The sex in our words

I've been thinking a lot about the casual sexism in my life, as I've mentioned. One pet peeve that has arisen: When a group of women is communicating, and they feel the need to use the word ladies constantly.

Okay, ladies, what do you think about...
Do you ladies agree?"
Ladies, let's do this.

I'm not even talking about the stereotypical Okay, ladies, where shall we have lunch? No, it's worse than that.

Okay, ladies, how are we going to address this global warming issue?
What do you ladies think about those whack jobs up in Oregon? Shall we bomb them, or do they have a point?
Let's go feed some starving children, ladies!

Maybe it's just because I work with only women now, both in my day job and in my freelancing gigs, but I grit my teeth every time I see the word ladies. First of all, I don't think of myself as a lady.* But that's not the only reason. If we were men, would we feel the need to mention our gender all the time?

Okay, gentlemen, where shall we have lunch? 
What do you gentlemen think about... 
Do you gentlemen agree? 

Not bloody likely. Maybe in the distant past, but guys these days don't tend to talk like that. Though substituting dudes for gentlemen does bring to mind a voice somewhere between Keanu Reeves and Ashton Kutcher, so perhaps there is a precedent for gender-flogging amongst a certain subset of males.

I have not forgotten that I am female. Or that you are female. That we are all, in fact, female. I do not need a reminder.

And yes, I get that it's kind of special that we are all female. We've come a long way, baby, but we're not there yet. We won't be there until we can stop having stupid conversations about parental leave and periods and whether or not it might inappropriately arouse someone if I feed my kid in front of them. So yeah...best get comfy, because this is going to be a long and bumpy ride.

But I don't think we help matters when we fly the ladies flag in situations in which our gender does not, in fact, matter. For example, if I am editing a piece on breastfeeding, and I am a woman who has breastfed, my gender is relevant.** I bring a special knowledge to the piece, through my gender and experience. If, however, I am editing a journal article on the comparison of Drug A and Drug B, my gender does not matter a bit, and I see no need to call attention to it. (Actually, I see no need to call attention to it in the first piece, either, unless my expertise is called into question.) Nor does it matter when we are deciding what color font to use in a project, in which order we should all review proofs, or -- indeed! -- where we should consume the mid-day meal.

I am a woman, yes. But first and foremost, I am a person. If you would not say men, gentlemen, dudes, or some variation thereof if the gender composition of the group were flipped, and if you would not feel compelled to throw in people if the group comprised both genders, do not say ladies.

I read somewhere recently that people feel this same way about the use of you guys and guys. Which I found interesting, given that I wrote a paper in grad school on the use of you guys versus y'all. Back then, usage seemed fairly split, and appeared to depend largely on where a person was born. (Above the Mason-Dixon line, you guys; below it, y'all.) Usage seems to have shifted in recent years, with more universal use of y'all (though I have not done any sort of formal survey to test that theory); the article I read postulated that this shift is because people are put off by the inherent sexism of you guys. Which shocked me -- probably because I was born on the other side of the Mason-Dixon line. I have always preferred you guys. Partly because y'all sounds very Duke Boys to my ear;*** partly because another pet peeve of mine is when people misplace the apostrophe.**** But I have been trying to compromise by replacing you guys with you all -- or writing around the construction entirely.

As I type this, I can feel a certain subset of people bristling at having to think so hard about mere words. I sympathize. I used to feel the same way. But words matter. Not because I work with them for a living (of course I think they matter!), but because what we say reflects what we believe. Sometimes it's a subtle reflection, but it's always there. Change your words, change your mind.


*To me, lady evokes connotations of floral dresses and tea and repressed sexual morals. I'm not the most open person sexually, and I certainly try not to be crass, but I have been living in sin with my baby daddy and our two illegitimate kids for several years now, which appears to have been enough to get me cut out of Grandma's will. Prim and proper, I ain't.

**I am not really up to speed on all of the cis/trans stuff, so I'm merely addressing what I know, which is the dichotomy of physically male and female. Forgive my ignorance of the rest. I'm not judging or dismissing...I just don't know enough to speak to it.

***Does that date me? Okay, Britney Spears. Though that probably dates me, too.

****The contraction is of the words you all, not ya all -- the apostrophe replaces the letters ou a and thus comes after the y. Please, take pity on the punctuation nerd. ::twitch::

I'm sick, but not really

I've felt like crap all week, but haven't gone to the doctor. Mostly because I'm not sure what, exactly, he'd do. Because I'm not really sick; this isn't a virus or anything. It's allergies.

See, here's the thing. When I was in college, I had this kind of crap a lot. I was outside all the time, plus the campus is in the middle of the city, so air pollution was an issue. Also, I chain-smoked, because college. In other words, I was surrounded by allergens constantly. When I say I went through this a lot, I mean I spent pretty much all semester congested and miserable, with a sinus infection and bronchitis and perhaps an infected ear or two. Month after month after month (with summers off, thankfully). For years.

Going to the doctor on campus was free, so I did (duh). Only they really could not help me most of the time. I was either not sick enough (they'd tell me to take Sudafed and get some sleep, which of course did not stop the progression to infection) or too sick I required heavy-duty decongestants and antibiotics they did not have on hand), and had to go to a "real" doctor).

After I got out of school, I mostly went to the minor med, because they were open after work and because my old GP's office kept tossing out my records when I didn't come in for a few months. They, too, would occasionally tell me I was not sick enough for them to help me. So now I have it in my head that I have to be "sick enough" to go to the doctor.

I'm not sure that's the case with my current GP; I think he'd find a way to help me. Except with the breastfeeding, I'm not sure he can help me at the moment. What I need is something to dry up this mucus. But I can't have anything like that right now.

I have drainage, and the sick, achy feeling in my head and chest that comes with a low-level infection, but no clear signs of "hey, I'm sick and require antibiotics." So I'm self-medicating with some Flonase left over from my last illness and sleeping a lot in hopes that this junk will somehow right itself, or at least tip me far enough into Evidently Sick that I can justify taking off work to go to the doctor.

Maybe later today, if I don't feel better, I'll go in just so I don't have to suffer all weekend if there is something to be done.

Maybe I AM my breasts

Before I got pregnant with Anya, I wasn't even sure I was going to breastfeed. My nipples have always been problematic; if I wear the wrong bra, they bleed. Was I really going to try to feed a baby with them? What if she made them bleed? My baby would be drinking blood. While I have always enjoyed vampire stories, I didn't relish the thought of raising one.

Then hormones happened. One evening in my third trimester, I suddenly began daydreaming about breastfeeding my baby. The thought came out of nowhere, and would not let up. The mere thought of nursing my newborn filled me with warmth and happiness. Instinct really is amazing. (Let it be known that I was also pretty jazzed about changing poopy diapers. That one passed quickly.)

My poor body, though, just didn't have enough mojo to make milk after Anya was born. She took to nursing beautifully, and I cherished that time with her, but within a week it was clear that my milk was not coming in. (Well, it wasn't clear at the time. Having successfully breastfed, I can now tell you that I never produced more than trace amounts of milk for Anya.)

I was devastated. Not because I thought formula was so bad (though it is certainly not the "easy" route), but because I wanted so desperately to nurse my daughter. It made her so happy. It was easy. It was natural. And it just wasn't happening. Fenugreek, blessed thistle, Reglan (twice), power pumping...nothing helped. 

I fought. I mourned. I moved on.

When I got pregnant again, I was determined to do everything I could to ensure I could breastfeed my son. Before I got pregnant, I put on weight to bump my BMI up to 18 (mostly to help prevent miscarriages, but it also helped me breastfeed). Throughout my pregnancy, I read up on breastfeeding -- anything I could get my hands on, which was frustratingly little. The whole time I was in the hospital, I pestered the nurses to check to make sure that I had milk and that he was getting enough of it. 

Three days after Kai joined us in the world, the Milk Fairy came. I did not have nursing bras or pajamas that would contain those things. (Thankfully, they deflated a bit after a few days.)

"Ah," I thought. "This is how it's supposed to go." 

While I have fought with a precarious supply (Kai came close to being labeled Failure to Thrive during his early checkups, and even now is a bit on the slim side for his age and height), and am currently dealing with teething and distraction during our nursing sessions, for the most part nursing has been a breeze. We all get plenty of sleep. Don't have to mess with bottles, bottle warmers, formula containers, or pacifiers. And I feel he and I have such a connection because of our nursing relationship -- even more than I have with his sister.  

But my experience with breastfeeding is about more than just feeding my baby. I have learned so much about sexism and body shaming and the strange myths that persist about sex and parenthood and sin. I have learned how shamefully little many medical professionals and the public at large know about this most basic bodily function. I have been on the receiving end of snide comments and leers, while showing less skin than I do in a bathing suit. 

But I have also been supported by total strangers, both in person and online. Through Facebook and Instagram, I have discovered a whole community of women bound together by our determination to normalize breastfeeding. And I have become infinitely more comfortable in my own skin. I, who just a few short years ago was ashamed if my bra strap was showing, am now an avid public breastfeeder -- and no, I don't use a cover or a baby carrier, or wear a bunch of shirts. You'll see more cleavage on the front of any Victoria's Secret store. At least my boobs are out for a good reason.

I can't really give a comprehensive list of places I have breastfed, because I do it without a second thought now. But here's a short list:

• Doctor's waiting rooms
• Restaurants (Chili's, Newks, Subway, Longhorn, Red Robin, Milano's, Sonic, Cracker Barrel)
• Stores (Kohl's, Target, Walmart, Kroger, Whole Foods, Walgreen's, Lenscrafters)
• Several parks and playgrounds
• Front yards (mine, my parents', my in-law's)
• Fairs (Delta Fair, Munford Celebrate, July 4th fireworks)
• Social gatherings (a birthday party, a company Christmas party, a funeral)
• Assorted parking lots, including a particularly seedy gas station and a church I do not attend (during services)
• Various tweet-worthy feeds (an earthquake, a lunar eclipse)

Pretty much anywhere I've gone with my baby, I've fed him. At first, I was shy and awkward about it. Even now I get a pang sometimes, like when I nursed him while sitting in a chair in front of the mall-facing windows of Lenscrafters on one of the busiest days of the year. But ultimately, I'm more concerned with feeding my child than drawing the attention of strangers. 

Which is how it should be.

I had some breastfeeding photos taken recently, to commemorate this time in my life. I have no intention of stopping until he is ready, but I also have no idea when that will be, so I feel the need to capture the moments while I can. Of the final shots, this one is my favorite, even though he's not actually breastfeeding in it. I feel like it really captures our personalities and our bond.

Photo by the lovely Cassie Fox, www.whitedoewoman.com.

I knew that breastfeeding my son would alter the childcare experience, but I didn't expect it to change me as a person. It has, though. It's changed how I see other women, other mothers. Changed how I think about my own body. I never realized how much my perceptions were filtered through the sexualization of the female body until I stopped thinking of my breasts as sexual objects. One simple change has sent ripples through my entire world view, like waves of dominoes. I could not possibly cover all of the implications in a single blog post.

Having my daughter has taught me about being a mother, but nursing my son has taught me about being a woman. 

Edit: I just saw this video on FB, and absolutely love it. And Alyssa Milano. "I'd whip 'em out right here." THIS.

One size does not fit all

Contrary to the heading above, this is not about clothing. See, I told you I suck at titles.

No, this is about advice. I have tried to steer clear of railing at the advice heaped upon me (and every other parent alive) through various outlets because it's been done to death. I'm in the throes of it, and I bore myself mid-rant.

However, I would like to make a small exception for brewer's yeast.

I've mentioned my supply issues. (Yes, Lactation Hotline Lady, I have supply issues. Really. Relaxing and drinking more water and pumping on a schedule are not magic bullets.) I was trucking along pretty good on my OMG Oatmeal diet, though, until the Great Stomach Plague hit. I've recovered physically, and don't appear as...deflated, but I'm still not up to where I was. I'm pretty much doing all I can, food and supplement wise, to increase my supply; the only thing I do not consume on a regular basis is brewer's yeast. So this weekend, I made lactation cookies.

Normally, I shun lactation cookies. Because they're cookies, and who needs that much sugar? But I just can't do brewer's yeast in juice or oatmeal; mixing it with massive amounts of sweetener is the only way I can stomach it. Cookies it is. Two dozen cookies.

I'm not sure I can eat them.

They taste okay. If you like beer in your oatmeal cookies, which I do not. But I am a big girl -- I can deal. They don't make me gag like brewer's yeast in juice, at any rate.

But the side effects. Oh, my. Migraines and diarrhea and gas and nausea. It's a hangover. I feel like I drank the beer itself. With very little excess milk to show for my pain.

That's just not fair. I should at least be milked up.

Much as I hate to waste food, I am seriously considering chucking those cookies. I just don't think I can face feeling hungover for the next 2 to 4 weeks.

And I'm going to start taking these "universal truths" with a grain of salt. What works for other people does not necessarily work for me.

New year, new shoes

In terms of clothes, I tend to make do. In some respects, I've had no choice; short of having my clothes custom made, I have to deal with ill-fitting clothes, and have since I was a small child. Short torso, long legs, small upper body, squishy tushy...I'm now in my fourth decade of life, and though the "typical" body shape has changed a great deal in that time, at no point was mine it.

There's also the brokeness factor. I've worn cheap shoes my whole adult life because I can afford them. I won't wear uncomfortable shoes, so I have been spared the corns and bunions my peers suffer from, but I have tended to put fashion above function, and quantity above quality.

My ankle has been letting me know my sneakers are worn out. It took a couple of years, but they're finally dying on me. I've been halfheartedly trying on cheaper sneakers (Mom took pity on me and bought my current pair), but nothing is as comfortable -- even in their current broken-down state.

I have walked the tread off my current shoes.

Finally, I decided to replace them with another pair from the same brand. No -- two pairs. One for everyday wear, one just for exercising. They ought to last twice as long that way. And it's not like I require a vast sneaker wardrobe; two pairs is all I need. If they last 4 years, that comes out to $75 a year. Way cheaper than another bout of PT.

I also sprang for a couple pairs of flats. Usually I wear sneaks, but occasionally I want to pretty up a bit. I've been wearing a (quite comfy, really) pair of Target flats, but they don't provide enough support for my ankle. So I upgraded to a pair of Kenneth Cole and a pair of Born. Those two pair should fill all of my dressier shoe needs for...well, years, really -- I've been running on this one pair of Target flats since Anya was born, and they're still in great shape. So in theory, I could wear the new shoes for a decade, even. No way my cheapie flats could last a decade.

Sure, I've saved money. But now that my life has changed, my wardrobe needs have dwindled. And I'm tired of wearing unsupportive shoes. I deserve better.

Now, for clothes, I'm content to rock the cheap stuff for a while. Little kids = stains, and also my weight is still in flux. But once the kids are older and I'm back to normal, I want to start buying better quality stuff. I don't need an entire closet full of clothes for each season; I don't go anywhere, don't chase trends, and tend to wear the same items of clothing week in and week out. I'd rather have fewer, nicer pieces and use layers to transition between seasons. 

Which leads me to my biggest current wardrobe woe: Bras. I am the not-so-proud owner of a ribcage deemed too small to nurse babies, or so the nursing bra market has led me to believe. I recently purchased literally the only three bras I can find that come anywhere close to fitting me. None of them fit me well. In fact, one of them has rubbed sores on my sides. And even the one that is my size is too broad through the shoulders, meaning it digs in and leaves marks on me.

That red mark is the imprint of the cup clasp.

But I haven't found a workable alternative, so I will persevere...and probably wear band-aids a lot. However, when I quit nursing, I am absolutely going to splurge on a collection of bras that actually fit me. Because I have come to realize that ill-fitting bras are as big a damper on one's mood as worn-out shoes. If you are persistently uncomfortable, it affects your entire outlook.

I am tired of bras that chafe, pants that won't stay up (and take my underwear down with them), shoes that provide too little (or too much!) support. I am tired of feeling ill at ease in my own clothes, my own skin. It is worth it to me to find things that fit my body, or pay someone to make them fit.

If everything in my closet actually fit, I would no longer have to weigh myself and/or gauge what sort of "body day" I am having before getting dressed. I could just grab an outfit and put it on. If I simplified the range of outfits I own (like Obama and his suits), I'd have even fewer changes to make. (I can't go full-on uniform, because Anya likes it when I dress pretty, but I could streamline my options a bit.)

I would also love to support small businesses and independent artisans, but that's a whole other journey. For now, I'd be content to not have to tug at my clothes all the time.

Five minutes

One goal I have for myself in the coming year is to make more time for self care. To start, I am promising myself 5 minutes a day. In that 5 minutes, I can:

• Meditate for 2 minutes
• Plank for 60 seconds 
• Do 2-4 yoga poses 

It's not much, I know. But I've had trouble making time for a 10-minute meditation or 30 minutes of yoga. I can always squeeze in 5 minutes.

I know from past experience that just 60 seconds of planking a day makes a serious difference in my core strength. I imagine that I will see equally impressive results with 2 minutes of meditation and yoga if I stick with them.

And as I get better about upholding that 5-minute promise, I can extend it to 10, then 15, then 20. From small things, big things grow.

Dealing with allergy, step 1: Humidity

Humidity is not my friend. It makes my hair fuzzy, my joints achy, my nose sniffly. I have suffered the whole time I've lived here, which has been...a lotta, lotta years. (I am older right now than my mother was when we moved here, if that tells you anything.)

I won't say I don't experience some benefits from the humidity. I don't suffer the dry skin here that I do up north. And as I don't use fabric softener, I tend to have issues with sweaters when the air is drier. However, I would happily scratch, snap, crackle, and pop if it meant I could breathe. I can't breathe when it's damp and moldy.

And while my kids are a bit young to have been tested, Anya is already on daily allergy meds, and Kai is showing signs of eczema. I was diagnosed with allergies at a young age, too -- around age 3. They did not get better with age.

So I bit the bullet. Ordered a dehumidifier. A nice (ie, expensive) one. Hopefully more dehumidifier than I need, really. But I erred on the side of excess. Sometimes, you need to jump on a problem with both feet.

See that puddle? All my windows have one.

My new dehumidifier should be here next week. I'll report back once we have it up and running.