Silvia Preview

RANDOM FEMALE SYNDROMES 187 laughing uncontrollably. It was just so absurd for my 3-year-old, golden- haired toddler to be calling me a c—t. Yikes. She heard it from her father and all the other men who were ever in our house. Like the F-bomb here, it’s diluted from overuse, almost devoid of meaning anymore. I often wonder why, when you’re pregnant, no one tells you that your children will challenge you more than 99% of the other people in your life. Yeah, your children can smell the burning rope when you’re at the end of it. When you’re so tired you can’t see, so you lie down for 10 minutes. And just as you’re drifting into that whipped-cream land of af- ternoon sleep, you hear it… Someone is down the hall hyperventilating and whimpering while run- ning the water. You drag yourself out of bed and go investigate. A trail of blood starts in the sink and leads to a gash on your son’s thumb. You are frantic and without a first aid kit (what a bad mother). You put a towel on his thumb and tell him to squeeze while you look for a bandage, some gauze, anything. There’s nothing. So, you give him a sanitary napkin. Then you run downstairs to find an ice pack, to keep it cold, in case the thumb is actually detached (you were too terrified to look). In the freezer, there is nothing but an empty ice tray and a lump of sheep’s milk cheese in a plastic bag, but no ice pack. You curse yourself for not reading What to Expect the First Year and then grab the sheep’s cheese and a plastic bag. You wrap up his thumb with the lump of iced cheese and the menstrual supplies, grab his three-year-old sister who’s still in her snowsuit, and throw them in the car. Now officially in crisis man- agement mode, you speed up the hill to the hospital. As you’re navigating the wet road, it occurs to you that you have no idea what happened. The following dialogue ensues: “So, what happened?” “Umm, I was sawing something.” (horrified) “You were using that new wood saw??!!!” “Yeah. It slipped, and I sawed my thumb. I don’t think it’s down to the bone.” The road is barely visible in front of you. You squeeze your abdominals

188 Motherhood is a Mother Syndrome to stay calm and pray there will be a free parking space at the one children’s hospital for 100 miles. You are grateful the little princess hasn’t chosen this moment to throw a code orange nuclear fit. When you arrive, the nurse comes shuffling up to the waiting room: “OK, what have we got?” she asks surveying the eager patients. She goes through one or two and then gets to us. “What’s he got?” “He cut his finger with a saw,” I say, matter-of-factly. She rolls her eyes and ushers us into the doctor’s room right away. She’s joined by another nurse and they begin to dismantle my makeshift wound dressing. One of them peels off the plastic bag and discovers the sanitary pad. “A sanitary napkin? Hmm, okay, that does the job.” The other nurse gets to the next layer and discovers it’s made of cheese: “What is this, sheep cheese?” she asks with a straight face. I just keep say- ing yes, over and over. “Well, they say to use whatever you have.” These women are goddesses of empathy and tolerance. I am stunned. They must have truly seen everything by now, like some Eastern European versions of Nurse Jackie without the opioid habit. They clean his wounded thumb, which turns out not to have been severed in two or sliced down to the bone. Then they tape it up—no stitches! Over the years I’ve learned to keep myself under control. Like when my son, the athlete, has an injury and can’t work out. He gets so depressed that he watches YouTube testosterone-filled talk shows non-stop and then yells that I’m the reason he doesn’t have a driver’s license (he’s 20 and hasn’t bothered to schedule the test!). I realize that arguing with him will get me nowhere because it’s the holidays and he is on the verge of tears, bereft, endorphin-less and hasn’t seen his girlfriend in two and a half weeks. I have learned to keep myself under control when my daughter (who’s now 17) has fits that have morphed from bathtub swearing sessions into standing in front of the mirror and yelling that she’s fat. She’s 5’7”, 128 pounds and looks like Claudia Schiffer. No matter how absurd her claims, I realize that reacting can bring no good whatsoever.

RANDOM FEMALE SYNDROMES 189 I don’t think one truly evolves into a wise, older human being until one realizes that there is no manual for children. There’s just you, your brain, and your pimply teenager. One of you are averaging six moods an hour and the other is wondering if it isn’t time for that cocktail yet.

WHY PARENTING IS THE BEST! (AND ALSO THE WORST) by Natasha O’Rourke YOU KNOW WHAT I realized? There are no “parenting experts.” Or rather, all parents are parenting experts. Once you’ve performed surgery to successfully remove a booger from a 2-year old’s nostril at 3 a.m. and written an original song called “Smile Town” that you’ll perform on com- mand, you develop some valuable niche knowledge. So, as an official Parenting Expert, I’d like to share some of the lesser- known perks and drawbacks of having children. And they’re not going to be the clichéd ones you see in blogs like, “your heart grows three sizes” and “getting pooped on.” This is gonna be the real shit, I mean, poop. (Sorry, forgot I was a parenting expert for a second there.) Let’s start with some good news: kids are going to make you a better person. When you become a parent, you realize you need to set a good example for your child. You can’t call everyone who cuts you off in traffic an “ass clown” unless you want your kid’s first words to be “ass” or “clown” (or both) because guaranteed, that will happen. I mean, you could say “mama” a trillion times a day to your baby and “shitbird” just one time when you knock over the Diaper Genie at 3 a.m.

RANDOM FEMALE SYNDROMES 191 and all of a sudden, your little angel is babbling, “shitbird” to your mother-in-law at Christmas. Hypothetically speaking. So now, you say things like, “That guy’s not a buddy!” in a sing-songy voice about the ass clown who cut you off, as if you’re hosting your own children’s television show from the driver’s seat. My kids have learned quickly that there are a lot of people on the road who aren’t buddies. You also start eating more vegetables and organic stuff, and less junk. I used to drunkenly devour a Mama Celeste Pizza at 2 a.m. Now a parent, last week I bought an organic cauliflower pizza crust, which is, you guessed it, a “pizza crust” made entirely out of cauliflower. Adding to my kid- conscious cooking is my adding organic tomato sauce and hand-grated organic cheese (pre-grated has fillers!). I’ve also made kale chips without irony. Having kids also loosens you up. Literally, of course, if you have a vag- inal delivery. I’m kidding (sort of). Things that seemed soooo important before (the latest trends, mani-pedis, showering, wearing pants) are less important now that you’re wholly responsible for another human being’s life. So, you forgot to wear pants to the store (again); no big deal because you created a whole other person! Likewise, things that used to seem so difficult or painful are nothing compared to pushing a 6-10-pound object through the birth canal, which by now we all know is just a fancy term for the tunnel that ends at your vagina. Remember when you were a teenager and you joined the Burt Reyn- olds/Kirk Cameron/Jonathan Taylor Thomas (choose your generation) Fan Club and thought the sun rose and set with that dreamboat? Well, great news. You’ve just created your very own fan club. My kids think I’m the prettiest, smartest, funniest person and best mother in the whole wide world. I know this because I have several mugs, buttons, and handmade cards that say just that on them. Congrats to all the runners-up! And now for some of the cons. Better bolster up that self-esteem be- cause kids are going to tear it to pieces like it’s a box of Girl Scout cookies at the end of a Whole 30 (that’s a diet thing). Remember, “Kids Say the

192 Motherhood is a Mother Syndrome Darndest Things?” Well, 90% of those things are about how big your butt is or how old you look. We have one of those showers with the big glass wall in lieu of a curtain. One time my 6-year-old son was going to the bathroom while I showered, and we were chatting about age. “How old do you think Mama is?” I asked him. He slowly looked my naked body up and down, and then earnestly answered, “about 82.” I try really hard to model self-confidence and comfortability in my own skin for my children. So, when my daughter asked me why my thighs are so big, I told her, “so I can run really fast,” and gave myself an inner high- five. When she followed up with, “Then how come Marie is so much faster than you and her thighs are so much smaller?”, I slowly shut the door in her face so I could privately curse Marie like she was the Marcia to my Jan Brady. No high-fives that time. Kids are the reason we can’t have nice things. Clean cars. Tidy homes. Dinners out at fancy restaurants. Perky breasts. Discretion. Our family has Friendsgiving every year with four of our closest friend families. Every year, there’s a theme. Last year, as my daughter and I were shopping for a “1980s office holiday party” clothes at Goodwill, we ran into a friend and neighbor. She asked what we were looking for and I told her, and my daughter said, “wait, she’s not invited?” My friend joked, “No, because I’m not a real friend.” I know (hope) she was kidding, but it was still mor- tifying. Kids ruin all the things. Another check for the minus column is that you’ll never sleep the same way again. Everyone knows that having a newborn = sleep deprivation. But what they don’t tell you, is you pretty much won’t get a good night’s sleep FOR THE REST OF YOUR LIFE. Sure, at first, it’s the “needing sustenance” thing and “I don’t know what night is.” Then later it’s, “something hurts but I can’t tell you what it is because I’m a fricking baby.” Eventually, they graduate to, “MAMA! MAMA! Dada ate my cheese!” (Of course, my kid has nightmares about someone eating his cheese.) Then it’s nightmares and night terrors (Surprise! They’re two dif- ferent things) and potty training and thinking their hands have disap- peared when really, they were just lying on them wrong.

RANDOM FEMALE SYNDROMES 193 Don’t forget your night job as the Tooth Fairy (it pays in teeth)! And when they’re finally sleeping through the night somewhat consistently, your body has trained itself to sleep like a ninja on high alert who must snap to attention at the slightest sound, be that the dryer buzzer going off, a car driving down your street, or your husband having the audacity to breathe. I have a friend with three kids under 10, all bad sleepers, and she re- cently realized she’s been sleep deprived for about ten years. (It probably took her ten years to figure it out because of the sleep deprivation and all.) The point being, you’ll never be that person who sleeps like a log for 10 hours and then wakes up and stumbles to brunch. You’re a parent now. A more “relaxed” person with a high pain toler- ance and your very own hyper-loyal fan base. You’re also a sleep-deprived zombie whose self-esteem is in ruins, who can no longer enjoy all the things you used to love. But hey, you have that organic cauliflower pizza crust to look forward to!

194 Motherhood is a Mother Syndrome TREATMENT Because once a mother, always a mother, your best approach is to ride it out, if this requires you to invest in a saddle and a whip, so be it. Or, if you’re more into adrenaline-rush parenting, a helmet and motorcycle may be more your speed. Just remember to appreciate the highs, learn from the lows, and never stand still long enough for anyone to put the blame on you.





I Forgot to Have Kids Syndrome HETHER NOT HAVING CHILDREN is a well- Wthought-out choice or a circumstance beyond your control, I Forgot to Have Kids Syndrome is very common, affecting al- most 48% of American women between the ages of 15 and 44 (according to the U.S. Census Bureau’s Current Population Survey). If you have this syndrome, remember that number so that you can yell out, “Almost half of the women my age don’t have kids” at the next person who demands a full recounting of your reproductive plans for the next 20 years. Symptoms and signs Many things can lead to I Forgot to Have Kids Syndrome, including ina- bility to afford them, understanding that your kids may have to stand in line behind 10 billion people for coffee when they’re adults, fertility issues, job conflicts, lack of job conflicts, having the maternal instinct of a horny

198 I Forgot to Have Kids Syndrome praying mantis, fear of climate change, fear of those who don’t fear climate change, and the fact that kids don’t fit into every lifestyle—for example, the lifestyle of a nun or a dominatrix. Similar to the Motherhood is a Mother Syndrome, those with I Forgot to Have Kids Syndrome experience highs and lows. The two most positive side effects of this syndrome are 1) no child of yours will tell their class- mates about your collection of thong underwear circa Ming Dynasty and 2) the ability to do what you want, whenever you want, without having to search for a sitter who hasn’t already rated your family a 1-star on Yelp. On the other hand, you’ll never know whether your friends with kids who always tell you, “It’s the best thing I’ve ever done!” are lying. Also, you have to put up with constant whining from those who think that your unwillingness to spit out a mini-me means that you may become a serial killer or worse, some kind of radical feminist.

I CAN’T PUT ON PANTS, BUT I’D MAKE A GREAT PARENT… MAYBE by Laura Hamilton “You guys seem to have a great relationship,” observed a family mem- ber on Thanksgiving, “So, what’s the holdup?” “Holdup?” I asked with fake innocence, in-between my bites of sweet potatoes. Of course, I knew exactly what she means, but if she is going to get personal, I’m definitely going to make her spell it out. “Kids. You better get going soon,” she winked. My husband squeezes my shoulder in support. “Maybe in the future,” I smile in reply. On the drive home that evening, I asked my husband, “Do you think it’s rude to ask us about children? I think I was just put off by her assump- tion that having kids was a given.” My ever-thoughtful husband calmly replied, “To be honest, I found her question to be inclusive because she didn’t just assume you couldn’t be a mom.” As usual, my husband knew exactly what to say to keep me from spi- raling into the dark place. His wisdom was on point too because this was the first time I had ever been asked about having kids of my own, and I

200 I Forgot to Have Kids Syndrome can’t help but think my wheelchair has something to do with it. I’m re- minded in moments like these why I made this hot, furry man my hus- band, and I promised myself that I wouldn’t bug him to clean our dis- gusting microwave for at least another week. Despite my best efforts to sabotage important relationships, my hus- band and I have been together for 12 successfully happy years. We have raised three cacti together, but all of our betta fish became suicidal after the first month. Despite these ups and downs, I think I have what it takes to be a good mother, and my husband has the gentleness and humor you always want in a father, but neither of us takes that as a license to be par- ents. If being parents was the goal, there are far less complicated ways in which to earn that title then to unleash our spawn unto the world. When people talk about becoming parents, I think most of us make the mistake of limiting our parenthood to only the offspring we can produce. Our society has expanded to include many new definitions for families that aren’t limited to the fruit of our loins, but these are still often consid- ered last resorts rather than legitimate choices. Adoption, foster care, sur- rogates, multi-generational households, mentorships, or even just provid- ing a form of unconditional child care are all legitimate ways to be a par- ent. To me, being a parent means you have committed yourself to the growth and well-being of a child under an umbrella of unconditional love. Let me give you a parenting analogy—it’s never wrong to jump into the middle of the marathon because a child thrives within a reliable team. For us, the “holdup” is this child-rearing team or the uncertainty of it. You’ve heard that it takes a village to raise a child, but these days, it seems we’re expected to keep our doors locked. Every other month you hear about a parent, usually a mother, getting into legal trouble for raising their children exactly the same way many of us were: with plenty of room to learn on their own. At the age of seven, I was allowed to ride my bike all the way through the two miles of the neighborhood that separated me from my favorite slushy machine at a 7-11 (they had a cherry Coke combo). I always wore my helmet, I knew what homes belonged to friends of my parents, and I held deep fears of retribution if I ever crossed the

RANDOM FEMALE SYNDROMES 201 four-lane boulevard that bordered my yearly trick-or-treating route. Those solo trips to the 7-11, not to mention the lake, the neighborhood forest, the rec center, and various friends’ homes whose parents could stand me, probably saved my life because I wasn’t much of an indoor cat and I’m certain my mother would have killed me. Of all the research I’ve seen on what it takes to raise happy, productive kids, the most important ingredient is happy, productive parents, and happy parents need a break. Productivity is rarely a problem for most households, but happiness is elusive when you’re never allowed to dump your kids on someone else for a while. It wasn’t that long ago when living in a multi-generational home was expected, and with it, came many extra pairs of hands to help raise the children. With the growth of the middle class, a family is now expected to live alone with their children, with a few criminal-history-checked babysitters in the wings for those lucky enough to afford them. Locking yourself up with your kids 24/7 while never being allowed to poop alone is insane and unnatural. You might say that I’m letting fear of outside forces control my life, but it’s much more than that. As a visibly disabled woman, I live to defy convention and prove all those bastards wrong. We all have those bastards in our lives, from the creepy boss who thinks we’re too aggressive for a promotion, to that conservative aunt who thinks we’re reckless for moving alone to the city. When it comes to children, I feel completely split down the middle. On one hand, I feel the pressures from those who know me best, my friends, and especially family, to do whatever the hell I want and prove all the bastards wrong by living as close to an ordinary life as possible with children as part of this timeline. They desperately want me to have a normal life because it would be a reflection of success on their part. On the other hand, I’m not about to try and prove anyone wrong by defiantly giving birth to a tiny human who is completely reliant on a mother whose body is too weak to push them on the swings. Above all, I would never volunteer the life of my sweet husband to prove anything to anyone because he would do most of the heavy lifting, and he is still getting over my inability to put on pants. Left

202 I Forgot to Have Kids Syndrome on my own, it’s a disaster. Parenthood is not only an adventure, but it’s also an insane job and we should all support each other in whether we take a conventional road or not. I mean, the kid can’t go back in, so why not make it easier on the parents? Some say you’re smart to not have kids, but I think you’re smart to consider other methods in which to be a parent. It’s important to re- member to make your choices for your own reasons, and that there is no time limit if caring for a child is your only goal. Maybe I’ll never be a mom, maybe we’ll rent to own, and maybe I’ll serve a creepy baby cake at my own shower one day, but until then, my husband and I are super grateful for my birth control.

MY OVARIES GO FOR A RIDE AT FAO SCHWARZ by Mary Purdy 15 YEARS AGO, when my friends started getting pregnant, one asked me, “Mary, do you want kids?” My answer was “I’m so far away from it that I can’t even fathom fathoming it.” I didn’t feel comfortable around small children. They smelled different from adults and were unpredictable conversationalists. I didn’t melt at a child’s cuteness. I wasn’t charmed by their precious demeanor. I tried to spend as little time with them as possible. So, it may seem odd that I took a job at the behemoth toy store, FAO Schwarz, but I was broke at the time and it was a block away from where I lived. Besides, there was a cable bill that needed paying and I wasn’t about to give up “Six Feet Under.” I demonstrated toys to tots, teaching them and their overwhelmed par- ents about the joys of “Catch a Bubble” and “What’s Her Face Doll.” I stood there in the game-staging center and endured kids clinging to my clothes, grabbing items from my demo table, screeching “Let me try!” I plastered the “Aren’t they sweet!” smile on my face as I wiped drool from the wooden train set I had spent the last 4 hours explaining to children named Genesis, Liberty, Wednesday, Paris, Madison, and Brooklyn, all the while thinking that in two weeks there would be $300 bucks in my bank account.

204 I Forgot to Have Kids Syndrome There seemed to be a competition for who could have the most origi- nally named offspring at this time. Apparently, geographical locations, days of the week and constitutional rights were very “in” that year. Spices and herbs as well: Saffron, Cinnamon, and Parsley all played at or near my post and I sometimes found myself getting kind of hungry. One day I heard a mother say “Infinity! Come here!!” Infinity? Who names their child Infinity? How can anyone be expected to top that? I thought encountering little Infinity was not going to do much for the self- esteem of the young tot I met named Seven. Just seven? My daughter is…Infinity. These creative namer-moms also assumed I knew something about this world. “What age is this good for?” one inquired about a cake-making kit using play dough and marbles. “Oh, around three and up,” I replied with unwarranted confidence. Was play dough poisonous? Do toddlers choke on marbles? “Well, she’s two,” the mother said, “But she’s very advanced,” and she pointed to a young toddler wearing flared pants and a half tee that said “Diva,” Ah yes…. the “advanced child.” When I was a kid, “advanced” meant a child could read a Dickens novel or identify an isosceles triangle in 1st grade. Now it meant she could identify Britney Spears in a lineup. “Well, it really depends on where they are in their motoring function- alesque skills.” I continued, making up vocabulary. “You know how cer- tain kids are just more dex…teritous at an earlier age.” But I had no idea what I was talking about. I didn’t know anything about children. And much to people’s surprise, and my parents’ patient impatience, I didn’t really want to know much. I was much more thrilled about food. I’d coo over a ripe mango or sumptuous avocado more than I would over an infant. I could appreciate a cute kid and marvel at their wonderment of the world. But I wouldn’t know what to do with a child if I had one, and I wasn’t sure I would enjoy the experience. When my roommate at that time left me in charge of his pug dog for 10 days, it became the dreaded centerpiece of my day because:

RANDOM FEMALE SYNDROMES 205 1. I had to clean his watery, nervous poop off the rug at least 7 times; his response to my leaving him alone in the apartment for 11 minutes. 2. I had to wake up early to walk and feed him, otherwise, there would be scratching and whimpering at my door. 3. I had to make special trips to the house during the day to check on his well-being and take him outside to avoid a repeat of #1. I was resentful and angry that I couldn’t do exactly what I wanted to do when I wanted to do it. So, there were times when I ignored his plead- ing whines for attention and dog biscuits while I read, cooked or talked on the phone. What kind of mother would I be? Plus, motherhood didn’t have a lot of selling points for me. Many of my friends with kids had gone through periods where they just hadn’t called me back for months. Too exhausted to cook, too busy to shower, beholden daily to what I saw as a “screaming bundle of joy.” I wasn’t sure I would be able to survive days, weeks and months of “Ooooh, what is that? Do you like that? Good girl!” My friends assured me the benefits outweighed the drawbacks. “I haven’t slept in weeks but we’re so in love!” I believed that for them this was the truth. But those benefits held no real appeal to me, nor did my toy store job improve my waning desire to parent. And maybe that was ok. Maybe I would just never have children. Or maybe by the time I settled down and decided to try, I wouldn’t be able to. When I told people that I didn’t think I would have kids, I could sometimes see them squirm, brow furrowed at the idea. “Really?” some said. “I bet you’ll change your mind.” Others said, “Well, it was the best thing that ever happened to me. That’s when I feel like my life began.” I imagined them wondering, “What kind of woman doesn’t want to have a baby?” Me, I guess—a very warm and loving person who just likes to have her own way most of the time and cannot stand the thought of spit up.

206 I Forgot to Have Kids Syndrome One day while working at FAO, I was demonstrating something called “Magic Plastic” to two eight-year-old girls, the three of us giggling like sisters at this gummy-gasoline concoction you wad onto a straw and blow up into sticky (and toxic) green-grey balloons. “You’re a really nice girl,” one of them said to me. I was taken aback by her unabashed honesty and the innocence with which she had made this statement to a total stranger. “Thank you” I replied. “I like being nice. And you’re nice to say that I’m nice.” She looked at me like I was kooky, and then the two of them ran off. I watched them go, thinking “Those eight-year-olds were fun. Maybe I could be a Mom.” But then I remembered that there were still seven full years before the eighth year—close to a decade of life that I might resent; not to mention the 8, 18 or 28 hours of labor ripping apart one of my most vital body parts. If I couldn’t withstand plucking my own eyebrows, I’d never make it through childbirth or breastfeeding-induced nipple sore- ness. I thought, “I don’t have to decide right now, do I?” I wanted to feel more at peace with the idea of never being a mom and lose the fear of possible regret. I couldn’t tell if the pressure I felt was com- ing from others or from me, trying to live up to some role I’d imagined for myself in society. As the years passed, the biological clock remained silent, and fathoming a child-free life felt natural and relieving, especially as I agreed to those spur-of-the-moment travel plans, went back to graduate school, and con- tinuously endured hopeless banters with three-year-olds. Plus, it was not as if the population was in need of my biological additions. I’m pretty sure somebody else had it covered. Obviously, many women have been feeling the motherly urge from the “Genesis” of humankind and will probably continue to do so for… “In- finity”.

RANDOM FEMALE SYNDROMES 207 TREATMENT The good news is, this syndrome has many possible treatments and none of them seem to leave the user with unwanted side effects. Handling baby- crazy friend and family members, however, does require some treatment. You might try: • An inflatable kid. Just blow it up, put it in a stroller, and head to the local park. That way none of your neighbors will report you to the Neighborhood Watch when you decide to go down the slide or play hopscotch. • For family events where mothers, mothers-in-law, grandmothers, and others whose eggs have expired congregate, find a video online of a child laughing and playing. You’ll only need the audio com- ponent, so find one that is clear, and using an editing program, create a looping replay function. At Thanksgiving, Christmas or funerals, play the audio softly so that it soothes the over-mother- ing instincts of anyone nearby. • Prepare a list of questions to ask anyone who wants to know when you’re having kids. Examples: Are you still living with your mother? Do you always use a condom when you have sex? Re- member that time you made out with your cousin? Want to see Susan’s C-section scar? Any of these approaches should relieve symptoms almost immediately.



A Kid Isn’t a Stereotype Syndrome KID ISN’T A STEREOTYPE SYNDROME is a chronic but Atreatable condition that primarily affects the face and is often char- acterized by flare-ups and remissions. Oh, wait, that’s rosacea. Symptoms and signs Unlike the redness of the cheeks, nose, and chin that occur in people with Rosacea, women with AKISS frequently must deal with unwanted pink or blue color coding that starts small with a stuffed bunny or a gender- reveal cake but may grow to envelop the entire house. Left untreated, this can develop into long arguments into the night about cars or dolls (or cars that turn into dolls), whether to call girls pretty and boys strong or vice- versa, and what words to substitute for “man up” and “grow a pair” that don’t reinforce the patriarchy. More than 90% of AKISS sufferers report that trying to raise children that don’t conform to stereotypes can cause emotional symptoms such as

210 A Kid Isn’t a Stereotype Syndrome self-esteem issues, frustration, and starting small fires in the library to de- stroy all the fairy tales in the children’s section. Many with the syndrome say that it caused them to avoid public contact and cancel social engage- ments. Although, it’s just as likely they were exhausted and preferred stay- ing home to watch RuPaul’s Drag Race with their non-gender-conform- ing offspring and three cats.

THE PRINCESS AND THE SEA CUCUMBER: MOTHERING A BOY AND A GIRL by Katherine Wilson I’VE HEARD IT said often in Italy that women are superior to men in every way, and that the corruption and inefficiency that exists in this coun- try is a direct result of men being in control of the public sphere. Things work at home, where women rule. This is uttered by both Italian men and women, without a hint of doubt or frustration. There is simply an Old-World tone of that’s the way it’s always been and that’s the way it’ll always be. Wait, the American in me wonders, don’t men have any qualms about summarily dissing their gen- der? And if women agree with this, why aren’t they hell-bent on changing the status quo? After twenty years in Italy, I’m still trying to understand the gender assumptions that underlie this society. What has taught me most, however, has not been intellectual conver- sations or sociological readings. It’s been the experience of shopping with my son and daughter and observing their interactions with shopkeepers. Whether the seller is a man or a woman, the conversation almost always starts with a comment on how adorable my girl is while my son stands with his hands in his pockets, looking down and listening. There is then

212 A Kid Isn’t a Stereotype Syndrome a reference to princesses: what a little principessa she is! At this point, lap- ping it up, my daughter turns on the charm and a spirited conversation ensues, with lots of winks and giggling. My son looks more and more like he’s going to lose his lunch. He sometimes starts kicking something around nearby, at which point the shopkeeper eyeballs him with hostility. I tell him to stop. My compassion for my son reaches its apex when we get to the point of the inevitable car reference. Signora, the shopkeeper tells me, girls have una marcia in più: literally, an extra gear in their car. As if my daughter were a potent Ferrari to my son’s Daewoo sedan. Daughters are smarter, females understand and navigate the world in ways that boys never will. Boys and men are simple! Signora, everyone knows there’s no comparison between men and women in terms of intelligence and complexity. I’m thinking, does this person realize that my son is hearing himself and his entire gender being described as nothing more than ball-kicking, clueless sea cucumbers? When people refer to Italy’s male chauvinist culture, I think of these conversations. How can sexual harassment be so rampant in a country where female superiority is a given? Well obviously, men can’t help them- selves when it comes to sex—come on, what do you expect from a man! It’s clearly up to the woman to manage any heterosexual interaction be- cause after all, the woman is the only sentient life form involved. So if she decides, for example, to go to a producer’s hotel room, then she is deciding to leverage sex for a job. In English, I would call this detestable victim blaming. But here, it seems impossible to cast the women as the victim: whether she is 18 or 80, rich or poor, she is considered the agent with true power in her corner. In the days after the election of Donald Trump, I was called to go on Italian television often to talk about Hilary Clinton, American society, and what I thought about our new president. The make-up artists had to spend extra time on me because as soon as my eyeliner was in place an- other wave of unbelieving sadness would come over me and they’d have to sponge off my eye make-up and start over. Sorry, I’d tell them. This is

RANDOM FEMALE SYNDROMES 213 all kind of personal for me. But it’s just politics! The make-up artists would smile, trying to cheer me up. Chi se ne frega! Who the hell cares? One older gentleman who worked in the make-up studio of a national morning show was a true master in his restoration of what had become my face in those days after November 8th. He was kind and worked calmly and methodically. It was a full week after the election, and I was starting to hold it together, on and off the air. I even managed to enjoy the feel of his soft brush strokes across my cheeks. “You look better,” he told me. “Happier, I mean. Try not to look sad, you look so much better when you’re not sad.” I breathed. Let it go, I told myself. The man means well. The man also has a sharpened lip pencil in his hand, and it’s coming for your mouth. He smiled, “Dopottutto, on TV it’s all about what you look like. They don’t really listen to what you’re saying. Especially if you don’t look good, and especially if you’re a man.” I knew how my daughter felt in the shops. In this country, I could get attention if I was a female and if I looked good. Was it the kind of atten- tion I wanted? Of course not. But if I could use it to say something and actually be listened to in this flawed world, it would be a shame to squan- der the opportunity. I closed my eyes and let him work his magic. When he was done, he pulled the white bib away with an artist’s flour- ish. “Vai, Principessa.” Go get ‘em Princess.

DISMANTLING THE PATRIARCHY FROM THE INSIDE: A SINGLE-MOM’S EXPERIENCE by Kiki Prottsman MY BOYS WERE three and four when I became a single mother, and like many divorced women, I felt a new sense of empowerment and the urge to don a self-knitted pussy hat (even though those weren’t a thing yet.) At the top of my list of ways to help the world, was ensuring that my children did not grow up to be like their father. I immediately started working to support our little family. I also went back to school. Not only did I want to prove to my boys that I was capable of anything, but I also wanted to show them that I was capable of EVE- RYTHING, and I took every opportunity to engrain it into their tiny minds. While most parents spend travel time chatting with their little ones about animals or letters of the alphabet, I would spend our trips on more pointed topics. “Do you think there’s anything that a man can do that a woman can’t? …That’s right, women can do anything that men can do. Does mommy have less of a right to exist or be happy because she’s a woman? Of course not—being a woman is not a crime. Is it worth an extra 22 cents to the dollar to be able to pee standing up? Let’s agree to disagree.” I should probably try this with the guys I date, too, but it’s much easier to feel

RANDOM FEMALE SYNDROMES 215 empowered when someone is restrained in a 5-point harness in the backseat. One thing I desperately wanted was to prevent them from having an unearned sense of entitlement. I made sure that they were capable of earn- ing and spending their own money since they were old enough to lift a broom. Because I was often working 2-3 jobs and going to school, I had very little time for household chores, not that I would have wanted to do them in the first place…I’m pretty sure that’s one of the reasons I had kids, to begin with. The boys became nearly the only resource for unloading the dish- washer, doing laundry, and vacuuming. As a result, there is literally no inkling in their brains that housework is a woman’s job. Instead, it’s seen as a valid method for contributing to the family and lightening the shared load. It was also a great way to prevent Momzilla from appearing during their Saturday morning cartoons. Along with chores came allowance, and the expectation that the boys would spend only their own money on toys and other splurges. This lesson has been, well, less successful. I remember a time when my youngest (let’s call him Zack) had spent the majority of his money at the toy store before we went to the mall. In the food court, he decided that he wanted some chicken at the now-de- funct Cajun Grill. I explained to him matter-of-factly that a serving of chicken cost $4, and he only had $2 left. That was about half of what he needed. Instead of accepting my lecture and turning around, he marched up to the counter and asked the lady if he could get half an order of chicken for $2. She looked down into his huge blue eyes and agreed, giving him what amounted to a full order in the end. So, that completely backfired, and he ended up teaching me a lesson that day; there’s often more than one way to get what you want, so if you quit after one attempt, you’ve probably quit too soon. I also made a mental note to tow him along with me if I ever get up the courage to ask for a raise. I often find that my boys are successful in getting what they want from

216 A Kid Isn’t a Stereotype Syndrome perfect strangers, and this causes a huge dichotomy in my soul. As their mom, I want them to grow up and get everything that their hearts’ desire, but as a woman in this messed-up patriarchy, I want to make sure that they don’t become entitled white men who get everything that their hearts’ desire. Such a pickle, sweet AND sour. For years, I felt like I had a pretty good handle on the whole thing, then came the #MeToo movement. I remember watching the 2018 Os- cars with Zack and having his jovial mood slowly turn to concern. We took a moment to talk about the evening’s events. After he reassured me that he knew that it was not okay to take advantage of a woman, he shared that he was worried that if some other group was to rise to power (read: not able-bodied white men) that he would become subservient to some- one else. As offended as I was by his thought process, I was fairly proud that he was able to put those fears into words. The first step is admitting it, right? I shared with him a well-ignored fact; multiple groups can be empowered at once. When multiple groups act as allies to one another, everyone wins. While I’m far from done educating my sons on their responsibility to be beneficial additions to humankind, I have picked up a few skills that I’d like to pass to other parents of boys: • Talk to them. They may act like they’re ignoring you, but your words and your example will help build their expectations. A fifteen-year-old will do his best to pretend he doesn’t hear you when you’re acting out consent in the fruit aisle with oranges and pineapples, but I guar- antee you that’s a lesson he’s never going to forget. • Stand up for yourself when anyone, especially your sons, treats you as inferior. This can be particularly difficult when your little bundles of joy mean so much to you, but if you show them that it’s okay for them to be unkind to you, they will extrapolate. The first time my son told me to make him a sandwich, he ended up making everyone’s

RANDOM FEMALE SYNDROMES 217 dinner for two weeks. That was also the last time he told me to make him a sandwich. • Reward allegiance. Everyone needs allies. Sculpt your sons into powerful partners by pointing out the things they do well. Let them know how much it means to you that they are on your side, and on the side of women everywhere. Parenting boys is difficult in so many ways. They will test you with their stubbornness, question every lesson you put in front of them, and leave a film of filth and stench on every rose-colored lesson that you try to impart, but I believe that (with persistence) it can be done well. I also believe that intentional parenting is the most straightforward way to create a level playing field. If you do decide to go this route it’s not easy, so stock up on wine!

218 A Kid Isn’t a Stereotype Syndrome TREATMENT Let’s do some breathing exercises. In with the good gender-neutral air, out with the “Boys will be boys. Girls are sugar and spice and everything nice” air. Now another breath. Breathe in with the, “It doesn’t matter if Johnny wants to wear a dress to prom” air, out with the “Back in my day, we could tell the boys from the girls” air. Again. Breathe in with the “They are not the boss of me” air, out with the “If you weren’t a relative, I’d punch you” air.





HEALTH



I’m Not a Cancer, I Have Cancer Syndrome NACIHC SYNDROME IS THE SYNDROME with the longest Iand least pronounceable acronym—it’s hard not to laugh when trying to say it out loud as a single word while staring at your lips in a mirror. Go ahead, try it. We’ll wait. People with INACIHC Syndrome really appreciate having something to laugh at, so maybe try to pronounce it for someone you know who is in this group. They’ll appreciate the fact that you look ludicrous. Perhaps wear a top hat and fingerless black lace gloves for incongruity. Symptoms and signs Despite the fact that 37% of women will be cancer warriors at some time in their lives, there is still not a Cancer Woman costume at Comic-Con, which is something the American Medical Association should seek to rem- edy immediately. Do NOT make the costume pink—this is a warning.

224 I’m Not a Cancer, I Have Cancer Syndrome While those whose zodiac sign is Cancer tend to be emotional and sensi- tive, women with INACIHC tend to be rightfully angry and willing to pin down any nurse who can’t find a vein on the third try while chugging a protein shake with the other. Additionally, many of those with I’m Not a Cancer, I Have Cancer Syndrome tend to develop symptoms that are unique, including pink-vision, fear of brushes, and ability to win any board or card game by standing up mid-game and declaring “I have can- cer! You have to let me win!”

TRIGGER WARNING: YOU ARE ABOUT TO HEAR FROM A PRIVILEGED WHITE GIRL FROM THE EASTSIDE by Kelly Benson I AM A freelance writer writing from the perspective of a 20-something, tall drink of manic-depression, proficient in barely passable French, with a face for radio. I’ve been unbelievably fortunate to have gone to school in Paris and to have visited every museum and famous monument while trav- eling abroad. These experiences granted me the authority to be both pre- tentious and irritating. [Please insert eye-roll here. I know you want to.] The point of all of this is that I fit the description perfectly of one who was born of privilege and yet has been completely unaware of it. Truth- fully, the word “privilege” has never set well with me. It takes me back to those teenage years when privilege was always associated with some sort of punishment—like “If you don’t clean the bathroom, your car privileges will be taken away for a week.” As if that stopped me from sneaking out. I now think about the idea of privilege as a kind of inheritance. And I’m not talking about the kind of asset-based inheritance a person receives when a parent or other relative passes away. Lord knows, my parents have drilled into my sisters and me that there will be nothing of that sort com- ing our way. My dad even went so far as to say that their life insurance doesn’t go into effect under suspicion of murder or suicide: So, to quote

226 I’m Not a Cancer, I Have Cancer Syndrome my father, “You need to make it look good.” He doesn’t have to worry. There’s not enough life insurance to warrant the effort. When I say “inheritance,” I’m referring to my having been born into a loving (although quite dysfunctional) family with a deep connection to extended family and being surrounded by good friends and cats (who truly believe that I hatched them). I’ve always had the intangibles of never having to worry about where I would sleep or if I would have dinner that night or how I would get to school if my first car somehow, by chance, accidentally smashed into the garage door and then into various potted plants in the driveway, and then maybe the mailbox as well. I also had something that many families do not have—parents with the ability to be there to help us with our educa- tion and who could leave work at a moment’s notice without fear of losing their jobs. The level of my privilege that I unknowingly experience every day is so matter-of-fact, that I have to stop and remember what I truly have been given. Now, don’t hate me when I add this part. I also have the privilege of not working. People living in the streets have become homeless for far lesser reasons; the only difference is that they don’t have an incredibly strong safety net like I do. Not to mention, parents who would not only catch me when I fall but then would remind me to be more careful because there’s nothing in their will. The reason I am not currently working is that when I was 23, I was diagnosed with a very rare Stage 4 cancer. Some people celebrate their twenties with parties and drinking. I’m less into mojitos and more into chemo cocktails. What I have is called Metastatic Carcinoid. It’s a hipster cancer—you’ve probably never heard of it. This only confirms what I’ve always assumed about myself—I am literally one in a million. I got to add this diagnosis to the long list of my other ridiculous and complicated health problems. Not to brag, but even before the cancer diagnosis, I’d already had 13 surgeries. I think my number is currently 19, and I now have a sexy Frankenstein scar down my stomach, but it’s all right because vertical lines can be quite slimming.

RANDOM FEMALE SYNDROMES 227 The reality I want to get across here is that there are a significant num- ber of people with cancer and other serious illnesses who go to their treat- ments and don’t have my privileges. Many of them have to head back to work or worse yet, look for work. I have been through the wringer and frequently feel at least twice my age (or worse: my actual age). Having cancer is not as fun as it looks in the movies and on TV! I’ve had some pretty bad days, but even I can’t comprehend the level of pain and anguish someone in my situation would endure without the constant help I’ve re- ceived. My cancer has made me aware of the fact that I am safe, supported and have the possibility of a longer life because of my family and the health care I have been given. None of this did I earn. I inherited it. To be quite blunt, without my privilege, I would have died years ago. Which would be such a tragedy because I am so charming.

THE BEAUTY OF CHEMO by Barbara Cicalini MANY MEDICINES WERE created for a specific cure and were later found to be effective for other things. So why couldn’t the active ingredi- ent in the chemotherapy medication, Taxol, be used to get rid of excess hair? I asked my oncologist, “So, Doc, what do you think? It’s a good idea, right?” While I was enjoying that magical moment without hair, I discovered that there are many other positive aspects of chemotherapy. Obviously besides the fact that it works to save lives. Here are the positives, in no particular order: 1. There’s no need to shave/wax/etc., any part of your body. 2. Your hairless skin becomes as soft and smooth as a baby’s bottom. 3. You can experiment with drawing on any type of eyebrow arch, from the Evil Queen to Angry Birds. 4. You can wrap your head in any colorful headband or scarf and people won’t dare remind you that you are not Carmen Miranda or at Carnival in Rio. 5. Wigs of every sort—long, short, red, jet black or blue—you can finally change your hairstyle every day without having to see the

RANDOM FEMALE SYNDROMES 229 hairdresser and ruin the hair you don’t have. Maybe you’ll dis- cover that platinum blond looks good on you and doesn’t make you look like a bimbo after all. 6. You can finally be sure that you have a nice head, and not just on the inside. 7. You can go out to karaoke without a hat and sing anything by Sinead O’Connor, even poorly, and will receive applause no mat- ter what. 8. When you run into people who know you are undergoing chemo, they’ll always say you look good, which means you look alive. 9. When you run into people who don’t know you are undergoing chemo, they won’t think much of your Angry Birds eyebrows, psychedelic turban, or green hair; they’ll just think that you have always seemed a bit eccentric. 10. When you leave work to go to therapy, you get to escape while your coworkers have to stay in the daily grind. They’ll make a big deal out of saying goodbye and promise to make plans with you next week. It might not seem like it, but in certain offices, many of them envy you. 11. While you are undergoing chemo, you can rotate from the bed to the couch to the armchair to the bed, without feeling the least bit guilty for being lazy. 12. If you smile and you are calm, they will say you are strong. 13. If you don’t smile and you are not calm, they will forgive you. 14. You can train to become a champion at Tetris or Candy Crush or any other stupid game without anyone in your family telling you that you have neglected them. 15. You won’t care about other people’s everyday bullshit. You’ll see it from afar, but not like “through binoculars” far, more like “Mar- tians looking at Earth from space” far. 16. You can finally eat that delicious burnt pizza crust that everyone says causes cancer because you’re taking the antidote. 17. If you always hated your mother-in-law’s cooking but ate it just to

230 I’m Not a Cancer, I Have Cancer Syndrome be polite, now’s your chance to tell her that even just the smell of it gives you nausea. This works even after you have finished ther- apy. 18. You never need an excuse for not accepting social invitations from friends who bore you to death; just say that you’re tired and no one will question you. 19. People will surprise you with all the stupid things they believe. As soon as they know you are in chemo, they will suggest all types of alternatives: diets, seeds, berries, herbal concoctions, nutritional supplements, sorcerers, shamans, magicians, and quacks. So, you are free to delete them from your Friend List with no regrets. 20. Everyone will say that if you need anything, they are there for you; however, many will never call you because, in the end, you select your guardian angels…but it’s still nice to hear it.

RANDOM FEMALE SYNDROMES 231 TREATMENT For those suffering from this syndrome, the best remedy is to remember that you can get away with almost anything right now. Want to play mean pranks on all your friends? Go for it! If they object, blame your INAC- IJHC! Thinking of hooking up with an ex for one night of meaningless sex and then dumping them? Now’s the time! Always dreamed of tie-dy- ing your poodle and teaching her to ride a unicycle while you play the accordion? Don’t do that. Some things are unforgivable, even for someone with your condition.



Backless Paper Gown Syndrome F YOU'RE A WOMAN, your chance of getting Backless Paper IGown Syndrome, BPG, is high; some experts rank your lifetime risk of getting one as high as 1 in 1, with many women having repeat oc- currences for decades. It is unfortunate that a backless paper gown is the only type of gown some women ever get to wear, especially since it looks lousy on a runway, especially from the front. Symptoms and signs Most in the medical community refuse to acknowledge the existence of BPG because they are too busy discussing BP, BMI, BMs, and their BMWs. Additionally, because there is not a drug that can improve the condition even slightly (for example, make bare skin less susceptible to the 60-degree temperatures most doctors’ offices are kept at) while simultane- ously creating a host of new problems, there hasn’t been much concern about the syndrome among western medical practitioners. This is why

234 Backless Paper Gown Syndrome many women are moving away from traditional medicine to massage, with its heated tables, comfy pillows, candlelight and Enya music. Also, mas- sage therapists are much better than doctors at asking consent before put- ting their hands on parts of you that are ticklish. Whether BPG occurs due to preventive care (e.g., pap smear, mammo- gram) or specific health concerns, the two primary symptoms of Backless Paper Gown Syndrome are 1) a flattened-ass with semi-permanent inden- tations that match the paper rolled across the exam table and 2) bank- ruptcy. Some women also feel a burning when they urinate—which they can never do when the nurse insists on a sample.

THE NITTY GRITTY OF SQUEEZING THE TITTY: THERE’S MUCH MORE TO A MAMMOGRAM THAN SAVING LIVES by Adina Gillett I KNOW WHAT you’re thinking: Adina has to go get a mammogram, and she’s likely pretty put off about it. I mean, who wants to get a mam- mogram? For starters, they’re painful. Putting our girls between two sheets of glass and then having them pressed down flat like an orange in a juicer is a practice that would impress Torquemada, and surely must be forbidden by the Geneva Convention. Whenever I’m locked in that contraption, I keep hearing the ubiqui- tous mom voice in my head saying, “If you cross your eyes, they’ll stay that way” and getting visions of living out the rest of my life with boobs shaped like the two-dimensional prison from Superman. Beyond the pain and irrational fear of mutilation, mammograms are just plain awkward, from the robes that tie in the front to the cold little pit wipes you have to use because you forgot the “no deodorant” directive. In our belted-and-tucked society, we only show boobs under very spe- cific conditions, and in burger commercials. It’s quite disarming to sud- denly cast aside our proprieties and bare it all to a stranger, whose job it is

236 Backless Paper Gown Syndrome to lady handle our breasts like a meat packer. Yet despite all of these en- tirely legitimate beefs, I have a confession to make: one that will forever out me from this comfortable closet I’ve been keeping residence in ever since my first mammogram in 2012. Ahem. I like mammograms. “Now wait, hold on!” you say, and rightly so. This makes no sense at all. On paper, mammograms are the worst. Yet in practice, after I leave the clinic, once again belted-and-tucked, I can’t help but notice that I’m experiencing this blissful calm that is near euphoria. For all you ASMRtians out there, imagine it’s like ASMR (Autono- mous Sensory Meridian Response), but in your boobs and not your scalp. I think it’s something to do with being completely stretched out in a way that never–and should never–happen at any other time. Think of it as a chestgasm. I was in Thailand a few years ago and was told that a real Thai massage was an experience not be missed. So, we signed the whole family up, mas- sages for me, my husband, and two kids. My son and husband got the first time slot, while my daughter and I waited on the spa deck in our soft robes, sipping sweet hot tea and listening to the blue and orange birds sing over the tumbling brook below. The door opened and my husband and son emerged. They both looked…confused. I gave my husband the raised eyebrow and said, “Well? How was it?” He thought for a moment and said, “It was very…personal.” Personal? Hmm. I checked out my son to see if he was distressed or trau- matized, but he just looked amused. Concluding that nothing awful had transpired and that it was safe to proceed, my daughter and I walked in for our massages. It is fair to say that “personal” was an entirely accurate, yet incomplete, descriptor. Yes, the massage was incredibly personal; the practitioner emo- tionlessly gets right up in your junk while she is stretching out all of your parts. Imagine someone doing yoga to you. Pulling your legs here there and everywhere, contorting your arms hither and fro, twisting you around like