When it clicks

In my last post, I spent some time reflecting on the journey that brought me to photography. It's kind of long and self-indulgent and the upshot is that if my job hadn't shafted me for a few months, I never would have.

I don't know. Maybe that's not true. There was more than one step that took me into the rabbit hole, but the work thing was definitely a catalyst. That was 14 years ago.

14 years?! Yeah, I know - I can't believe it, either. 

I'm going to seemingly veer off topic here for a minute, but I promise there's a point so just stay with me. Randy's hobby is golf. He's been playing on a fairly regular basis since just before we got married (that's 8 years ago for those of you playing the home game), and has invested a tidy sum between upgraded clubs and green fees and pull carts and balls. (I think I just wrote that sentence so I could say "BALLS" in my head.) Speaking charitably of his innate talent, I can say that Randy is not dreaming of a pro career. He's highly improved since his starting days and he works on his skills all the time, but this particular hobby is not going to yield profitable cash rewards. Some days, it doesn't even yield profitable personal rewards. Randy is one of those golfers who, every so often, comes home so frustrated from a round that he's sure he hates golfing and everything about it. It's stupid, expensive, and the adage that it's a nice walk ruined by a little white ball is a universal truth!

Haha! You wanted to play!

 That attitude sometimes lasts as long as an hour. Then he's critiquing his shots in his head, flipping through his magazines and books, picking apart what can be improved next time. There is always a next time.

It's called getting back on the horse. 

What drives him to this self-inflicted torture? I don't have a name for it. Drive, passion, ambition - for what? We've already established he's not going to make a career of it. The end result can only be some elusive form of satisfaction - an ever-changing ratio of good days over bad days, good shots over bad shots. Sometimes I think it's not about the numbers at all, but the feeling that comes from listening to the crack of iron against hardened resin and the knowledge that a small, dimpled projectile is going exactly where he pointed it.

All of which strikes me as a colossal waste of time and why I have precisely zero interest in golf.

I don't have a snappy comeback here, I just really like this picture.

But my point (which, you recall, I promised I had),  is that the quest for such an undefined goal, the striving for such a personal satisfaction, is something I can relate to very well. It's what keeps me looking through a camera lens. Sometimes - very rarely - I see something in there that utterly transforms me.

Speaking charitably of my innate talent, one could say that I have a nice sense of aesthetic. I certainly like looking at pictures. But this particular hobby is not going to yield profitable cash rewards. (Which isn't to say that won't yield any, just that I won't be making my living at it.) And, some days, it doesn't even yield profitable personal rewards. Sometimes I come home from shooting with a sense of despair, knowing that getting those images on the computer isn't going to make a difference. That my mojo was just missing this time. It's frustrating, stupid; I hate everything about it.

And then I make a pie. Because pie fixes everything.

For about an hour. Then I'm trawling photo hosting websites, visiting blogs, flipping through my books looking for inspiration to do better next time. There is always a next time.

Why? Why invest so much time and money and effort on something so difficult? Why spend 14 years diligently researching and educating myself about a process that has never come easy and which industry is constantly changing?

The industry's goal is just to make money. This shot wasn't processed at all - how d'ya like THAT, Adobe??

Because it feels right. Sometimes I look through that lens and I see something transcendental. Time stops and the flat, cropped image becomes a gateway into another world. Like Dorothy dropped into Oz, or Alice slip-sliding into Wonderland - suddenly I'm the hero adventurer and the story teller both at the same time. Well now. That's a heady experience!

Time may stop, but you can pick it up almost anywhere you want to. 

I know people who are insanely talented; who can pick up a camera and subconsciously process everything it's taken me 14 years to learn (and I'm still learning), dial in one or two adjustments on a compact camera, click the shutter and end up with something that truly deserves its thousand words. My husband is one of those people. His sister is another. It makes me a little crazy. All I can do is go back to chanting the basics: light, composition, theme, like a mantra while I check and double check all my manual settings, hope the moment hasn't by then passed and wish for a little of Dorothy or Alice's magic.

There is nothing more magical than the sun setting on the ocean. 

Sometimes I get it. But if I don't, there's always a next time.

Undeveloped.

Randy let me buy a new camera in honor of our anniversary. (That may not sound very romantic, but I let him buy 2 new golf clubs. Trust me, we're both VERY happy.)

It's gorgeous, just enough camera for me and I have already been putting it through its paces. But I'm not going to show you any of those pictures here today. This post will have pictures, but they're all going to be old, favorite shots. That's because this post isn't about a camera, it's about photography and how I came to it. Tomorrow will be about why I stick with it.

Old barn out on Bodega Hwy. One of the first pics I took with my new "skills" - described below.

Waaay back in 1999, I ended up getting stuck in the photo department of Walgreens for a few months while I waited for a pharmacy tech spot to open up. What I knew about cameras and film back then could fit in a film canister - and still have room for the film. Digital for the average consumer was still in it's infancy, and our department mainly processed rolls of snapshots for soccer moms and various other suburbanites. What they knew about cameras and film was even less than I, yet I was supposed to be the "professional".

There was nothing professional about what I did. I made sure the developing chem tanks were full and followed the directions on the machine. People would pick up their pictures and ask me why they looked the way they did and I'd have to shrug my shoulders. Now if you've known me for at least five minutes, you know I'm not real fond of not having the answers. It's just a thing with me. I don't have to always be right (of course it's nice when I am *ahem*), but I at least need to be able to know in which direction to look for the right answer.

First foray into black and white. Not exactly successful, but I couldn't have asked for a cuter subject! Sometime in 2000.

So, on my day off, I went to the local library and checked out Photography for Dummies, by Russell Hart.

Go ahead, I'll wait while you finish laughing. No, no - laugh it up! It's okay, I'll just sit here looking smug.

The first lesson in that book was that the camera takes the picture, but the person behind the camera makes the picture. It's an important distinction. One is a tool, the other is an artist. To me, an artist is anyone who can translate the vision in their head into something the rest of us can experience. And according to Russell Hart, anyone could learn to use the tool of a camera.

Yes, there are going to be a lot of pictures of my kid. She is by far my favorite subject. Fall 1999, I think.

I learned a lot from that book. I learned that the reason Mrs. Suburbanite's pictures were grainy was because she was using the wrong film speed. If 100 is good, that doesn't necessarily make 800 great! Yet that's what a lot of people thought. Getting your thumb out of the frame is a fairly simple process of learning to hold the camera correctly, yet that completely escaped the most well meaning dads at nearly every dance recital.

Now when people would ask me why their pictures looked like crap, I could tell them! They didn't always like the answer, but whatever. The point was that my head was filled with all this knowledge and I could maybe do something with it!

What was I trying to "do" here?  May, 2001

I liked pictures. I definitely liked the idea of taking pictures (an idea I'd been flirting with since somebody gave 10 year old me a little 110 camera for Christmas one year). And I loved the idea of being able to express myself in a visual artistic medium that didn't require me to draw anything. So I set about using this knowledge with my little 35mm film compact camera.

At first it was tons of fun! Since the settings on my camera were limited to automatic functions, I concentrated on composition. Rule of thirds. Not chopping people's heads off in the picture. Perspective. I worked on understanding light, but I'm telling you right now that is an ongoing process. I didn't just see an improvement in the prints I was getting back from the developer - I saw my vision working its way out into the world, slowly and painfully, but increasingly accurately and that hooked me.

Disneyland is a photo opportunity waiting to happen. I was thrilled to be able to shoot so many static subjects! September, 2001.

Using my knowledge became increasingly frustrating when it started exceeding the capabilities of my little camera. So I increased my camera to my first, introductory level SLR (still 35mm), which represented a HUGE investment for me at the time because I was poor. This also meant I couldn't go hog wild purchasing film, so I tried even harder to make every picture count. I worked at it. I read books, I imagined taking pictures even when I didn't have my camera with me, I made a conscious effort to remember every "rule" I could whenever I looked through the view finder. I chanted the limits of my camera like a mantra so I could adjust my shot accordingly.

I took pictures of e-v-e-r-y-t-h-i-n-g. I wasn't very good, but something told me to keep working at it. Which is strange, because again, if you've known me for five minutes you know I don't tend to stick with things that I struggle with over long periods of time.

One of my very favorite pictures I've ever taken, in any format.  One of about a  dozen times where everything came together perfectly. Winter, 2005.

I was finally starting to understand, this was in mid-2008. Still shooting 35mm SLR. I actually MEANT for this picture to look like this. Technically, it's not the best ever, but it came out the way I saw it in my head, and I'm so proud of that. 

When I transitioned to digital, another world opened up for me. Instant gratification! I could see what I was shooting right away and not 3 weeks later when I could afford to have the film developed. It was a compact digital but a relatively high-end one and I saw more of my hard work pay off faster. I was hooked again. I was learning again, and I was getting discouraged again because there's this whole digital processing element to photography that was kicking my butt - both financially and educationally.

First portrait with the compact digital. I was blown away by how easy it was! October 2008.

I upgraded again to a digital SLR, a Canon EOS Rebel which is their introductory-level set of models. It was another learning curve and another slow start, but we were in Germany, so I certainly didn't lack for practice!

Another perfect moment for me, where vision and skill actually met. Summer 2009, Schweinfurt Germany.

Little by little, though, I've reached that point where I can take the camera made for that sweet spot between beginner amateur and professional - let's call it the "knowledgeable hobbyist" - and use its powers for good. Not because I'm innately talented, not because I can afford a fancy camera. But because 14 years worth of practicing is paying off. I'm immensely proud of that.

A dream shot. 

I want to talk about what 14 years of struggling to learn this art has meant to me, and why I keep investing so much time and money in it when the returns are so intangible, but that deserves it's own post. And pictures.

Gettin' lucky!

I just want to give you a little glimpse into my life in south central Missouri.

Yeah.

The appetizer and the ribs were extremely tasty. And that's all I have to say about that.

I hope all the mom's I know are getting some extra love today. I know I am! My family made me coffee and breakfast this morning, then proceeded to facilitate Operation: Sit On My Ass, for which I am especially grateful. It's true I can sit on my ass whenever I want, but on Mother's Day I don't have to feel guilty about it!

Rowen made me a gorgeous steampunk/Celtic card with her mad Photoshop skills, and Randy surprised me with a giant box of chocolates. This is in addition to the gifts I requested: a new pizza cutter and a car wash. Rowen handled the pizza wheel and Randy spent FOUR HOURS detailing my car. He has his own set of mad skills, y'all, and I bow to them.

The dogs are being quiet, which is probably going to mean trouble when I finally get up and check on them, but for now I'm pretending that they're simply resting peacefully in separate corners of the house.

May is kind of an intense month in our house. Several birthdays of Very Special People, not least of whom is Rowen herself. She's going to be 16.

Yeah. Thankfully she is not like I was at that age.

And that's all I have to say about that.

We'll also be celebrating a wedding anniversary here in a few days - lucky number 8. Kind of hard to believe that 8 years in and this really hot guy (see above pic) still wants to wake up with me every morning. Well, I should really say wake up next to me because honestly he wakes up at 3:50 a.m. and most of the time I'm lucky enough to sleep right through that nonsense! Still pretty awesome, though.

In fact, I'm going to cut this short because I am just about the luckiest gal I know to have the husband and kid that I do and I'm going to hang out with them some more.

Hope you're feeling lucky, too!

Mundane Melody

You know what's awesome?

This.

That's my kid with a faux-hawk. It was totally her idea. Although I did talk her into letting me put some eyeliner on for a slightly more rock-n-roll look. Doesn't she look awesome? I love that she's experimenting with new looks and expressing herself a little more outwardly these days. It is SO MUCH FUN to watch her outsides start to match her insides. Because make no mistake - Ro has been punk rock and mohawks for a while now.

Let's see... what else has been going on for a while now? The puppies have grown up - well, as much as they're going to, anyway. At 9 months old, they've reached their adult size: about 15 pounds each. Actually, I think Eddie is 14 lbs. and Scout is 16 lbs., but whatever. It's still 30 lbs of fur ball and wet tongues when they jump on my lap at the same time. Here they are curled up precariously close to Heidi's rear end.

They still fight occasionally, but nothing more than angry snarling and they separate instantly when instructed to. All three will freeze and look at me when I intercede on a bout of rough play. The POWER! I am drunk with it, bwahahahaha!

No, not really. I'm usually just annoyed that I've had to stop whatever it is I was doing and go remind them to be NICE TO EACH OTHER, YOU'RE FAMILY, DAMMIT!

*ahem*

I'm mostly over pouting about losing my job. I've been out of it longer than I was in it, so I think it's probably time to stop the self-pity. I joined a Freethinkers group and go to Springfield once a month to participate, so at least I'm getting out of the house. Still cooking~

We got a short look at spring before winter came raging back, and I was inspired to eat spring foods. Fresh growing things that weren't shipped from a southern hemisphere continent and taste like stale play-doh. (Don't ask me how I know what stale play-doh tastes like.) We saw a few flakes of snow from that temper tantrum mother nature threw all over the rest of the Midwest - but I think we're on our way to bluer skies.

And that's news. What's yours?

It's springtime, for rednecks, in MIS-ery!

Shhhh! (whisper) Is it gone, yet?

I refer, of course, to winter's lingering presence and the metric buttload of snow and ice it dumped on us. In March. Not that I'm really complaining, mind you. I was the one who advocated for a longer, colder winter in the hopes of keeping the insect population underground just a little bit longer. I may have mentioned this before, but Missouri's bugs are of Jurassic proportions. I don't have much use for anything with more than four legs and I certainly can't think of a situation where I'd want something with more than four legs flying around my head. Especially when it's the size of a grapefruit.

Spring does appear to have made her entrance, however. Things are blooming, the grass is slowly turning green again and the wasps who made their winter home in our soffits are waking up. Yay.

Hopefully I curtailed their stay-cation plans by calling the pest control company out to spray poison in and around my house. Yes, yes, I know - toxins, green, environment, all-natural, yada yada. I DON'T CARE. My sanity is seriously on the line here. Last summer, I lived in fear of the wasps that tormented me by hovering just outside every window of my house. Not this time, you vicious insectoid Luftwaffe!

Besides, I have plans to enjoy our back deck this year, facilitated by the stairs that the builder put in and the fence that will be put in within the month. Beautiful, Better Homes and Gardens-type plans that include tall glasses of iced tea, dogs playing in the yard and bare feet propped up on the patio furniture. If I'm going to be a lazy housewife, I want the full package, dammit.

Speaking of such things, check out this snapshot of my wonderfully handy husband making a gate for the newly installed deck stairs.

Very manly, is he not? He's been quite busy making me beautiful things for my beautiful house which I will be showing you once I take some beautiful pictures. 

On the not-quite-as-beautiful aspect of spring sprucing, here I am with two newly-potted geranium plants that I hope will thrive in their new home on my front porch. 

Not being known for my horticultural skills, I was very careful to only purchase full-sun, hardy perennials that should manage to grow despite my attentions. If not, I solemnly swear to start a frikkin' rock garden next time.  

That, along with a bit of spring cleaning (but only a bit because, really, you do remember who's talking here, right?) and I am as prepared as I wish to be for the new season. Hope you are, too!

Back to normal.

For anyone who missed, or wants the bigger story on, my facebook post about losing my job...

It's simple really. The Army cut term and temp employees across the board to save on labor hours. Given their fiscal "crisis," it's a common business manuever that will cause some long term problems but solve some immediate ones. It was not unexpected.

My boss and the Battalion Commander were totally cool about it - the BC took the time to see me personally, with my boss, behind a closed door and showed a great deal of empathy and regret. It was either a heartfelt concern or an Oscar-worthy performance, but either way it was a pretty classy way to deliver the news.

I made a great impression on both my immediate supervisor and the small office of co-workers and my boss assured me that if they are in the position to hire again, I will get a phone call.

It's a total bummer for me, to be honest. Even the crazy hours and sometimes frustrating work were minor inconveniences compared to the ego boost I got from being in a professional environment again. I am a great mom and have it on pretty good authority that I'm a hot wife, and I know my dogs love me. But there is definitely a part of me that likes to feel important in a professional capacity and quite frankly it sucks that I didn't become so indespensible in the seven weeks I was there that they couldn't move heaven and earth to keep me.

Yeah. I said it. It's not rational, but that's how I feel about it. I'll get over it.

Financially, it's not a truly severe blow. We were doing okay on the one income before and I have mad budgeting skillz, yo, so while it's not fun to say no to impulse buys, it's certainly something we know we can do. I at least earned enough money to fence our backyard, which was the main concern, so that'll be taken care of soon. And Rowen will get her 16th bday present that I offered her (not a car) so I can still keep that promise.

All in all, I'm fairly "meh" about it. I went into this job understanding that it wouldn't be permanent and while I had hoped it would last a little longer than two months, I get that these are the breaks. And now I can go back to sleeping in.

What have I gotten myself INTO?

My new job kicks ass.

My ass.

Soundly. And regularly.

If you don't know (and/or don't speak Army) I work inprocessing new soldiers to the Army. My office is Personal Affairs Branch (henceforth to be known as PAB because it's a delicious soft drink... no, wait. Because it's the Army and everything has to be an acronym). We verify soldiers' rank and pay, set up their life insurance, death gratuity, direct deposit, etc.

It's important to note that we get the soldiers on their second day in the military. The reason this is important to note is because most of these soldiers are between 17 and 20, have never been away from home before and haven't had more than a few hours of sleep in the last 48 hours.

We get them and ask them to make grown up decisions like life insurance beneficiaries and if they want to claim 0 or 1 exemptions on their federal income tax and often - about 8 out of 10 times - we get this for an answer:

Ooooh-kay. Ideally, I'm supposed to spend 15 to 20 minutes with each soldier, process their info and send them on their way. I have a script, a work flow, handy little signs and maps meant to explain and expedite. Plus, I have rockin' customer service skills. This should be a piece of cake.

And it is. If that cake had been at ground zero of a nuclear detonation, eaten by radioactive zombies and vomited back up in the chest cavity of a survivor-turned-zombie-snack.

Sorry. Rough day for me.

Here's a list of reasons why my piece of radioactive vomit cake job makes me a little bit irritable:

1. 90% of my interviews are conducted with people born the year I graduated high school. (I know I'm not OLD, but I sure as hell don't like to be reminded ALL DAY that I'm not 27 anymore, either.)
2. Most of these soldiers don't know what carbon paper is. 
3. Budget cutbacks have forced my department from 16 full time people to 6, without reducing the workload. I'm okay with that, but it makes my boss cranky.
4. I have to bust out my "Mom" voice several times a day.
5. IT ALWAYS WORKS.
6. Look, I know these kids haven't slept much and they're a little bewildered by everything that's going on, but if one more pimply-faced little punk spends 20 minutes looking at the map of locations to add to their wish list AND THEN ASKS ME WHICH ONE I'D CHOOSE, so help me, I'm going to tell them Fort Huachuca.
7. It's simple - WHAT. IS. YOUR. ADDRESS? I don't care where you were born, I REALLY don't care where your girlfriend lives, that's great that your dad ran off with your 5 year old brother's kindergarten teacher but... Oh for fuck's sake.

So yeah. It can be a little challenging sometimes, but so far I'm doing pretty well. The soldiers aren't allowed to back-talk me, so already it's winning over anything else I've ever done. My coworkers are fun and amiable, and I'm going to get my first paycheck in 4 days which I imagine will alleviate any lingering irritability. 

My body is having a hard time adjusting to the lack of daily naps. I bribe it with coffee and sweets. Randy has been on con-leave since I started, so the dogs haven't had to deal with an empty house yet. That should be fun when it happens. I don't know if showing them my paycheck will help and I probably won't do that because they'd eat it, but we'll cross that bridge when we come to it. 

Anyhoo... that's what I'm up to these days! 

Giving the beholder a black eye.

I'm feeling pretty good about myself these days.

A not-small portion of that is, of course, due to finally landing gainful employment. You really have no idea how much of your self-esteem is tied up with earning an income until you're suddenly not able to earn an income, y'know?!

But it's also due to an overall comfort level within myself at the moment. Things are just... comfortable in my skin. Which is hilarious if you know me because I was once voted least likely to be comfortable with anything. Ever.

In an online freethinking mom's group I belong to, there was a call for no-makeup pictures. A come-as-you-are photo documentary of sorts, meant to celebrate the beauty of our lives lived in our faces. The result was breathtakingly and beautifully honest. Not just in the bravery it takes to look into your webcam and let it represent you in all its unflattering pixels, but in the supportive, eloquent, touching comments left on each picture.

It was, quite simply, amazeballs. I was blown away.

So I did it on my own page, thusly:

Okay, so this is something that was started in the mom's group I belong to, but I think it's so important I'm going to do it here, too.
This is me. First thing in the morning, no make up, no hair brushing, not dressed, still in bed. (I have, however, had coffee, which is why my eyes are open.)
And you know what? I feel beautiful. Sleep is my friend and I've just had a lot of it. All my dogs are curled up around my legs. There has been no stress so far, and the day is full of promise. Plus, my husband made me waffles!
Being a woman is the very definition of being image-conscious. Or maybe it's vice verse. Whatever. Point is - when I was younger I used to HATE people saying, "Oh, beauty is how you *feel*!" Shut up. Easy for you to say with your flawless skin and button nose and size 2 jeans. But honestly, I get it now. In this picture I am so at peace with myself and that's freaking beautiful.
My challenge to you: post a picture of yourself when you FEEL beautiful. If you're all made up, that's okay, but pause for a moment and think about why that is. Why do you feel most beautiful when you're conforming to modern image norms? Maybe you felt most beautiful when you were lying in the hospital bed, a sweaty mess, with your newborn tucked up beside you. Or when your partner surprised you with an ice cream cone to the face and you were just having the BEST time... I want to see it. I want to see you being beautiful to you. :)

I was so pleased with the picture and the sentiment, that I made the post public and have left it up as my profile picture. I even got a few comments in response but nobody took me up on the idea of posting a new picture of themselves. (One friend pointed to an old picture, but that was it.)

Since then, the same mom's group went the other direction (in fun) and several people posted their most alluring photos, some scantily clad, some not clad at all! But all in which they felt beautiful. I thought that was also amazeballs.

Interestingly, not everyone agreed. Only one person (and her sock puppets) trolled (and was consequently banned), but there were a lot of women who felt uncomfortable with that level of exhibitionism. Conversely, there was a lot of defensiveness and push-back from the women who supported body-positive imagery and corresponding defensiveness from the original, not-okay-with-this party. A whole lotta defensiveness, to be honest.

And it occurred to me that the defensiveness is probably why my personal post was largely ignored. Women have to protect themselves. All the time. From the judgement of society. Why? Because historically, they have been powerless in the face of that judgement if it turns against them. We may have unprecedented legal rights in this country (historically and comparatively speaking only), but the fear of ostracizing is still a profound and legitimate one.

{There is a wealth of information on this topic all over the internet and in your local library and I'm not going to try and educate anyone in this post. I just want to share my perspective and I'm going forward on the assumption that you already accept this gender-related fear statement to be true and accurate. If you don't, that's a different conversation.}

Being comfortable in my own skin didn't just magically happen overnight. It's been a long and arduous process that has required taking a look at my own prejudices, which is a really shitty task. Nobody likes to do it and mostly we don't, so it's remarkable anytime somebody tries. ::pats self on back::

Since prejudices are learned, I had to go back pretty far to identify mine. I was raised in a familial culture that put a premium on physical appearance. Specifically, that physical appearance adhering to a narrow, idealized portrait of popular American femininity. For example, I was shamed for biting my nails and praised for coloring my hair. In lock-step with this education was a strong admonishment to be "appropriate" and not tip so far into the made up side that I veered into "inappropriate" territory.

I now know that "inappropriate" is synonymous with "slut-shaming", but that wasn't communicated to me directly.

Also simultaneously with this beauty education was the relief from it - that is to say, day to day occasions of play time or school that had no image requirements and where jeans and a t-shirt were practically my uniform. But there was a strong emphasis placed on looking "appropriate" for the "appropriate" occasion.

That's not all bad. There are times when you want to fit in to the cultural norm; when it's neither necessary nor desirable to stand out and having the knowledge to allow you to blend in is a good thing. Not wearing tennis shoes to a black tie event is a good piece of advice to follow.

But for me, it went deeper than that. There was a shame involved in not conforming to those cultural norms when people could see me (i.e., judge me) that was greatly influenced by the attitudes of the women in my family. Make up was standard, as though there was something wrong with our faces and they had to be covered up. Staying skinny was the only option in a world where fat is disgusting and loathsome. I don't mean "a world" as in modern society - I mean our personal world made up of people who loved us.

By the time I got to junior high, that age where girls try on different versions of adulthood and struggle to find their own identity, I was regularly slut-shamed by my peers for trying to adhere to the glamorous "norm" that I thought was the feminine ideal. My response to this societal pressure was to increase my efforts to be as "beautiful" as I could because even at 13 my attitude was pretty much "fuck you and the horse you rode in on."

But the seed was planted and I spent the next couple of decades conflating beauty and normality with desirability and sexuality. Boy, was that stupid.

I'm not special. Women everywhere have to deal with this all the time. And quite honestly, I had it easier than most for a couple of reasons. One, I was clever and strong enough to realize that nothing is true 100% of the time and two, I was lucky enough to be born with genetics that already made me a close fit to that popular ideal. Also, I like falling back into that comfort zone of cultural norms. My ideas of beauty are still integrated with those popular images, and the idea of accenting my features still appeals to me. Also, it gives me a shielding of sorts from the random judgement of the public. We don't call it "war paint" for nothin'!

But the difference between then-me and now-me is that I recognize that beauty is so much bigger than the strict image I was brought up with. To me, beauty is strength, even when it's represented by wrinkles and/or stretch marks. Or by a refusal to adhere to those cultural norms. Beauty is confidence in your inner self, a belief that being deserving or desirable is a result of your honor, not your appearance. I am as close to that belief as I have ever been, and feel it keenly in the early morning between waking from a good sleep and facing the outside influences that try to contradict it. Hence, the picture.

Sometimes I feel beautiful when I also happen to be made up and glamorous, but at this point in my life, that's more a coincidence than a consequence. And I'm so proud of that.

Notes from a reformed spanker.

I don't have a lot of reason to "mommy-blog," since my "child" is going to be SIXTEEN in four short months and pretty much raises herself at this point. If I'm lucky, I get to have input in the form of informal chats, or the occasional question and answer session.

That being said, I do have contact with parents of the much younger set - friends, family, and the facebook group for freethinking moms (most of whom parent small children) and so I get exposed to the concerns that I thought I had worked out for myself a long time ago.

Such as spanking.

I think it's important to preface this by saying the best decision I ever made as a parent was to forgive myself and move on. I don't apologize more than once for any mistakes, and I don't blame. Every parent has, is, and will make mistakes. That's why children are so resilient for so long - because some parents take an inordinately long time to figure out what the hell they're doing! (::raises hand::) So this is not an apology.

It is also not an indictment of my own upbringing. I was born in the 70s, and given more leeway than some of my generational peers, less than others. I was spanked, but never without reason, always with full communication and disclosure about my punishment and very infrequently. There may have been a belt involved, but the way I received my spanking punishment was not abuse.

That being said, I knew when Rowen was born that I would not employ the same type of disciplinary measure. It just didn't feel right for my parenting style. But I did use a single hand swat to the bottom to punctuate a point. I don't remember exactly when was the first time I spanked her, but it was after she learned to walk, before she was out of diapers. So sometime after her first birthday.

It was almost always because of repeated behavior from her that hadn't yielded to my first line of discipline, or my second, and I was feeling the frustration of needing to make my point once and for all.  This happened relatively infrequently but I don't remember every occasion because it wasn't a big deal to me at the time. A single swat to a diapered behind is not physically painful, so I didn't think about it too much.

Later, in pre-school and beyond, single swats became two or three at a time if the behavior was egregious or dangerous and those most certainly did hurt, though they were far less frequent. In fact, one day outside of pre-school, I asked Rowen if she had to be spanked to learn not to cross the street without holding Mama's hand and looking both ways (as she had just made a bee-line for our car without regard to traffic) and she scrunched up her nose in disgust, replying, "NO! Spanking is for babies." At the time, I was proud of her statement.

The last time I spanked Rowen was when she was in the second grade. I had asked her to wash her hands before coming to the table. She sat down and I asked her if she'd done as I asked. "Yes," she replied. "With soap?" I asked. "Yes," she replied again. I went in the bathroom to check. The only soap was a bar sitting on the sink and it was bone-dry. Calmly, I went to stand by her chair and asked her politely to stand up. She did, and I grabbed her arm her gave her three solid strikes her behind. Then I told her I knew she had just lied to me, how I knew, and that she was never, ever, to lie to me again.

Shortly after that happened, Randy and I got married and he doesn't approve of spanking so I made a concerted effort not to use it. What I found, slowly and over time, was that it simply wasn't necessary to make my point. And the more I thought about what I was doing with my 8, 9, 10 year old to make my point would have also worked with my 1, 2, 3 year old. It required the hell of a lot more patience, a level of engagement that was both grounded and rational as well as intense, but suitable for any stage in child development.

Since then, I've come across studies and parenting philosophies which reinforce the idea that spanking of any kind is just not necessary. It's convenient, sometimes instinctive if the situation is truly dangerous to the child, and what previous generations were raised with, but ultimately not necessary.

As with anything, there are levels of severity in this debate. And context. My extremely infrequent childhood spankings always came with what seemed like hours of verbal conversation about my behavior and why it was wrong. (It wasn't hours, but when you're waiting for a spanking, it sure feels like it.) And it was backed up with longer-term consequences that fit the crime. Spanking as a first line of discipline is lazy parenting. Hitting children with the express purpose of hurting or humiliating them is abuse. I still don't think that how I disciplined Rowen was hurtful or wrong, but I do think it was unnecessary.

I think that the reason she's the well-adjusted kid she is today is because of the other forms of discipline I engaged in - rational and age-appropriate conversation, longer-term consequences that directly reflected the infraction, consistency, and the unfailing ability to LET IT GO once it was over.

I'm not going to say that I don't judge parents who spank, because I do. Depending on what I witness or hear about, I judge them to be anything from the normal, harried parent to ill-informed to abusive. Unless I think it's abuse, however, I'm not going to share that judgement because it's truly not my responsibility to weigh in on other types of parenting. Also, I'm probably not going to have the opportunity to do any more disciplining of young children, so this is really not pertinent to my future.  But I've had an awful lot of people tell me that my kid is well-behaved, well-adjusted and well-rounded and I think there's a reason for that. I think it's in spite of the fact that she was spanked as a young child.

That moment when you realize you have 3 versions of Odie.

Winter is, apparently, taking a break. After some lovely freezes and a moderate dusting of snow, we are now back into 50 degree weather with a side of heavy misting and resulting sogginess. Unless I'm back home, this is my least favorite kind of weather. Despite the way it facilitates my new curly 'do (warning: gratuitous self portrait, stage right), I like it not. A little warm misting in the redwoods makes everything fairy-land magical and piney-fresh. Here, it smells like primordial soup. Also, soggy dog poop. Just generally yuck.

The dogs, however, think it's FABULOUS. They want to run! And play! And not come when called! And tackle each other in the mud! And play the chase-me game that has me running through muck up to my shins! I'm not playing you furry little miscreants! Get back here right now or so help me, I will HOPE a coyote eats you! If you come back flat as road-pancake, don't cry to me!

*ahem* I'm not admitting to saying those things aloud. Mostly because no one was around to hear me, so you can't prove a thing.

Look, I was a little stressed. I just got done cleaning up a dot-to-dot puzzle of poop somebody left for me on the carpet in the basement. No lie: small, squishy little piles of disgusting-ness dropped in a semi-circle, evenly spaced. It was like Poop Henge on the lower berber plains.

I think it was Scout because Eddie has learned to cry at the door so loudly that I can hear him from my shower at the opposite end of the house. Not that he cries while I'm in the shower. He and Scout are too busy trying to rescue me from it. Only their version of rescuing involves trying to drink the water from the spout. If I close the bathroom door, THAT'S when they cry. You know, I'm not sure I didn't actually give birth to these puppies.