of proportion. We see our minor shortcomings as huge character flaws. We have lofty goals for what this mothering thing should look like, complete with Pinterest boards and June Cleaver houses and Aunt Bea's home-cooked meals. But those goals are unrealistic for the average mom. We are just really flawed human beings, not perfect little Stepford moms (which is good because I don't think I could do housework in high heels).

What we haven't learned yet, is that motherhood isn't a list of tasks to be performed or lessons to be taught. We can't mark off the important bits of motherhood like some to-do list on the refrigerator whiteboard. (I saw those on Pinterest.) If we reduced mothering to task management, it would lose its heart and depth and soul... and that's where our effectiveness and strength as mothers comes from.

Children have a profound way of seeing the heart of a person, in spite of whatever else might try to get in the way. So long as our intentions are for the best and our hearts are full of love for our children, I believe there is a measure of grace that pours over and washes out most of our shortcomings... and the rest can probably be sorted out by a competent and qualified therapist later down the line.

It takes a lot of courage to walk this path of motherhood, day after day, year after year, holding our heads high, hoping for the best, and believing that things will work out in the end, even when we feel like we are botching things royally. Being responsible for the molding of another human being is a monumental task. No one told us when they wheeled us into Labor & Delivery that becoming a mother was the easy part; being a mom, actually walking this endless road, was an entirely different story.

But maybe we need to ease up just a little. Maybe as long as we love them and feed them and try our best, then maybe we are doing okay. Maybe the rest is just gravy.

Gravy that you have to stir continuously in a figure eight motion so that it doesn't stick to the bottom of the pan or burn or turn out too lumpy. Gravy that you have to add just the right amount of salt to, not too much or too little. Gravy that you have to thicken with cornstarch just in case there is a gluten sensitivity. Gravy that still probably won't turn out like Aunt Bea's even if you do follow all of the gravy-making rules. But gravy that will still be pretty damn good because the secret ingredient is love (And butter. Lots and lots of butter).

Originally posted on the blog, Different Than Average.

I know I have mentioned it before, but for those of you who are new, I am a college student at Old Dominion University. Yes, I am almost 50. Yes, I am working on my undergraduate degree. What can I say? Like a fine wine, I have gotten better with age.

Anyway, I started going to ODU in the spring of 2013. I had a wonderful Professor for my Intro to Women's Studies, and she offered extra credit points to us if we attended The Vagina Monologues being put on by some of the women at ODU.

Never one to turn down easy points (really it only cost 20.00 for two tickets, a large portion of which went to the local YWCA to fight violence against women), I talked Karol into joining me and away we went.

We really liked the production. We laughed, we cried, and even yelled! It was eye opening, and I felt especially impressed to see the quite reserved love of my life sit and enjoy it. To be honest I had as much fun watching her reactions as the production itself.

I did not realize it was an annual event at ODU until this year. I started hearing some of my classmates and a professor (the same one that introduced me to Women's Studies, Robin Ormiston), talking about this year's production of The Vagina Monologues held Valentine's Day weekend. Of course I wanted to go, but Karol was traveling to visit her family in Minnesota that weekend, and I didn't want to go alone. I started thinking about who I could invite (and would be willing to go).

I have talked about my youngest son, aka The Genius, and his feministing ways. That boy is a feminist if ever I met one. He is all about equity and he is incredibly intentional about his actions, particularly when it comes to race and class.

I have been teaching him since he was quite small that because he is a white male, he is the most privileged type of person in this country and he needs to use his privilege to help others achieve the same status. Until we no longer have white privilege in this country, he should use it for the benefit of people who don't have it. This lesson has definitely struck home with him, and he is an incredible human being. I see great things in his future!

Anyway, I asked him if he would like to go see The Vagina Monologues with me. Without hesitation he said, "Yes!" He then asked if his BFF could come along with us. I said sure, but please make sure her parents knew where she was going. I did not want to get in trouble for taking a minor to The Vagina Monologues without parental permission. The young lady received permission and off we went to the 2015 ODU production of The Vagina Monologues.

I have to admit I felt a bit nervous, because having seen it before, I had a small inkling of what these kids were going to be exposed to. Of course as we walked in, the first thing they asked as we gave our tickets was if we wanted to purchase Vagina lollipops: chocolate lollipops shaped like a vagina. The kids said yes, so I bought all three of us a vagina lollipop after I made them promise NOT to eat them at school. Can you imagine the phone call I would get if that happened? "Um. Ms. Rood, this is the Principal calling. Um, there was an incident involving your son and a food item today... umm."

I have to admit the first time they used the word "cum," the mom in me did get a bit squinky, and I glanced over at the kids; they had not even looked away from the stage. Whew, okay that was fine, and then I relaxed.

After that I was able to remove my "mom" persona and just enjoy the fact that I was introducing two teenagers to a world of feminism and the idea that we can celebrate a body part often seen only as "dirty" or "smelly" or sexual.

Think about it, the slang names for a penis are strong or weapon like: rod, sword, stick, love muscle, one eyed monster, cock, and so on. However, the words for vagina feel different: twat, cunt, hole, cave, gash. Not the same genre of words at all.

But in the 2015 production of The Vagina Monologues, these amazing women were on stage CELEBRATING the Vagina! Celebrating wearing a short skirt. Talking about uncomfortable things like rape and abuse. Talking about wonderful things like empowerment and love. Talking about Vaginas!

When it was over, I introduced the kids to some of the women actors I knew, and congratulated the women on an outstanding performance. When Robin asked the kids what they thought of the show, they both said an emphatic, " I LOVED IT!"

I know these kids are meant for great things!

Just so you can experience some of what we experienced I will leave you with a video of a monologue from The Vagina Monologues. If you ave some interest and time, check out videos of "The Moaner" and "My Angry Vagina." Both are great! In fact, it is all great. Go see a show if you ever have a chance.

One of my favorite monologues: My Short Skirt.

( I wish I had access to the one done this year at ODU, but after viewing many of these, I liked this one the best!)

Carol Rood
Coffee, Clutter and Chaos

The question: How fast could your child's hamster actually run if they ever accidentally got away from you?

The answer: Like a bat out of hell.

Here's the culprit: Honey, my 12 year old daughter's long haired Syrian hamster.

Brat.

Honey was a birthday gift for Mad this year. She's wanted one forever, but I wanted to wait until she was old enough and responsible enough to care for it 100% on her own. She was ready by the age of 10, but I kept putting it off because my own track record with hamsters is, well, sketchy.

Can I share a deep, dark secret with you guys and you won't judge me too harshly? Okay, here it is: I'm a hamster killer. For real. Stone cold, killed it dead, am going to hell, should probably have a tattoo of a tear drop under my eye, hamster killer.

Here's what happened. I was nine. My mother had gotten my sister and I a lovely little female hamster named Chrissy, probably after Chrissy Evert, the tennis player, whom our mother adored. I loved that little thing. She was huggable, never bit, and I could tell her all of my nine-year-old woes, of which there were many.

One fateful day, I came home from school and ran upstairs to see if Chrissy was awake. Since hamsters mostly sleep during the day, my mother sometimes covered her cage with a towel. The towel was on, but I thought I heard her moving around. I tippy-toed up to the cage, whipped off the towel and yelled, "SURPRISE!" The poor thing leaped in the air and was dead by the time she hit the shavings. I scared her to death, literally.

There's a lot there that's blanked out for me, my poor brain's way of trying to protect me from the trauma of being a Garanimals-wearing killer. I don't remember what happened afterward or what my mother did with Chrissy—none of it. I do remember that there were never any more hamsters. The "incident" was never brought up again by anyone in my family, but they probably didn't want to remember it any more than I did.

So when my own sweet daughter began asking for a hamster, I had serious doubts. But Mad is a careful, gentle kid, great with animals and very responsible, and in the end I gave in, and we brought Honey home from PetSmart.

She's adorable. Mad has hand-trained and tamed her completely on her own after scouring the internet and reading books on how to do it. Honey was only a few months old and had never been held other than to move her from cage to cage at the pet store. The two are now firmly in love with each other.

Honey has a never ending assortment of doll houses and Barbie cars to keep her busy.

So a couple of nights a week, Mad spends the night at her dad's house and I, Honey's grandmother, am on babysitting duty. Honey is terribly spoiled now, and as soon as she sees you walk in the room, she demands treats and tries to climb out of the cage to get to you. I've watched carefully these last few months, and Mad never seems to have any trouble keeping Honey near her when they're playing on the floor. Honey kind of toddles around (FAT) and doesn't seem like she'd be the type of critter to try to make a break for it and get away. And while I always pick her up and hold her, I've never had need to put her on the floor for any reason without Mad there.

Until tonight. Mad is at her father's house and when Honey woke up around 7:00 pm (nocturnal my butt; lazy is more like it), I went in to give her some wake-up snuggles and to get her a snack. I scooped her up held her against my chest and walked into the kitchen. I one-handed the fridge open and grabbed her one pea pod which she immediately began munching contentedly and then we made our way over to the pantry to get her a Cheerio.

Somewhere between the fridge and the pantry, the hamster lost her damned mind. She raced up my neck, over my shoulder, and down the back of my shirt. I had horror-filled images of the hamster falling out of my shirt and landing on the hardwood floor. So holding the shirt against my butt, I raced over to the area rug in the living room and slowly, slowly, slowly got down on my stomach and lifted my shirt for the little rat to crawl out.

She dove off my hip and before I could lever myself back up into a sitting position, she was off like a shot. I mean racehorse in the last stretch of the Kentucky Derby, Michael J. Fox in the DeLorean leaving tracks of fire.., GONE.

Her fat little body was a brown blur as she made her way out of the living room toward the girls' bathroom and bedrooms. Secretariat over there was like the wind. In a panic, I grabbed the closest thing—a puzzle—and tore the lid off. I raced ahead of her and tried to scoop her up but she saw me coming, turned on a dime, and went back for the living room.

She was headed for the couch, or under it, and I tossed the box lid like a frisbee—whizzzzzzzzzzz(yes, this seemed like a good idea at the time)—trying to block the three or so inches that would allow her to get beneath the couch (and from there into the adjacent base board heater...ayieeeeee).

Fatty veered to the right just as I caught up to her and I grabbed her. Snatched her little body up and marched her directly back to her cage with my heart pounding. And do you know what that little turkey did? Popped the remainder of the pea pod out of her mouth and sat there munching just as happily as you please. Not shaken up in the least. That was a fun little jaunt as far as she was concerned.

I, on the other hand, was ready to stroke out at the thought of something happening to yet another hamster on my watch. How in the name of all that's holy would I explain to my kid that I was the Ted Bundy of hamsters?

She had me fooled, guys. Fat, docile, hug-a-bug-fluffy-butt turns into Dale Earnhardt, Jr. if given the opportunity. I'm pretty sure that she'll be spending the rest of the weekend safely in her cage until Mad gets home tomorrow. On the other hand, should there ever be a hamster Olympics, we're bringing home the gold.

People have opinions about when to let a girl start shaving her legs. My almost-eleven-year-old daughter casually asked about it earlier this month, and so I did what any normal mother would do: I posted the question on Facebook.

Public Domain Image via Pixabay

I am not very good at Facebook. I have never had so many comments on a thread I started all by myself.

The commenters originated from two camps: the one that already had hairless-legged daughters and the one that remembered the shame of sunlight glinting off their leg hairs as other people pointed and snickered.

I admit that I had not given my daughter's potential leg-shaving a thought. I explained sex when my daughter was four or five. I got her the puberty books around age eight.

We've been through the ear-piercing conversation and the lip gloss conversation, but for some reason body hair just didn't enter the picture. She's actually not very hairy.

Another obstacle hampering my judgment is my inability to remember when I first did anything. I'd have to look at school pictures to figure out when I started wearing mascara or curling my hair.

I have absolutely no idea when I started shaving my legs. I do remember my mother insisting that you couldn't shave without shaving cream (a "fact" I haven't respected since I graduated from high school - I will shave my legs with anything from shower gel to conditioner to bar soap, if I'm desperate).

Did I ever get ridiculed for allowing hair to remain on my legs? Not that I recall. I had bigger fish to fry as I struggled to grow out of my chubby childhood.

What surprised me the most about the Facebook responses: Most of the other moms were teaching their daughters to shave at younger ages than my girl is now. I wouldn't have even thought about it if she hadn't asked.

I'm not even sure if she really wants to shave or if she was just curious regarding my position. I told her about what the other mothers said on Facebook and that I was considering writing this BlogHer post because I still farm her childhood for writing prompts.

"So, does that change when I can start?" she asked. We eyeballed each other. My husband covered his ears because he hates any discussion of grooming.

I realized in that moment of all the things I worry about happening in the next eight years -- driving, smartphones, dating, peer pressure, first love -- I care absolutely nothing about when she starts shaving off body hair.

It's like when she got her ears pierced: I wondered if I should draw lines in the sand and manufacture minimum ages in the name of good parenting, then I remembered how annoying it is when someone makes up rules just to make up rules.

I thought the rule-making-up business comprised the best part of parenting when I was on the receiving end of it, but coming up with rules governing anything but morality and personal safety is a real drag.

"Sure," I said. "I guess you can start this summer, if you want. Just promise me you won't touch a razor until I teach you how to do it. If you slice the back of your knee you'll swear you're bleeding out."

I wonder if this means I'll have to buy shaving cream.

When did you start shaving your legs or armpits, if you do? If you have a girl, when do you think she'll start shaving?

Rita Arens is the author of the young adult novel THE OBVIOUS GAME& the deputy editor of BlogHer.com.

Ben gave me a 20-week Fitness Challenge which will take us right through summer and hopefully become so habit forming that we never stop doing a little something every day that is good for us.

Together, we have walked and ridden bikes and even tried a little running. We are building up our hearts and lungs with longer walks to get ready for even more running. We live in the country and have endless paths to walk or ride in every direction with lovely views all around.

Today, he wanted to ride his bike while I walked. We were set on going a really long way to this little chapel on a hill that I'd wanted to walk to on Easter, but it was too far for him in the shoes he was wearing. So, he rode, and I walked. He'd get ahead of me and circle back. He would ride slow as I walked fast, and we talked. This has become the most meaningful part of my day—just getting to have all this time to check in and hear what's on his mind.

As we got to the edge of a really long downhill, he looked at me with excitement in his eyes, wondering if I'd let him go as fast as his bike would take him all the way down that hill. And I did. And I watched him soar with his jacket flying behind him. I could hear his laughter, and when the road started to straighten out, he swooped left and right, in and out of the yellow lines until his bike started to slow down. It was absolutely a thing of beauty to see him exhilarated by that much freedom, speed, and the wind in his face.

I remembered that my husband said that his bike meant freedom to him when he was a kid. He would ride on the cow paths in the canyon behind his house. He and his friends would take off into the woods of the East Bay across from San Francisco and fly around corners and up hills and down until dark and they had to go home.

Kids today don't have nearly as much freedom as we did growing up. They are more sheltered, and protected. They need to be. The world has gotten much more scary since we were little, but oh, when we can give them a little bit of freedom and see them relish it and revel in it, and be brave and bold and go toward it because it is exciting and a little bit scary and they might get the wind knocked out of them, but that's half the fun. I think we need to hold back our own hearts that want to protect maybe a little too much sometimes—and let them ride the wind.

They are getting older every day. Soon, Ben will be in Middle School. As the boys get older and want to challenge themselves more and more, it will become even more important for me to let them experiment with freedom of many kinds. I get to trust them and watch them learn as they go toward becoming good men.

Liesl Garner, blogging at Love.Sparks.Art
Wife and Mom and Writer in the Wee Hours of the Morning

What do you wish your younger self knew? What do want your daughter to know? What do you want girls to know?

I knew that young adult author Courtney Summers had a new book coming about shame. And how those who are shamed are silenced. I don't have to go far to look at how our society fails to protect girls against shame. We've seen in the news what that does to girls. How it slowly destroys them. I live in a society where everyone knew Rehteah Parson's name, but no one was allowed to say it.

I want to see change. I want girls to know that they have worth. I want to go back in time and tell my teenage self that I have worth and that other people's definitions of who I should become will not define me unless I let them. I want girls to stand up and say, "I am me. I like who I am. I am proud of who I am."

That is why I love Courtney Summer's #ToTheGirls movement, which is happening right now on Twitter. I knew it was coming and I made a note of it. I forgot about it until I saw this tweet pass through my stream.

It's okay to want things. To be ambitious. To fuck up and fail. To be the best. #tothegirls

— Kat Howard (@KatWithSword) April 14, 2015

That tweet plunged me into the #ToTheGirls hashtag and I proceeded to retweet so many things I had to stop before I got put into Twitter jail. All these things are things I want girls not to just know, but to live. I want them to carry these messages—the messages that tell them they are enough just as they are—around with them always. I want them to own who they are and shout it from the rooftops.

I do not have a daughter. I don't have a lot of young girls in my life. But here's what I want them, and your daughters, to know:

Take up so much space. <3 #tothegirls

— Shari Slade (@ShariSlade) April 14, 2015

#ToTheGirls with dysphoria, who look at their bodies with dismay, disjointed between brain and flesh. You will create yourself.

— Vanessa Rose Phin (@wordfey) April 14, 2015

Do what makes you feel good, not what you think will make you look good to others #ToTheGirls

— Rachel Maria Cox (@rachelmariacox) April 14, 2015

Somewhere out there, someone can't find words how thankful they are because you exist #ToTheGirls

— Paula M @ HBT! (@herbookthoughts) April 14, 2015

#ToTheGirls biting their tongues & worrying what they have to say isn't good enough. It IS. I promise.

— Tiffany Schmidt (@TiffanySchmidt) April 14, 2015

#ToTheGirls Be yourself. Be fearless. And if people have a problem with that be the one who walks away.

— Janine Mimi De Jesus (@LoveJanineMimi) April 14, 2015

#ToTheGirls There is absolutely nothing wrong with you. Nothing.

— Delia Moran (@AlphaDelia) April 14, 2015

There's nothing wrong with loving romance, it doesn't make you one of "those" girls bc there's no such thing as "those" girls #tothegirls

— that meg girl (@megsaysthings) April 14, 2015

be bold even if that means possibly scaring and confusing people with your boldness. #ToTheGirls

— Samantha Mabry (@samanthamabry) April 14, 2015

Crying easily doesn't make you weak. Being emotional isn't the same as being irrational. #tothegirls

— Leila Roy (@bkshelvesofdoom) April 14, 2015

#ToTheGirls: Perfection is overrated. Love yourself flaws and all.

— Mary Dunbar (@MaryCDunbar) April 14, 2015

There is no such thing as too tall for a girl. It’s something I wish someone had told me when I was growing up. #tothegirls

— Jodi Chromey (@jodiwilldare) April 14, 2015

Love yourself. Accept your differences. Find your strengths. Rely on your true friends. Ask for help. #ToTheGirls

— Michelle (@winelibrarian) April 14, 2015

What do YOU have to say #ToTheGirls?

BlogHer Community Moderator Karen Ballum also blogs at Sassymonkey.

Gather around, my friends. It's our favorite time of year: bad prom dress season! While we love the girls inside the dresses, we feel it's our duty to guide today's youth in the area of formalwear. The BlogHer editorial team passed around a few pics ... what do YOU think?

Strapless Lace Dress

Image: Jovani Strapless Lace Dress

Karen: This is not a dress. It is lingerie. You wear that under a dress.

Julie: This IS a dress. It is a wedding dress for a Vegas showgirl. It might be Ver-sayce. Why it is listed in the “Prom Dresses” section, though, is an unfathomable mystery.

Jenna: Not even Madonna would wear this white lace get-up. And she's Madonna.

Rita: She’s next to the water because the sea witch stole her voice before she gave her legs and made her wear this human dress to impress the prince.

Long Sequined Dress

Image: Primavera Long Sequined Dress

Jenna: Just don't sit down. Unless you like the plumber look.

Rita: I want her to be holding a white chair in front of a tiger.

Karen: I like glitter as much as the next person (probably more than the next person, actually) but those sequins = serious chafing. I don't even think Body Glide can save you.

Long Two-Piece Dress

Image: Sherri Hill Long Two-Piece Dress

Jenna: You know, I think a friend of mine wore this in 1999. Is '99 already vintage? If so, pass me a stiff drink.

Rita: This dress is so awkward, there’s really just no good way to stand in it, amirite?

Julie: Photographic proof that you have to be very very drunk to leave the house in this one. Keep holding on to that wall, sister. We’ll get through this.

Karen: This dress screams "Jessica Wakefield" to me. Sweet Valley High 4ever!

Illusion Bodice Dress

Image: PromGirl Illusion Bodice Dress

Jenna: If you look closely, the bodice is actually looking back AT you. Possibly to take your soul.

Rita: The costume director from Beetlejuice called ...

Julie: I would have appreciated a Sparkle Goth Prom option in high school, actually.

Sleeveless Lace Dress

Image: Jovani Sleeveless Lace Gown

Jenna: That’s not “romantic, beautiful lace.” This dress is bringing “Grandma’s tablecloth” to the prom. And not even her nice tablecloth. It’s just an everyday tablecloth, dyed green. Grandmas everywhere will see this dress and ask where to purchase it for their Tuesday luncheon with the other Blue Hairs. But really, the construction is so poor I fear that the floating lace covers on the breasts will lead to an unfortunate Janet Jackson slip up. And then what’s Grandma gonna say? Nothing good. Nothing good at all.

Julie: That dress looks like a turtle.

Karen: Turtle Power!

Rita: Aw. She’s hiding.

Sheer Illusion Long Dress

Image: Jovani Sheer Illusion Long Dress

Karen: This dress is a walking wardrobe malfunction. End of story.

Julie: Prom dresses this year keep using that word "illusion." I do not think it means what they think it means.

Jenna: I’m pretty sure this dress requires super glue, which means you’ll be wearing it for the rest of your life. Keep that in mind.

Rita: This dress was wholly funded by Hollywood Tape.

Sleeveless Sheer Panel Dress

Image: Jovani Sleeveless Sheer Panel

Karen: I don't understand this dress. It's a skirt. And crop top except it's not a crop top. It's a vest. But it's not any of those things because it's all connected by sheer mesh to make it a dress. My brain is confused.

Julie: That guy’s tie and that girl’s vest are actually part of the same “destination casual” chain restaurant uniform. They just need some flair to tie it all together.

Jenna: If your date ditches you, grab a pair of pants and a white button up and you can help the staff serve dinner!

Rita: The official prom dress of the Dallas Cowboys Cheerleaders.

What have you seen? Do you like any of these? What do you love in a good prom dress?

Rita Arens is the author of the young adult novel THE OBVIOUS GAME& the deputy editor of BlogHer.com.

"Slurs," my husband told me angrily over the phone."They're commenting on her pictures with slurs."

Our daughter's phone was sitting on the table next to him when hateful anti-LGBT comments began popping up on its screen. As he read them to me, each one delivered a solid hit to my heart.

Someone was attacking my child.

A few months before, Alexis had come out as transgender. Thus began her sedulous transition to living life as a girl.

In my eyes, that made her a really brave and authentic 11-year-old. To many of her friends in sixth grade, however, it made her both a target and an outcast.

I felt her relief when she first told us she was a girl. The weight of a secret buried for years had been lifted. "I can finally start being myself," she exclaimed. "I can start living now."

But the light in her eyes began to fade soon after coming out at school. Another weight was piling on, cumbersome and painful in new ways.

It began with silent shunning. The kids weren't outright mean, but they stopped speaking to her unless absolutely necessary. Many turned their backs on her at recess and walked away when she would approach them in the hall.

They stopped inviting her over after school and chatting with her on Skype. Her Minecraft server -- once a hub for socializing -- began to empty of those friends who used to jump on after dinner.

Everyone was pulling away from a child who needed acceptance and support now more than ever.

Her dad and I watched it unfold helplessly. All we could do, beyond communicating our concerns to the school, was reassure her that things would get better. "People just need time to adjust," we told her. "This isn't new to you, but it is to them."

Then came the harassment. For some, silence turned to whispers, then whispers to shouts. As one cruel voice rose up, another followed.

They attacked her gender identity, perceived sexuality, her looks and weight. They never laid a finger on her yet left no part of her unscathed.

She would come home diminished and defeated each afternoon. Despite the school administration's best efforts, Alexis felt unsafe and alone.

This was when we made the difficult decision to temporarily pull her from school. I'm now homeschooling her through middle school in the hopes of giving her a safe space during this critical time in her life. But even her absence in the classroom didn't stop them; Instagram pictures of Alexis and a friend at the skate park resulted in the transphobic and homophobic slurs from former classmates noticed by her dad.

Despite increasing awareness and education, this is the type of hate and discrimination LGBT children, youth and adults still face simply for being true to themselves. The consequences are real and heartbreaking: People in the LGBT community face higher rates of depression, anxiety and addiction. Nearly half the transgender population has attempted suicide. It's statistics like these that keep me up at night.

But we have an opportunity to make a difference.

Today is GLSEN's Day of Silence. Kids from middle school to college will go silent for the day to illustrate the impact of anti-LGBT bullying and harassment.

It's a day to encourage policy changes, education and open minds, a day to stand in solidarity with those who are so often discriminated against.

Allies play an important role in the happiness and safety of kids like mine. If Alexis had allies in the schoolyard last year, her experience would have been entirely different.

What would have happened if someone had stood up for her, or decided not to turn away from her when the other kids did? What if a peer had called out those who attacked her online?

I'm happy to say that my daughter is in a good place today. Now twelve, she is loved and accepted within our large circle of family and friends and embraced by many of our community members. She has a handful of friends who support her.

In the year since coming out, her confidence has grown along with her hair, and her smile is reaching her eyes for the first time in years.

Very recently, she chose to speak out for herself and other trans children, lending her voice to the movement of brave LGBT kids who are working to raise awareness and cultivate societal acceptance.

She is my hero.

I still worry about Alexis' inevitable return to school. In the meantime, we're doing our part to educate others in the hopes of ensuring she has allies waiting for her in high school.

I speak regularly to other parents about the importance of teaching our children to accept and embrace each other’s differences. Kids are sponges who soak up our own fears and biases.

So the more we educate ourselves, the more likely we are to raise thoughtful and empowered allies. The dialogue begins at home.

Coming out is a courageous move. It should be celebrated, not stifled. Whether we're silent today or not, let's all do our part to become the allies children like mine deserve.

Amanda Jetté Knox

mavenmayhem@gmail.com

TheMavenOfMayhem.com

[Editor's Note: Today is National Pot Smoker's Day. As more and more states legalize marijuana, situations like this will just keep happening. What's your opinion? Tell us in the comments. - Rita]

I gave my daughter a joint this past weekend.

I do not mean that to sound like it was no big deal, because it was not at all a casual decision. My daughter is almost 15 years old and a freshman in high school, and she has always been very open and honest with me.

Image: Rafael Castillo

Suffice it to say, my husband and I are pretty liberal parents. We try not to judge our daughter and to teach with compassion. Of course, we have already had the talks about sex and drugs with her. I told her that I was almost out of high school before I had intercourse with my college boyfriend. I also admitted that I experimented with marijuana in my teens, but that it was much weaker back then and I did not let it get in my way.

She explained that she learned all about drugs and alcohol in school and knew that if she became a "stoner" that it would interfere with her brain development and maturity level. She confessed that she had been drunk with her friends — one time.

"What did you drink and did you come home that night?" I asked, with perhaps a little more alarm in my voice that I would have liked.

She refused to say, but after I ran through a list of suspects, she admitted it was vodka. With a peach schnapps chaser! She told me that she had slept at a friend's house that night, and I have to admit that I was relieved that I had not failed to notice that she was inebriated.

I often try to conceal my dread that my baby (who is half a head taller than I am) is venturing into the big, bad world. I know I have to keep the conversation open and to not judge her too harshly. I told her why I disapproved of alcohol. She told me that she would only drink if it was a special occasion, whatever that means. I want to keep her from drinking, but short of shadowing her to every party or coordinating a detail of private detectives, it is really out of my control. This is what they are talking about when they’re talking about "letting go."

Then she told me that she had not tried pot … yet. She said she wanted to and that if I didn't already know it, that everyone in her school got high. I said I had no doubt it was widespread, but that I still wished she would wait. She looked at me with the same look of pity that I looked at my mother with when I was her age, and she then reiterated her intentions to experiment with it.

We discussed how openly her father smoked. I explained that he worked really hard, was very responsible and considered marijuana to be a form of relaxation. I expressed my desire again about how I wished she would wait until she was older, but also had to admit that this was the time in her life to be curious.

She said she was going to sleep over at a friend's house and that they wanted to try it together. She said it would be so simple to take some of her dad's stuff, as he leaves it in an unlocked cabinet, and he would not even notice. She then asked me if I had a joint.

I had long kept a joint in my underwear drawer as security, in case I had a bout of insomnia. We looked for it and discovered that it was gone, taken by my husband, I guessed, when he was running low.

"Why don't you ask your dad?" I asked.

"No," she answered curtly, "and don't you ask him, either!"

I told her that I would have a discussion with him over whether it was the right thing to offer her some.

"I can get it from a junior I know …" she mumbled under her breath. I thought about how her dad got it from a neighbor who grew it himself, how it was middle-of-the-road stuff and certainly not laced with anything.

If she was going to smoke — and lets face it, nothing I could say would deter her — and if I wanted to keep the lines of communication open, I would have to accept her "occasionally" getting high. So that night, I went to my husband and told him all about our conversation. And early the next morning, he rolled a joint and gave it to me.

I knocked on my daughter’s door and presented her with one skinny little joint. Her eyes widened.

"That’s from Daddy?" she asked, and I nodded.

"I love him," she said. "I have the coolest parents." And that is how I became my 14-year-old daughter’s pot dealer.

After school that day, she went over to her friend's house and with two friends finished half the joint. The other two, veteran pot-smokers it seems, told my daghter that it was very weak pot.

Originally published on Purple Clover.

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Dear Mouthy Housewives,

My pre-teen daughter wakes up so grumpy every morning.

It ruins the whole morning before she leaves for school. I miss the days when she was little and woke up singing. Any ideas to get her out of her morning funk?

Signed,

My Daughter is Grumpy

Image: Helga Weber via Flickr

Dear Grumpy's Mom,

I'm not an expert on sleep patterns, but I believe that the only people (over the age of four) who wake up in the morning singing are those created by the Disney animation team. Because the rest of us have to deal with the harsh reality of getting on with our day, which unfortunately often involves abandoning the comfort of our beds and heading into the cruel, cold world, and/or school.

Even so, I, personally, usually wake up bright-eyed and bushy-tailed (like a rabid squirrel), so you should probably consider trading in your daughter and having me come live with you instead. Please confirm which exotic locale I should report to for this exciting cohabitation opportunity.

But if you're one of those "helicopter moms" who's attached to her daughter and wants her to continue to be part of the "family," you're going to have to try a different approach. Good luck figuring out what that is!

Oh, wait, I'm supposed to provide one, right?

Is it possible that she is not getting enough sleep? The solution could be as simple as adjusting her bedtime a bit, and I know there's not a child in the world who doesn't welcome an earlier lights out!

If your daughter's grumpiness manifests itself in noncommunication, count your blessings. You can tell her that you understand that she's not a morning person, and there is nothing wrong with that (white lie) but that you expect a certain standard of civility.

Even in the morning. Even years before her first cup of coffee. Set up a routine where part of breakfast is saying good morning when she comes into the kitchen.

If the grumpiness is more along the surly lines, you can insist on civility. Not being a morning person is not an excuse for rudeness.

Make clear to her what kind of behavior is acceptable and what isn't and have clear consequences.

But have that conversation in the evening.

Good luck!

Marinka, TMH

There was a time on my blog when I used pseudonyms for the girls. Bridget was known as Boo (my pet name for her) and Abby was Allie (after her then favorite TV character). I was so unsure about this blog world; I wanted to do what I could to protect my children.

Then I went "public" to my friends and family with this blog's existence. People around town (and in her school) began calling Abby by her pseudonym when we were out and about. She was a little confused, and so were they when she gave them an odd look and corrected them.

I came "clean" to the readers, explaining my reasoning and began using the girls' true names. Abby and David know about the blog, but just that it is a blog. They do not really understand what "blog" is or the change it has generated.

The incredible growth in our immediate world and in myself.

Recently some of Abby's classmates created conflict on Instagram. Abby is not on social media and her iPod is locked down with passwords so she cannot download any app without my code. I am not on Instagram and had no clue what kind of social media outlet it is.

Like any parent I asked my tween. Her reply? "It's nothing but trouble, mom. A lot of my class got it over February vacation and all it causes is fights." She went on to tell me that parents (like hers) made Facebook uncool so all the kids use Instagram now.

I explained to her the importance of internet safety. How to not allow her friends to take her photo with their phones because they could use it on the internet without her knowledge. She didn't understand. "But Mom, I'm not on Instagram and I don't want to be!"

I explained (with my limited knowledge) of how social media works. You do not need to be on it to be on it.

A light bulb went off in this mother's head.

How am I any different from her friends? I share intimate details of her life, post her humorous comments and photos, both on my blog and on social media. I rationalize (I'm great at rationalization) that with Facebook it is friends and family who know her and enjoy her.

Yet I am conflicted. I am beyond careful with what I share about my husband knowing how he feels about social media and the internet. (Hint: he thinks the internet was invented by Satan and Facebook by Satan's minions.) But I'm not as careful when it comes to my kids.

Wanting to be fair, I asked Abby what she thought. Proving once again that she is her father's daughter, she told me she would rather I not share anything without permission: Photos, quotes, life events, etc. without her knowledge and approval.

I am going to respect her wishes. It does not apply to old posts (or throwback ones). It will be difficult. I need to write about our life because writing is cathartic for me, but sharing her life isn't something she is comfortable with, and she is allowed to be private.

When you are a parent you realize your needs are not nearly as important as their wants. As much as this new rule sucks for me since she gives me so much material!

If you do see a future Abby post or photo (here or on Facebook) know that it was shared with permission. Or for example, a post where her comment about me not hurting myself with crochet needles has no implication on her life and therefore is usable under mommy said so.

A version of this post can be found on (Un)Diagnosed and Still Okay

Recently, I’ve started to see my daughters’ bodies changing. Not quite puberty yet, but a little rounder here, a little curvier there. Yep, it’s almost time to have “the talks” in my house.

I’ve done my best to protect their body images. I never talk about diet, although they rarely see me eat bread or pasta (seriously, goes right to my hips), try not to complain (to them) about the wrinkles and sags, and never complain when my jeans feel too tight.

Growing up, my parents were overzealous in always telling me how beautiful I was, even during my spiral-permed, over make-upped, short skirt wearing period (which seemed to last years). They always told me I looked great whether I just gained the Freshman 15 or lost a few pounds of my winter chubbiness. I was lucky. Really, really lucky.

And my husband and I have tried to do the same for our girls. We constantly talk about how beautiful they are, along with complimenting their intelligence, kindness, athleticism, and any other things we can say to empower them to believe in themselves. We truly believe that positive affirmations can make positive minds.

That’s why when I saw this quote from Kate Winslet, it rocked my world.

"As a child, I never heard one woman say to me, “I love my body.” Not my mother, my elder sister, my best friend. No one woman has ever said, “I am so proud of my body.” So I make sure to say it to Mia [her daughter], because a positive physical outlook has to start at an early age."

Credit: © Pete Mariner/UPPA/ZUMAPRESS.com

Read more body quotes by Kate here.

Crap. She’s right. In doing my best to not say anything negative about my body (or anyone else’s), I realized I’ve certainly never said anything positive. What kind of mixed message is that to a girl about to grow breasts (well, maybe one of them will take after my husband’s side of the family), combat acne, face mood swings, and all those other things that come with growing up. Or a girl who is constantly shown by the media what she is “supposed” to look like.

So, I do what I always do in these types of situations. I bring it up in the van on the way to some activity.

I asked my daughters what their favorite feature was about me, and then themselves. My girls loved my hair, my smile, and one of them said every piece of me. I told them I loved my long legs, the color of my eyes, and how strong my arms have become.

We also talked about what we didn’t like about ourselves, and their answers were hilarious. It ranged from my youngest’s crooked toe to one of my twin’s mole on her ear. I carefully chose my own least favorite features to share with them, because I had to be honest. There will always be things you don’t like about yourself, but there should always be more to love.

I found it challenging to share the three things I liked about my looks, particularly since I’ve spent too much time focusing on the things that I hate about my appearance.

But it was also cathartic. I really believe that unhappiness stems from looking at things in pieces, instead of the totality of a situation. For example, I shouldn’t give up on a ten-year relationship because of one hurtful comment a friend made, or just because my kids eat poorly on vacation doesn’t mean they are unhealthy eaters. It’s about looking at the entire length of something, not just the bumps in the middle.

This is how I’m beginning to look at my appearance. In totality, when I look at myself in the mirror, it’s not so bad. I cannot get so hung up on the individual flaws, or how can I teach my daughters to love themselves? Their whole selves.

Just doing that exercise helped my whole psyche. This morning, without prompting, I told my girls I felt strong today, so I was going to do an extra hard work out, and then I was going to get my summer clothes out because I was excited to show off “my guns.” It was fun to compare our muscles and talk positively for once, as opposed to avoiding the “body” topic all together.

And my goal is to talk more about the positives about my body to my girls. I’m sure it won’t be easy, because I’ve spent a long time focusing on the things I don’t like, but I’m looking forward to focusing on some of the things I do.

Because I believe in positive affirmations, so I better start off with some about me if I’m going to get my kids to believe the ones I’m telling them.

Be kind to yourself today. You deserve it!

I am obviously not an expert in body image issues, so I would like to pass along this article from SparkPeople by Health Educator Liza Barnes. It offers some great tips to help your kids love their bodies.

Whitney Fleming
www.playdatesonfridays.com

fleming_whitney@hotmail.com

It is almost that time. The school year is winding down. My favorite time of year is right around the corner. We are sick of homework and school projects. Let's wrap this thing up and bring on SUMMER!

I experience these feelings every year. As a stay-at-home mother summer means that I get to spend many warm days with my four children. I relish every day that I get with them because one day soon enough, they will be too big to spend their days with me. It is such a treat to sleep in each morning and have our summer weeks of leisure.

We talk and laugh and frolic barefooted through the fields of tall green grass. Stopping to take a moment to lie on our backs, on the warm earth and stare up at the blue sky as the white, fluffy clouds float past...

(Insert here that sound of a record being scratched by a needle.)

Oh wait, that is actually a Tide commercial. Sorry. That is NOT what will happen here. Let me tell you what summer really means to a stay at home mother of four young children.

I love my children, more than life itself. I would give my life for them without hesitation. That is what a mothers love is all about. But if you say that a summer with your kids is all lollipops and rainbows, I am calling you out, Ma'am.

Summer begins innocently enough. I am thrilled to not have a routine. I don't have to drag everyone from their beds, force them to eat breakfast, beg them to get dressed or badger them to brush their teeth and hair. I won't be packing any lunches or backpacks. There is no mad rush to try to get to school before the bell announces that your kids are in fact late once again.

I lie in bed that first summer morning, smiling. This must be what heaven is like. Then in walks the first kid. He looks mad. He says he is just hungry. Off to the kitchen we go, breakfast for two coming up. It is always pleasant when you have one-on-one time with your child. The problems come when another kids enter the picture. You get breakfast ready and sit beside your sweetie. You smile at one another. This is going to be delightful. Then here comes kid number 2.

Before he even gets down the stairs good, kid 1 and kid 2 are already arguing. What are they arguing about? Who knows. I am pouring orange juice and can totally block out a tiff between two brothers. Next thing I know, I turn around to see them rolling around on the floor. What just happened here? That's right people, with brothers it can actually go from cordial to a violent altercation in a mere 12 seconds.

I am not new to this mother thing. I have a squirt bottle for such occasions. If it is good enough for cats, it is good enough for my kids. I get both boys back seated at the breakfast table. It would appear that all the commotion woke the last two kids. Now all four are at the table ready to eat. Well, there went my warm breakfast.

Credit: lorda.

I make three more plates and deliver them to three sleepy faces. Some of my kids wake up in pleasant moods. Some wake in such a state that I often wonder if they slept at all. The happier ones at the table manage to irritate the moodier of the group, which results in some minor name calling and insults. I will not listen. I am going to eat this cold egg white omelet if it is the last thing I do.

By now there is a stream of constant bickering and debating. Then someone cries. Then another. So-and-so has his finger in my face. So-and-so is touching me. So-and-so is eating off my plate. It becomes a non stop tattlefest. My daughter chooses to stand in the back ground giving everyone bunny ears, only adding insult to injury. I declare breakfast is IN THE HISTORY BOOKS! I wasn't very hungry anyway.

Now mind you, this is day ONE and we barely made it through breakfast. There is NO WAY all four kids can stay cooped up in this house all day much less all summer or I will be locked in my closet, rocking back and forth, shoving chocolate Ho Hos in my face.

Luckily a few days into summer break our association pool opens. Ahhh the swimming pool. Responsible for keeping families sane all over this great land. No one wants to fuss at the swimming pool. They are living the dream after all. Water play, warm sun and friends to play with. What more could any child ask for?

As they play, having the best time of their young lives, do they even notice me though? Do they pay attention to what Mom's pool experience is really like? Do they ever wonder how that bag packed full of towels, sunscreen, floaties, snacks and toys actually made it to the pool? Do they see how, instead of relaxing with a good book, I am at constant attention, monitoring four children as they play and splash? I worry as much about them developing skin cancer, as I do about them drowning. It is an oftentimes stressful situation. I am constantly smearing sunscreen on someone as I pull someone else back from the brink of death in deep end.

The way I look at it, summers should be a magical time for kids. I have many fond memories of summers as a child. This is the time of your life when you shouldn't have a care in the world. I work so hard to create childhood memories for them. I want them to look back one day and feel as though they had a great childhood.

I would not give my summers with my children for anything in the world. It is often times stressful and trying. We get on each others nerves most days. By the end of the summer I will be 100% ready for them to go back to school. But they are only kids for such a small part of their lives. I treasure these times.

Besides, this year I have a plan. In those moments when I am questioning why I ever stopped working 7 years ago, just to stay at home with a bunch of crying, whiny, argumentative, stubborn, smart-mouthed, demanding kids, instead of melting into a puddle of tears on the floor (every mother has these days), I will grab my box of Ho Hos, head to my closet, and I will eat those cakes, one by one, until I remember why it is I became a mother.

I became a mother to experience the highs as well as the difficult times. I became a mother for better, for worse. Being a mother is not ever an easy job. It is the hardest job you will ever have. It is also the most rewarding thing you will ever do. Even my absolute worst days as a mother, I gain strength and knowledge. Being a mother means screwing up often. You must get past the guilt of your shortcomings and just do the best you can, one day at a time.

You see, that moment when I emerge from that closet, with disheveled hair, swollen eyes and chunks of chocolate cake still stuck to my face, it will be a victory. I made it. I am a REAL mother. I learn a little more every day. I get a little stronger every day. My children are my purpose. I must have done something pretty good in my life to be rewarded so richly.

Bellonheels.com

"I don't want Down syndrome," my 12-year-old daughter, D'Andra, told me one hot summer day. "I want it to go away, Mom," she said. I shook my head and told her that I couldn't tell an extra monochrome to disappear.

"There isn't any medicine that you can take to be healed of Down syndrome," I said. “Down syndrome is not a disease. You have an extra chromosome in your DNA. This isn't something that can be surgically removed.”

She added, "I want to be tall and blonde like Destiny. I don't like Down syndrome."

D'Andra is 4'10" and 155 lbs. at 13 years old. Her friend Destiny is 5'10," 110 lbs with blonde hair and blue eyes.

D'Andra has crazy curly black hair, beautiful bronze skin and brown eyes, but she is officially obese according to U.S. health standards.

Obesity is typical for people with Down syndrome. Her doctor has banned her favorite food -- hamburgers, fries and soda -- from her diet. Plus she can't eat bagels and cream cheese, chips, cookies, pastries or anything that she considers delicious.

When I read a news story posted on my Facebook timeline that Madeline Stuart, an 18-year-old girl with Down syndrome, lost 44 lbs and is trying to break into modeling, I thought I was reading an Internet hoax. I clicked through and was delighted to learn that Madeline is a young woman who is defying our cultural definition of beauty.

I did have to wonder how much Madeline's mom had to do with her push to lose weight and desire to model. I hope that her mom isn't a wannabee model or manic stage mom who put Madeline on a diet.

Where Madeline got her "internal inspiration" has me questioning her thought process related to her body image. Her mom saying that she thinks it's time for people to realize that people with Down syndrome can be sexy and beautiful struck me as creepy.

While I cautiously celebrate Madeline's foray into modeling, I never want my daughter (who already doesn't like being short and curvy) to despise herself. D'Andra has stopped eating hamburgers and fries and drinking sodas. She has started walking to lose weight. But she has told me when she is premenstrual that she hates herself and doesn't want to live.

My family constantly encourages her, but the fact that the messages pushed by marketing and media insinuating that she is ugly and overweight make her hate herself or want to die is disturbing.

I want D'Andra to know that she is beautiful right now in her own skin. I applaud Madeline for losing 40 lbs., but apart from severe efforts (such as just drinking protein shakes), I don't foresee D'Andra dropping that much weight.

The doctor says she should lose 25 pounds, and we are working toward that goal. I don't want Madeline to cave into the cultural definition of beauty that makes my daughter hate herself. Instead, I hope Madeline and my daughter can redefine beauty to include people of all shapes and colors.

Telling D'Andra that she will never be blonde and tall is heartbreaking for me. Instead, I tell her how funny she is, how she is a great friend, a good dancer and singer.

I've struggled with my own body image and grew up thinking I was ugly because I wasn't skinny or blonde with blue eyes. I've come to love my own skin being Hawaiian, Filipino, German, Spanish and Chinese. I'm also officially overweight, but I'm okay with it. I'm not trying to impress anyone.

I want D'Andra to be comfortable with who she is right now with her doctor's diagnosis of being obese, with her crazy curly hair, curves and bronze skin. I hope Madeline is successful with her modeling career, but I don't want my daughter to get the message that she has to lose a bunch of weight to be acceptable.

D'Andra should celebrate who she is right now, regardless of the Madelines or anyone else with Down syndrome trying to break a cultural mold. D'Andra should love who she is and should not have to fight marketing or media messages that dictate beauty standards.

Follow me @leilanihaywood

What the hell is Feminism anyways?

I am a child of the 70’s. Born at the end of the Vietnam War and at the edge of some sort of sexual revolution. Feminism was a word I have always known, but it’s had so many different faces through the years that I really never latched on and instead actually found myself repelled by the topic. As a woman, feminism was complicated and often a source of anger. You had to choose a side, and really no matter which one you stood on seemed to be wrong.

Up until recently, I had this image of feminism being about hating men, hating being a housewife, and pretty much hate in general. The women who declared themselves feminists were aggressive, loud, and sometimes really hairy. And I thought that I really didn’t fit in to the roles that they demanded women take. Sure, I want women to be able to drive, vote, and not be segregated… those things seemed common sense. But I actually wanted to grow up to be a mother, a wife, and be home with my family growing a garden and making dinner for my family, which seemed like I was the opposite of what I thought the message was of the feminist movement. I like bras! I didn’t want to be forced to burn mine in tribute to the freedom cause.

But as I’ve moved through life, I realized recently with the help of my 15-year-old daughter, that even though I didn’t know it I am a feminist too. This was shocking to me, and I had a hard time with the idea at first.

You see, the new faces of Feminists aren’t what I thought they were at all. They are our daughters who grew up believing that no matter their dress size, they are beautiful and smart. They are the women who didn’t limit themselves to being nurses or teachers because they are “women’s jobs” but became whatever they dreamed of being because they dared to dream. And they are even women who, like myself, chose to stay home and be happily married to wonderful men. In fact, feminists aren’t just women asking for equal rights for women. They are actually men and women who believe that nobody should be treated like they are better than anyone else purely on their body parts.

Recently I had to call my daughter’s high school principal after there was a few incidents about the dress code. My daughter was being harassed at school for some of her outfits, not by other students, but by an older woman who worked in the lunch room. At first when my daughter complained, I just thought that maybe the woman was looking out for her and my daughter might have innocently worn something too revealing that caused the woman to try to help her out before she was embarrassed. But after daily comments by the woman, my daughter grew more and more upset. Now I do watch what my daughter wears, and she’s a beautiful girl with curves and sometimes I have to think about her outfits as most parents do. But nothing she wore ever caused me alarm. The woman at the school, Ms. B, would make snotty comments like she could see my daughter’s legs, arms, and that her parents should watch what she wears. But it wasn’t that she was pointing out dress code errors, but making comments about my daughter personally, making her feel that she wasn’t pretty, wasn’t respectable, and made her feel bad about herself. My last straw came when my daughter was dressed so pretty one morning in a lovely dress that reminded me of a 1940’s pinup girl in sailor colors. She was so proud of herself for her outfit, but called me from school so upset because Ms. B had embarrassed her in front of her friends and she was being told to call for new clothes or go home. The reason? The top part of her shoulders could be seen through the sweater she wore and her back skin was visible. Ummmm… back skin?

At this point, I called the school and spoke with the temporary Principal because her regular principal was out. And for the first time, I heard my feminist voice raised in anger and outrage over the way that women are treated differently. I complained that the boys were not being called out for taking their shirts off during sports, that women and girls should not be humiliated for being attractive. The man said that girls showing off their arms and skin was distracting. I asked if the parents of the boys were complaining about the test scores of their children being lowered because the boys were looking at the skin of the girls and unable to focus. He said no, but it was distracting for the male teaching staff when the young girls were dressed to provocatively. THIS drove me nuts, and I dared to address the fact that he just called his male teachers pedophiles and questioned the vetting of the school. Over and over for the next few days, between conversations I pushed the point that no matter what women or girls wear, they are not to blame for the sexual violence that is a sick epidemic on this planet. I preached that no matter what they wear, this does not give anyone the right to harass or take advantage of them. And when the other Principal called I reminded him that harassment isn’t just between adults and that other women are just as guilty of shaming other women as men were and that sexual harassment is not okay in any form. I heard my inner feminist rise up and fight not just for women’s rights, but for the prejudices to stop. And for the first time ever, I felt proud to be a strong woman standing up for women’s freedoms. I suddenly saw things differently. When I used to just be indifferent over the breastfeeding wars, now I actually was outraged at the idea of calling out women who are doing what nature gave them. I agreed that women’s breasts aren’t sex tools and feeding their babies isn’t a shameful attack on morality and they shouldn’t be shamed for their bodies. I actually almost agreed with *shutter* Mylie Cyrus when she bared her breasts and nipples in taking a stand in how women’s bodies are seen differently than men and held to a higher sense of morality which isn’t fair. Even though I am not sure most people were hearing her message and not just looking at her boobs. But, I get the movement now. Not that I would feel comfortable baring my breasts to the world, but for those who are… their bodies are beautiful and the #FreeTheNipple campaign actually does make sense to me.

So what is feminism? I think I am really just figuring it out. Feminism means is something different to everyone. For me, it means that I have the right to choose who I want to be, how I want to dress or who I want to be friends with. And those rights were given to me by the generations of angry women who dared to put on pants, pick up a hammer or picket sign and build a new world for women in the future who might never know how hard it was for them. Those women hoped that one day it would be so common for women to be known as equals that feminism wouldn’t be needed anymore. But we still have a long way to go. I am proud to be a Feminist. Are you?

In the end, social justice prevailed over painful irony. In the final hours before the launch of a Connecticut high school art show, a gifted, charismatic senior had her project, a statement on body shaming, victim blaming and censorship, removed from the show. Just in time, the school superintendent stepped in to reinstate the work, but in the interim, a groundswell of passionate young voices took to social media to support the young artist and challenge the limits of self-expression in our schools.

Emily Mann (aka BlueJay Interrobang), who is headed to Savannah College of Art and Design this fall, had been working for four months -- with the guidance of her art teacher -- on this piece for the school's art show, which was to take place on Wednesday, June 3. But on Tuesday, June 2, she was informed that the work could not be shown. 

Both the school principal and the director of art deemed the work "inappropriate," and the student was told that "high school is not the place to make social statements." 

WAIT, WHAT?!

Where are young women to learn and internalize these lessons if not through high school dialogue? 

One of her classmates posted a statement on her private Facebook page, calling the censorship "ridiculous" and expressing the support of Emily's entire Advanced Placement art class.

After the Glastonbury High School superintendent stepped in to review the work -- which he termed powerful and important, BlueJay's brother, Elijah Mann, posted these comments on Facebook:

"It's official, Superintendent Dr. Alan Bookman stepped in this morning and reinstated BlueJay's concentration back into today's art show! To everyone who shared this photo, emailed the school system, and generally just sent her your support: THANK YOU! You are all the best kinds of humans, and thanks to our combined efforts, education and free speech have prevailed. Let's make sure something like this never happens again. BlueJay, you are such an important voice on this society, never stop pushing the envelope."