The poetic, playful and prophetic musings of quintessential voices trying to keep up with life

Tuesday, November 4, 2014

Another Hair/Story

Like Madie, I just chopped all my hair off. (Ok, almost. There are still a few hairs left.) There must be something in the water this group drinks, Erins be warned.

I'm the one on the left, yo.
Unlike Madie, I don’t date men. Instead, I joined the ranks of the majority (I don’t know the stats, people, I’m just making assumptions) of lesbians who rock short hair as a life choice.

In other words, I am perpetuating my own stereotype.

And I feel great about it.

I have spent most of my life following the rules. I love rules. If life had a rule book and all I had to do was follow it, I would win at life.

I’m a color inside the lines kind of gal.

So when I came out as a lesbian (or bisexual, or queer, or whatever the heck I came out as) it was a huge leap out of the box for me.

I was never alternative. Besides a brief stint in fifth grade when I wore only black clothes, I never rebelled. The craziest thing I did my freshman year of college, when most of the rest of my class was getting drunk for the first time (or 100th time) was die by hair (a natural color) and pierce my ear (in a normal place).

Needless to say, I haven’t exactly lived life on the edge.

And I’m cool with that. I read authors like Anne Lamott and Nadia Bolz-Weber, women who did crazy stupid shit in their pasts, because I have always dreamed of being a rebel and I simultaneously know that I could never break that many laws.

So I guess my haircut is pretty alternative, given how non-alternative I am.
I know we aren’t supposed to let looks define us, but I’ve been thinking about trying to let this hairstyle define me a little bit.

I spent most of my life living in the box and the only reason I stopped was because I had to choose between being true to myself and making everyone else happy. It's time to try something new.

Does something as simple as hair explain that to people?

Probably not.

But it was never about them anyway.


Sunday, October 19, 2014


Before I cut my hair off about a month ago, a lot of my friends at law school already knew I was planning to do it. I got asked a lot why I wanted to get a pixie cut. No one asked in a rude way, just with curiosity – like, if my hair looked good at the length it was, why would I want to have short hair? I explained time and time again that I just wanted to.

I felt claustrophobic because my thick, fluffy hair around my face and neck. I missed the freedom of not having to style my hair in some form. I just didn’t feel like myself with my longer hair. I’ve had short hair more often than long in the past five or so years, so it wasn’t a scary decision.

Short hair just seems natural on me. It’s sassy, it’s fearless, it’s low-maintenance, and it’s unapologetic: everything I strive to be.

After I got my hair cut, most reactions were positive. But one guy asked me if my boyfriend supported me cutting my hair off so that guys wouldn’t hit on me as much. I laughed, then I calmly tried to explain that my boyfriend happens to think I have a pretty face, and that it’s easier to see my pretty face when I don’t have so much hair in the way… And that I feel confident that he’s not trying to purposely make me uglier.

This conversation bothered me in the same way that all those articles online from douchey bros, who claim that short-haired women are ruining the fun for men, do - because they all assume one vital falsehood:

That I (and other women) are actively thinking about pleasing men and how all our actions fulfill that goal.

I did not cut my hair for men. I didn’t cut it for my boyfriend, or my father, or my male friends, or the men I pass on the street. I did not keep my hair long for men. I didn’t keep it long for my boyfriend, or my father, or my male friends, or the men I pass on the street.

I grew out my hair because I wanted to. And I cut it off because I really, really wanted to.

If cutting my hair off upsets sexist douchebags and makes me less appealing to random men on the street, that’s actually a plus in my book. It weeds out the kind of guys who will objectify me on first sight, or judge me without getting to know me, or assume that I care about their opinions on the sexual attractiveness of my body.

I wear high-waisted pants because they make me feel fabulous. I have a nose ring because it makes me happy. I have short hair because it makes me feel confident. I wear running leggings as pants sometimes because they’re comfortable and opaque. None of these actions are harmful to other people, and they are deeply and personally satisfying for me.

Women do a lot of things without thinking about the reactions or approval of other people – men and women included.

I want Jake to think I’m beautiful. I want my dad to approve of my choices. I want to make my grandpa proud. But if it comes down to making myself happy and making other people happy, I’m going to go with actions and decisions that make me happy and fulfilled.

Your decision for how to cut and style your hair, what clothes to wear, or how to decorate your body are all personal decisions that only you can make - and these decisions do not make you any less of a woman or deserving of respect.

If you want pink hair down to your waist or no hair at all - have 15 piercings on your face alone or just your ears - two full sleeve tattoos or a butterfly tattoo on your lower back - and those things will fulfill you deep in your soul (or maybe you just really want them), then let your freak flag fly.

No one should be making that decision for you – especially trolls on the internet. If a few less douchetools don’t think you’re sexy for being your most complete, confident, satisfied self, then I’m pretty sure you're the one who lucked out.

xo Madie

Friday, March 28, 2014

A bodily work: birthing my baby

Pregnancy is a bodily business. So is giving birth. It seems odd to tell my birth story with words and thoughts when it contained very little of either. But my body is already changing the story it tells each day, and the birth of Amy Mae is one I wish to remember. So, here we go.
        A few morning contractions and a little birth show on my panty liner are the first indicators I deem important enough to text to my doula, Julie. Just a quick update but a new development since I saw her at our 38-week prenatal appointment with my midwife, Lanette, two days previous. It’s another low-key morning with a wide open time line of an unknown duration of waiting. The end of pregnancy. I spend most of my time these days resting, eating, and watching Property Brothers on HGTV, which I am convinced exists for frustrated, non-working pregnant women. Thankfully, this day has a little more color because my husband, Michael, and I have a big adventure planned for the day: going to the grocery store.  Woo-hoo, right? Not many contractions through the morning, but a really strong one in the dog food aisle of Pick ‘n’ Save this evening reminds me of the promising change from the morning. A few more through dinner. A few more in the evening. Several while trying to go to sleep. Several more while trying to stay asleep. Finally, they are too frequent and annoying to sleep through, so I get out of bed at 3 A.M. and spend an hour rolling around on my birthing ball. I don’t want to wake Michael, because I know he will need his rest if I really am in labor. After an hour, I call Julie to tell her I am having strong contractions every ten minutes with a smaller one at the 5 minute mark in-between. I know I need to try and sleep, and she confirms that in her sleepy voice. I go back to bed and rest between contractions, but sleep will not come. 

        Michael and I are up around 8 A.M. which is earlier than usual, because we like to sleep in. Michael rubs my back while I lay over the birth ball and while I’m on my hands and knees. I’m trying very hard to relax and help each contraction be as productive as possible, but I’m also trying to rest. So, I keep my contractions about 10 minutes apart.  Around 11 A.M. I decide to commit to laboring, and I go upstairs to walk around the living room. A few granola bars and a fruit smoothie later we leave at 2 P.M. for the 35 minute drive to Milwaukee. (Contractions have been 3 minutes apart if I’m walking and 5 minutes apart if I’m sitting.) The car ride is not as bad as I expect, which is a small relief. 
We arrive at the birth center to cheerful, excited faces. I feel that my face is one of exhaustion and almost boredom. The only thing I desire is sleep, and I’m having a hard time getting excited about the prospect of a new baby. It’s as though my mind doesn’t comprehend the possibility. It’s only a couple minutes before I find out why.
After letting me pee, the midwives have me lay on my back, take my vitals, and listen the baby’s heartbeat through a contraction. I haven’t had a pregnancy pelvic exam yet, so I don’t know what to expect, but it lasts longer and is much more uncomfortable than I thought it would be. Lanette calmly tells me to stay relaxed, and she will let me know more when we’ve gone through a contraction and finished up. 
Turns out our baby had decided her hand was so nice that she wanted it right by her head. Consequently, she had been sitting on top of my cervix off-center, with her hand jammed up by her head. Lanette had needed to push it back. That’s what had made my pelvic exam so long and extra uncomfortable. The baby could now sit on my cervix like an egg in an egg cup instead of an egg with a marker next to it trying to fit in an egg cup. 
I’m so glad she could push back that arm, but I’m just so tired and now we need to walk around. A couple laps around the birth center with contractions that now feel different. I want to lay down, so Julie sets me up in a three-quarters-over position with my right knee on a pillow. I try and sleep. I’ve spent hours being woken by contractions, but I wake to a much larger, much more painful contraction. I feel so much pressure in my lower back and have a harder time finding focus in my relaxation. These are worse to try and sleep through.
Another pelvic exam, two hours after the first, and I’m 1 cm dilated. I haven’t slept in 30 hours, laboring for about 16 of those, and my only question now is “what next?” I don’t care when the baby will come. I’d wait a week if it meant I could get some sleep. 
Lanette and Ali explain that I have a couple options. There are some different medicines that might slow my labor and let me sleep. Julie listens, does some more research for us, and recommends the anti-histamine. It should help me sleep and has been known to slow or stop early labor (usually anything before 4 cm). Sure. Call it in. We will pick it up at the Walgreens a mile from our home. 
We walk into a mucky winter night and our windshield washer fluid has frozen. Our 35 minute drive turns into a much longer affair with slow speeds on the interstate and two stops to wipe off the windshield. Michael has been a pillar of calm and reassurance, but I know he is getting impatient. He just wants to get me home, and I just want to sleep. The contractions are incredibly painful and I relax through each one as best I can, but I am getting angry. I start audibly sighing through contractions but not so much out of coping or instinct. I’m just angry at the contractions, so I’m yelling at them.
We get to Walgreens and they tell us they can’t give me my prescription because it’s not covered by my insurance. Fine, we will pay out of pocket. Oh, the state won’t let you do that. Are you kidding me? (That thought may have contained some swear words in my head.)
Michael asks if I want to wait in the Walgreens parking lot while we call the midwife to figure something out or go home. I say I want to go home so I can just “get out of the damn car.” 

        I haven’t eaten more than a piece of toast and a couple granola bars since Friday night dinner, so I know I need to eat before climbing into bed. My mother-in-law comes downstairs with my requested bowl of raisin bran to sit with me while Michael calls, gets the prescription redone, and goes to pick it up. 
I finally get my medicine around 8 P.M. I am ready to settle in for some much needed rest.

(Some time that feels like a day in-between Saturday and Sunday)
The medicine doesn’t work. I’m up every 5 minutes with strong contractions. Every two or three take me off my side and onto my hands and knees on the bed, and Michael wakes up with me for each one. Every time he tells me I’m doing well is a time when I need to hear it. (Which is with every contraction...) I tell myself I’m strong. Focus. I can do this. I picture myself running up a hill, knowing it will be easier after I get to the top. I can’t help thinking that running up hills will be much easier to me after this night of labor. 
We try again with more medicine at midnight. Still doesn’t work. More contractions. At 4 A.M. we are texting Lanette and Julie that it’s not working. They recommend a bath. There is one time (maybe two times...) when I think I could just go to a hospital and tell them to take the pain away somehow with some drug that will stop labor. Anything. But I don’t want that, so I do what I don’t want to do. I take a bath. Michael sits in the low lit bathroom with me to make sure I don’t drown or slip. I stay in the water until it's cold, and he sits with me quietly the entire time though he has not slept either. The bath is relaxing, but not like I want it to be. Back to bed. I spend the rest of the morning much like before with the addition of weird visions of lemon greek yogurt during contractions. I’m also going through them with Rock You Like a Hurricane going through my head, because I keep rocking my hips and it hurts and somehow that means hurricane to my exhausted mind. 48 since I’ve slept, 32 hours of labor.

         It’s 8 A.M. and my hands and knees are so tired. I’ve been on them on and off for probably 32 hours, the last 14 of which have been very difficult. I wake from one of my 5 minute nap breaks to a promising plan from Michael. Julie and Lanette are supposed to text us about a time to come to the birth center so they can check the baby. Finally, something to look to! I’ve been laboring convinced my contractions are ineffectual because that was how my first 18 hours of labor went.  The medicine was supposed to slow my labor, so I think the last 14 hours have been for nothing. 
 We leave at 9:45 to meet everyone at 10:30. I’m pretty sure I look like death. Yesterday, I walked in feeling like a woman in labor. Today, I walk in feeling like zombie. 
Ali gives me a pelvic exam and the best news I’ve heard in 24 hours: I’m paper thin and 6+ cm dilated. The last 14 hours have not been for nothing! She mentions to Julie that the baby is +1. I'm pretty sure that means she’s low. No wonder I’ve had so much lower back pressure. That and the fact that my membranes still have not released.
But...I can get in the tub. A big tub. A big, beautiful tub of water which is all I have wanted for 8+ months. I get in and keep trying to relax. I’m pretty sure I look relaxed, but inside my mind is running like crazy. I don’t remember any of the thoughts I was having, but I was very focused. Very aware. Trying to relax. Moving. Breathing. Drinking water from my blue cup with Michael’s help. It didn’t take long for me to figure out that a modified hands and knees was the most comfortable position for me. The tub had a little seat or shelf thing on which I could rest my elbows, so at least my wrists had a break.

Time moves quickly in the water. Sooner than I expect, my body has a small convulsion at the end of a contraction that feels like a push. Two more contractions with that pushing instinct, so I tell Michael to get the midwife (who is just in the next room). I feel a pop between my legs and know that my membranes have finally released. I find out later that it is 12:45 P.M. I've been in the water for only two hours.
From this point, I do not remember any pain. I did compare the pushes with contractions and couldn’t decide if I had a preference. At least I could feel more keenly the great work my body was doing. I felt my baby begin to move down. I felt her move forward with each series of expulsions and then slide back a little. I was very happy she was doing this, because I knew she was stretching me out little by little. And she was moving fast! I thought maybe a little too fast, but I couldn’t slow down the work my body was doing for me. 3 pushes from the end I knew how many more there would be, and I could feel her head. Second to last push and I knew there was only one more. She was right there. I was completely stretched out. Her head finally popped out (this hurt for only a moment) and I remember thinking it felt very round. It’s 1:13 P.M. A rest in my body’s work, and then some final expulsions to release her body. Her body felt bigger coming out than her head! (And hurt a little more, too.) She’s born at 1:15 P.M.

I moved off my elbows and knees to lay down, and then she was coming into my arms. Her head was up and her eyes were open and she cried immediately. I felt exhaustion. I felt relief. I didn’t know what I was feeling. These two days after the birth I didn’t remembered crying, but as I write this I remember. I cried. I looked at Michael and he was so happy. I drank in his expression, and I have held that memory second most vivid to my daughter’s face as she came into my arms and my chest. I didn’t feel like I knew her, nor did I feel any rushes of understanding. I only felt confusion and what I think was happiness. I knew I would get to know her. She was mine, but I didn’t quite know why. I knew she was Michael’s, because I could see it on his face. And his face gave me hope.

Friday, March 7, 2014

Adoption and Superheroes: The Relatability of Superman's Search for Identity

So, during the past few weeks I have had a lot of different experiences centering on the theme of identity.  One specific example of this was the STM Dialogues.  This event was wonderful, and allowed for different members of the STM community to tell their stories.  All of the stories were focused on the various issues that people face when determining or owning their identity.  I actually submitted a piece myself to be performed, which was about some of the questions and transitions I have faced in my life as an adopted child.  In thinking of what I wanted to write for this post, and thinking on the theme of identity, I was brought back to a previous idea I had had for a blog post, which talked about one of the most famous adopted kids of all time: Superman.
I’ve been on a bit of a Superman kick lately, I’ll admit.  Ever since I saw Man of Steel, and found season one of Lois and Clark: The New Adventures of Superman on Amazon for like $10, I’ve been
Oh, the 90's goodness.
borderline obsessed.  It’s weird to, because Superman never appealed to me as much as other heroes growing up.  He was too much of a goody-goody, which made him boring (although I did LOVE Lois and Clark when I was a kid…and still love it…I recently bought season two).  I always liked Batman better (DC Universe-wise, anyway), because he was a little grittier, and less black-and-white.  He works in black “and sometimes very, very dark gray” (haha, LEGO movie reference).  Really, though, I could never relate to Superman the way I sometimes could to other heroes.  He was too good, to unshakable, too…super. 
However, what makes Superman more interesting to me now is his struggle with his identity, which is highlighted in Man of Steel (here come the SPOILERS).  Basically, the whole movie can be boiled down to Superman’s struggle of balancing his identity as Kal-El of Krypton, and Clark Kent of Earth.  In the movie, when Clark first realizes he is not his parents’ biological child, he is understandably confused and distressed (and on top of that, he can lift a freaking bus...puberty is confusing enough without all of that thrown in the mix).  His dad, Jonathan Kent, doesn’t want Clark to let anyone know he has his superhuman powers, because he is afraid people wouldn’t be able to handle it and would fear and hate Clark (the results of this order prove disastrous, which is typical when you’re forced to deny who you are…we all remember what happened to Elsa in Frozen).  He does encourage Clark to try
and figure out why he was sent to Earth, and what his other parents’ intentions for him were.  However, while Jonathan only has good intentions at heart, his actions really add to Clark’s confusion, distress, and fear of himself.
As a teenager, Clark goes through the somewhat typical stage of independence-seeking that all teenagers go through, and as an adopted kid, this includes the occasional “You’re not my real father/mother” retort that makes you want to punch him in the head.  However, tragedy strikes (as it usually does), and Clark comes to regret those comments (as he should).  Fast forward, though, and Clark’s a grown up man traveling from place to place in search of his identity (the song “I Can Go the Distance” from Hercules would fit in well with this part of the movie).  Eventually, he finds a Kryptonian spaceship in the Artic, in which he is able to learn more about his home world and the parents who gave him up so that he could survive its destruction.  When he encounters General Zod (the bad guy), Clark is faced with the decision to either help the General turn Earth into a new Krypton, or protect the people of Earth from destruction. 
OBVIOUSLY he chooses to protect the people, but if you really break down this decision, it’s a lot harder than it might seem at first glance.  Clark has spent his whole life feeling different, as if he doesn’t really belong anywhere.  He searches for any clues that will answer the millions of questions that are constantly swarming through him about where he comes from, and who he is.  When he finally discovers everything, he is given the option to completely embrace the identity he has found…or create a new identity based on who he was, and who he is.  As his Krypton father Jor-El states, “Born on Krypton and raised on Earth, you had the best of both and were meant to be the bridge between two worlds.”

Space dad with baby Superman

Superman is neither just Kryptonian, or just of Earth, but both, and he eventually realizes this and finds his purpose to be the protection of his adopted home.  While it is an extreme example, I’m sure there are a ton of adopted kids who could resonate with some part of Superman’s journey of identity.  I know I can, but most especially with his conclusion.  I have no desire to meet my biological parents or know where I “come” from.  I am completely happy with my life, and I my family is the most important thing in the world to me.  However, after years of anger and pain in regards to my biological parents, I have come to understand that they are a part of my identity as well, especially my biological mother.  If she hadn’t made the choice to give me up, I wouldn’t be where I am right now, surrounded by all of the people I love.  Like Superman at the end of Man of Steel, I understand that both my parents and my biological parents (where I am and where I come from) are hugely important to how I see myself and relate to the rest of the world.  Their decisions and actions have influenced my identity, and I wouldn’t be me if I never had all of them.  I think it’s important, in any search for identity, to acknowledge what has come before and what is happening now.  We are formed and molded by every aspect of our lives, whether large or small, whether we realize it or not.  I am not Superman, but Superman isn’t so hard to relate to anymore.  

Farm dad with pre-teen Superman          

See you next time,
Erin B.

And because I like to end on a laugh...


Saturday, January 25, 2014


I've got a confession to make…

I take selfies.

That definitely wasn't someone else who took that picture of my face. That was me. With my iPhone, with that little "reverse camera" feature so I could see what I looked like when I snapped the pic. I probably took at least three pictures before I finally took one I liked. If I'm gonna post my face all over the Internet, I wanna look good.

Women are expected to look beautiful all the time. We're expected to look flawless whether we're at home or work. Sometimes (despite all those Pinterest fitspirations about, "If you look good after your workout, you didn't work hard enough) even after a workout, in that sweaty, sexy, exhausted, maybe even post-coital way. We're supposed to wear makeup, but only enough to enhance our "best" features. We're supposed to have perfect skin, and if we don't, we're supposed to cake on some concealer until it's not as noticeable. It takes us twenty minutes to make our hair perfectly dishevelled so we look gorgeous, but in that, thrown-together-I-really-didn't-try-I-swear kind of way. We work really hard to look effortless.
That, in itself, says a lot about unattainable beauty standards. And on top of everyday people, celebrities, and (most of all) companies telling us that we we're not pretty skinny curvy insert physical qualifier here enough, why are we surprised that women have lower self-esteem about their appearance?

According to Psychology Today, women are more concerned about their appearance because people judge us on our appearance, much more than people judge men on appearance. Dove says that only 4% of women worldwide would describe themselves as beautiful. This may have to do with sexual selection, biology, or competition, but it's a real life problem that women experience on a daily basis. We're sold products to cover up or eliminate these "flaws." If we didn't feel so shitty about how we looked, many a company would go out of business.

As we try so hard to look so perfect (quite an uphill battle), heaven forbid women express any sort of pride or confidence about their appearance.

"Oh, you look so beautiful today!" "Psh, no, I look like a troll! You look beautiful!"
"Oooh, I love those pants!" "Awww, really? I got them on sale!" (Notice, no acknolowedgment that your body is attached to those gorgeous pants)
"You look really pretty today!" "Are you kidding me? I just rolled out of bed!"

When should I stop quoting "Mean Girls?" THE LIMIT DOES NOT EXIST.

Women are supposed to be insecure. We're supposed to blow off compliments. If you're open about how beautiful you feel, even if you totally do, you're full of yourself. A bitch. Cocky. Self-involved. Fake. Vain. Maybe even slutty.

Selfies are a touchy subject. People see them as promoting vanity, an impression of empty-headedness, attention-whoring, or self-obsession. And let's be honest: we all know that one person who has a Facebook album exclusively full of pictures of her face at slightly different angles. It does seem a little extreme.

Here's my question: Is it really offensive that a woman might actually feel good about herself and her body?

I'm not advocating we all start making selfie albums on Facebook or anything, but is it possible that maybe that girl posting a picture of her face just... feels pretty? Is it more offensive than a group of friends taking six different pictures of themselves until they take the most flattering one?

Is it so offensive that someone might actually feel good about themselves and feel okay sharing that online? We share new jobs, good grades, relationships, and pretty much everything else online, but sharing a flattering picture - differing from all those other tagged pictures only because you took it yourself - crosses the line?

In a world where 4% of women worldwide would call themselves beautiful, we should be celebrating women who have the confidence to post a picture and say to the Internet, "Hey, I feel beautiful today. Deal with it." We should be encouraging other women to feel beautiful just the way they are (filter or not). We should be building each other up, not tearing each other down. We should encourage ourselves to celebrate our own beauty, whether that comes in the form of a good grade, singing really loud in the car (with the windows down - free those dulcet tones!), or having a good hair day. And hell, take a picture of it if you want to. I bet it looks great.

At least on my Instagram feed, selfies appear all the time with a caption like, "Hey, just feeling pretty today! #nomakeup" The responses to those pictures in particular are really beautiful - 99% of the time, other women are building each other up. They say things like, "Wow, BABE ALERT," "You're always so beautiful," or "Screw makeup, you're so foxy!" Every time I see one, it warms my heart. 

I have an app called "BeauCoo" where women (of all shapes and sizes) can post their outfit pictures. It's meant to be a supportive community where you can see how specific clothing items might fit you, but the comments are always my favorite part. It doesn't matter what size, shape, face type, or skin color - the comments are always positive and uplifting.

When I see examples like that, I just can't throw all selfies in the "self-obsession & vanity" pile. I see a way for women to embrace themselves. I see a way to show the world that we refuse to make self-hate the norm. I see a way to embrace beauty however we'd like to. I see a way to raise that 4%.

How do you feel about selfies? Do you think they have redeeming quality?


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