sensational haiku wednesday

This week's theme: Disclosure.

I spend most of my work week encouraging disclosure. Sometimes it's easy because people badly want a place to divulge. To feel listened to and validated.

Other times its really hard to let go of secrets.

tell the true story

this is the place to reveal

even if it hurts

Want to join in the Haiku fun? Visit Jenn's You know ... that Blog? Check out the guidelines here.

man up, glenn beck and cry some real tears now

If you were one of the seventeen million people who attended The Rally to Restore Sanity like I did, which is to say, in spirit, you will appreciate this re-cap in pictures:

If you haven't seen enough, you can see more pictures here.

Update: I originally spelled Glenn with only one "n." Which made me think, isn't spelling Glenn with two "n's" kind of gay?

what not to do during your first couples therapy session

1. Do not show up at the first session with a bill board size list of all the things your spouse does that annoys you. You look controlling and narcissistic. And there's nothing that puts a shrink in a worse mood than a controlling narcissist.

2. Do not, when asked what you think after your spouse has listed a complaint, say, "I don't know." You look like a passive-aggressive numbskull. And there's nothing that puts a shrink in a foul mood like a passive-aggressive numbskull, except maybe a controlling narcissist.

3. Do not, when your spouse is rambling about her complex and convoluted feelings, doze off. You look like you don't give a sh*t. And since you're paying the shrink a hefty fee to occupy that comfy couch? You look like a spend thrift and an ignoramus. And there's nothing that gets under the skin of a shrink more than finding out you don't give a sh*t and apparently don't mind wasting hard-earned money while you perfect being an ignoramus.

4. Do not, when asked how you feel after listening to your spouse's rambling, complex and convoluted feelings, say, "Huh? Uh. What do I feel? Uh. Nothing." You look like a 1950's out-of-touch suburban slacker. And nothing makes a shrink side with your spouse faster than realizing you are a 1950's out-of-touch suburban slacker.

5. Do not, after your partner explains in a sensitive and carefully worded way that she is not having orgasms with your decades-old, same-old routine, say, "Huh. None of my ex-girlfriends ever complained." You look like a cad who has spent far too much time in front of cheap porno movies pushing the rewind button until your thumb is sprained.

And P.S. Your old girlfriends were lying.

You probably also bought the line, "You're only my second."

6. Do not, after listening to your spouse take responsibility for faults and overwrought, coming-unhinged emotional tendencies, say, "Well, as for me, I won Best All Around three years in a row." You look like an insensitive clod whose sense of self is as fragile as that English soccer goalie's ego after this now infamous World Cup move.

Speaking of the English goalie, here's a must-see video clip of a never-before-seen camera angle, complete with Green's never-before-heard internal dialog as the ball slips past. If you missed that link, it's What the English Goalie was Thinking.

7. Do not fool yourself into thinking that you will be let off the hook that easily.

You will not. You will, instead, look like a spouse who needs intensive individual therapy if your relationship stands a snowball's chance in July in New Jersey. Your spouse has drug you into therapy not because he wants to humiliate you but because she wants this relationship to work, i.e., your partner loves you. Now quit being a bonehead, wake up, take some responsibility, and show some love back. Because nothing makes a shrink feel more optimistic than two people willing to talk openly and risk showing the love back.

advances in personal feminism

A few days ago I took my kids to our fitness center's indoor pool. Without shaving my legs beforehand. After weeks of winter growth, uncontrolled forestation.

This feat took quite a bit of cognitive therapy skillage to accomplish, as in, "psychologist, heal thyself" of fear of social disapproval.

I am proud to be a feminist. To believe that gender should not determine opportunity, access, pay level, intelligence, nurturing ability, or who controls the TV remote.

I wish I put my money where my leg hair grows. You know, where I believe gender also need not determine one's routine razor blade habits.

I see women with long, dark, cactus beast ape hairy legs and I gasp. Silently. I try not to stare. I admire their bravery while wondering if they have any idea the impact their hairy legs have on members of the opposite sex. On members of the same sex. On tried and true feminists, for goddess sake. I hate myself for my hypocrisy.

I married a man who thinks women with hairy legs, hairy armpits, and hairy snatches are sexy. Aren't I the lucky one? I feel that much more confident baring all to him during the turtleneck and jeans season. I even manage to feel sexy. With my armpit hair. Underarm hair can feel daring and renegade. Not so leg hair. Nuh-uh. I feel no kind of confidence baring the snarly leg growth to him. Less so to strangers in public.

While researching my thesis in graduate school, I read Femininity, by Susan Brownmiller. It was an amazing read. One of those books that I have thought about thousands of times as I engaged in traditional feminine rituals of self care that go contrary to my feminist ideals. I talked about one of those times, here.

As I changed out of my workout clothes and into my bathing suit, as I strode in front of the hawty hawt hawt lifeguard with the long surfer boy haircut (half my age and then some, dammit) (half my body weight too, now that I think about it. Shit! Why did he have to be on duty this day?!) I thought about Brownmiller. I took comfort in her admission that despite being the author of several feminist tomes, she had a few stereotypical feminine trappings she could not give up. Wearing lipstick, no matter where she went, was one.

So, I remind myself, I'm in good company. I'm not the only fraud on the planet.

Years ago, while driving to work, I listened to several local morning radio jocks talk about a certain formerly Catholic schoolgirl, turned material girl, turned star of her own sex book, turned Kabbalah, turned twice-divorcee. There was a brief mention of material girl's infamous nude photo with hairy armpits and how "gross" and "nasty" and "dirty" they found it when women didn't shave their underarms.

So it occurred to me. My avoidance of showing unshaved leg hair had to do with a hygiene issue: my fear that others would assume I was not clean. That I didn't bathe regularly. And I really really don't want people to think I'm dirty. Dirty mind? Doesn't bother me. Dirty body? Very much.

That insight and a cup of shaving cream will get some of us nowhere, for about 15 years.

So on this day, I pulled out my cognitive toolbelt instead of my electric shaver:

1. I cannot control what others think of me. Deep breath.

2. It is unimportant what others think of me. Full exhale. It is important that I please myself. And it would please me greatly to skip the leg shave.

3. It is likely people will be far enough away that they won't see the hair on my legs.

4. If they do get close enough, refer to #1 and #2.

5. I am 40-something years old, for crissakes. I am married. I am going for a swim, not to a Mrs. America pageant, and not to attract a young and dumb man who doesn't appreciate the hawtness of lush, untamed hair on a cellulite-ridden, matronly thigh.

6. I deserve the luxury of unshaved legs.

7. The kids are in the car and I will never hear the end of it if I keep them waiting long enough to destroy this rainforest.

Ok, so score one for self preservation and maternal appeasement.

But yeah. Score one for feminism, too.

Is there a traditionally feminine, or masculine, depending on your gender, habit you struggle to let go of?

cave mommas are good enough

JCK at Motherscribe gave us an excellent post about excessive mommy-guilt yesterday.

She tells us about a mom we all recognize, one who throws a splendid birthday party for her little girl but worries that an earlier "snappy" moment ruined her child's special day. JCK asks when we mommies are gonna start cutting ourselves some slack.

Jen at Rants & Raves replies that guilt in moderation can be a good thing. It serves as a vestige of "the enormity of the job" of being in charge of a little person's life. It helps steer us in the right direction.

Here are two additional thoughts on this mommy-guilt stuff: Think caves and "good enough."

First, the caves. It helps me to remember that we 21st century moms are decendants of cave dwellers. By this I refer to the fact that the first mothers raised their children in caves. On dirt floors. Wearing lice infested wooly mammoth jackets. With dinosaur bones used as paddle boards. No central heating or AC or indoor plumbing. And no, no antibacterial soaps or disinfectant wipes or toilet paper, even.

Those kids raised in caves? They survived. And hundreds of thousands of generations later decendants of cave kids grew up to have children of their own who grew up to become mommies like us who compare parenting notes over the internets.

And if those kids raised in caves can survive, so can our kids raised in framed stucco houses with sculpted landscapes survive crabby mommy moments.

Second: Think of these three words: Good Enough Mothering. It's a term coined by psychiatrist D.W. Winnicott.

I don't pretend to understand most of Winnicott's psychoanalytic (mumbo-jumbo) writings. I'm a cognitive behavioral psychologist, afterall.

But I've read a good enough amount of parenting books in which good enough mothering is used as a reference point. I have used this reference point in teaching parenting classes. And I have developed my own personal understanding that guides me toward a better appreciation for that which I provide my kids.

I love my kids, to the point where it nearly hurts. I feed them three meals a day, provide shelter for them, referee their squabbles, wipe their tears, make them do their homework (sometimes all in one sittting) and yes, I lose my cool every now and then. Spit nails and breathe fire, even.

I don't advocate angry outbursts, but hey, I'm a work in progress, I have my limits, and I'm trying. Really hard.

I think its fairly accurate to guesstimate that for every lousy mommy moment, I have provided one hundred nurturing ones. And that's good enough to raise up a healthy kid.

So good enough mothering has become my personal mommy mantra, my self soothing, self-calming, stop-guilt-in-it's-tracks meditation phrase. On those days when I fear I am a lousy mom because I didn't talk my kids through a hurt feeling or a missed opportunity. On those days when I lose my temper and look more like Joan Crawford than Carol Brady. Because continual second-guessing and wearing-my-guilt-on-my-sleeves drains me of the now moments I need to be as good of a parent as I can be.

So it is, on those days, that I remember that kids are sturdy and resilient by design. They are genetically endowed with the ability to thrive despite emotional nicks and scrapes. They know they are loved even when they learn the hard way that mommy has a boiling point and brother, you'd better step lightly on those mornings when she was up blogging way past her bedtime. And it's that love as a constant that raises up good enough kids.

Cave momma illustration by Peggy Maceo. Can be found here.

think thin

How many times have you had this thought, "I can gain weight just thinking about food." Plenty?

Yeah, me too.

Now, how many times have you had this thought, "I can lose weight just thinking about exercise."

Me either.

Until tonight -- when I was browsing PsyBlog's post citing a Harvard study done by Crum & Langer* showing that simply thinking about exercise helps with weight loss.

My kinda study.

Apparently, as I lie here pecking away at my keyboard and think hard enough about the exercise I did this morning and appreciate how healthy it was for me, I may actually lose more weight than if I didn't think about it.

And it doesn't have to be real, bonified "put on my sweats and monitor my heartrate" exercise. I can think about the everyday kinds of physical activity I did this week that elevated my heart rate, such as making beds, cooking, doing laundry, getting dressed, walking up and down grocery store aisles, racing to the kids' bedrooms to catch them goofing off when they should be doing their homework, and all such things in the ordinary life of a mom.

BadScience summarizes the study like this: "...amazingly, despite no change in actual exercise levels ... simply being told about the value of what [participants] were already doing caused a significant change for the better on every single one of the objective health measures recorded: weight, body fat, body mass index, waist-to-hip ratio and blood pressure."

So. Let's go people. Listen to those smart Harvard elites. Let's fully appreciate the exercise we've already done and see what happens. Let's give ourselves credit for the healthy choices we've made this week. While we are laying on our arses. And wait for those pounds to ooze out of our pores.

Check back in a week and let me know how it's workin' for ya.

Oh, and lest you think I'm encouraging more exercise in the form of housework, you would be el wrongo.

*Crum AJ Langer EJ. Mind-Set Matters: Exercise and the Placebo Effect. Psychological Science 18(2) 165-171, 2007.