Emelia Symington Fedy

Do I Have to Lose Myself to Be a Mother?

2012-12-31T12:04:13-05:00

The first thing I will say is I do not have kids. So, if you have kids and you read this you may hate me a bit and I'm sorry in advance. The second thing is that I am three months pregnant, so I am noticing how people parent a lot right now. The third thing I want to say is I hope none of my friends who do have kids read this because I'm going to lay some shit on the table and it's probably going to hurt some feelings.

Here we go...

I travel to my badass best friend's house to meet her six-month old baby for the first time and when I get there I realize that everything has changed.

My friend used to smoke like a chimney and drink like a fish and hawl on blunts like she was bloody Rita Marley. Now, she is just anxious and lame.

"We are teaching him his ABC's" she tells me. "He is a very bright baby. Alamar, focus on the cards." She snaps her fingers in front of his drooling face. "Alamar, A is for...focus Al! He's not so quick right now because he ate a bit of dairy this morning..."

Alamar falls asleep in his bumby chair or whatever they are called.

She then worries aloud for the rest of the evening if the air conditioning is too cold.

If so, should she peek in on him? And finally when the baby monitor squeaked a few times with him rolling over in his sleep she rushed downstairs, grateful to have a reason to check on him.

I understand that the love you feel for your child is more immense than I can fathom.

I understand being sleep deprived.

I understand the weight of responsibility of another life in your hands.

Or, I guess I don't understand at all and that is what's causing all this tension.

The buzzwords run through my head: Helicopter parenting. Attachment parenting. Instinctive Parenting. Non-parenting.

And parents seem to really harsh out on each other's styles.

Here are some quotes I overheard from parents on the playground:

"I totally lost respect for (insert name here) when I found out they were a cry it out family."

"Attachment parents fry my soul."

"Kids who don't breastfeed get sick much more often than kids who do breastfeed."

"Sugar causes autism."

"Hospital births are violence against babies."

Holy shit.

I'm not trying to be an asshole here people. I am trying to understand why my old, cool friends have gotten so high strung and opinionated.

Am I destined to do the same thing?

I'm noticing a pattern in my generation (aged 34-42) who are just now becoming parents. Everything has to be triple-Googled, read about, discussed with their midwife, homeopath and doctor.

Do we give a soother?

Do we immunize?

Do we dress him in hemp or organic cotton?

There are so many decisions to make and I imagine it's very stressful but 25 years ago there were not so many decisions to make and 50 years ago there were even fewer decisions to make and all these decisions that are being made don't seem to be making any smarter or nicer kids than before so really, what the hell is going on here?

These little babes in arms are ruling the world and I don't think it's a good thing.

I'm at my friend's house for the weekend and she has some kids.

"Ohhhh, did you bring the two different types of toothpaste to help them brush their teeth?" she asks me.
"No. I have just this one tube. Why?"
"You have to go get the other tube, too. They'll freak out if they don't get their preferred flavour." I look at the two tubes. One reads "bubblegum", the other reads "mild bubblegum." Really? I cannot abide by that shit.

Brush your freakin' teeth. Your mom is tired. Leave her alone. Go to bed.

I truly don't understand.

I remember growing up and having to adapt to what my parents were doing. If Mom had to work a 12-hour night shift, I was left at the babysitters. Did I like it? No. But there was no choice and I dealt. If my dad wanted to visit friends and I was bored with the adult talk, did we leave? No. He told me to go make friends with the weird neighbour kid who was frying ants on the sidewalk.

Now when I visit my friends, after about 45 minutes the four-year-old looks up at me and says "You should go now. Mommy, I want her to leave." And Mommy smiles at her daughter's self-confidence and our visit is over.

I know I am judging (just like the parents in the park did two paragraphs ago) but I feel like this "superhero style" needs to be called out. Just like I would do to a dear friend who has been working a shitty job for too long and does too much overtime for a mean boss.

"Stop! The bar is set high enough! Let everyone else suck a bit. Please!"

And I cannot talk about any of this candidly to my new parent friends. They're untouchable now. They have the trump card because...

I don't understand what it is like. I won't get it until I have my own. I have no idea how hard it is.

And they're right.

But what I see scares me.

From what I can tell this generation of parents are putting a lot of emphasis on teaching their children how special they are. And inherent in that is teaching them that they are more special than other kids and that they are more special than their parents.

I'm not sure the world needs more people thinking they are more special.

Do you know who Honey Boo Boo is?

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To me Honey Boo Boo is an example of child-centric parenting gone whack. Now I actually have a huge soft spot for this child. I think it is incredible that someone can have such an unfaltering sense of self. There is a part of me that wants to celebrate her confidence but this child actually believes that she is a princess and in a few years she is going to have a long and hard fall.

When I was Honey Boo Boo's age my dad threw me a birthday party. He invited every kid in town over. That meant there were about 12 of us there. His girlfriend spun me a raw silk dress. She did my hair in French braids. As I walked up the steps to the main floor where my guests were waiting, my father announced "Clap for the princess. Clap for my princess!" And they did. They all clapped for me as I ascended. And I waved. And I felt so special. And that moment honestly shaped who I am today. My inherent princess mentality was solidified, as was my belief that I should be clapped for. This is now one of the reasons I make theatre for a living. So I get specialness and I see the value in teaching it to our kids. But they next day I was mucking out the chicken stall while my Dad built an addition onto the trailer. I had balance.

If I saw examples of "children at the centre of the universe" parenting empowering families I might jump on the bandwagon but when watching these parents from afar they are not doing a very good sell job.

They do not look fulfilled.

In fact they actually seem to be shells of their past selves. With no energy to do yoga, or write or think about creativity or their dreams because now they are intent on micro-managing their child's every interaction.

Overheard conversation at a parent friendly cafe:

"Maybe you and Santosha can share the caboose...no, you don't want to share?...Mommy understands you don't want to share, sharing is hard...I love you...you are such a good boy. How 'bout this, I'll buy you a steamed organic milk if you share? Steamed chocolate milk? Okay my little politician. You are Mommy's best little boy!"

This sounds exhausting to me.

So instead of succumbing to the terror of what lies ahead I'm asking the question: when I am a mother can I remain intact?

Can I hold on to my purpose in life? Can I continue to do what I am called to do?

I know some folks are happy dedicating themselves completely to being parents. I am impressed by that.
But I have a really hard time believing it when you say "All I want to do is be a mom, this is my purpose in life."

Does that mean the last 30 odd years before you became a parent were meaningless? And what if the unthinkable happens? Who are you then?

I believe that parenthood is a creative outlet. I imagine the job is so encompassing that it asks you to be your highest self in the deepest way possible. I look forward to that.

It feeds you and eats you at the same time.

I respect the role and I honour every person that has taken on the task.

But if you have something else you love to do and you are not doing it because you are too busy parenting I don't think that is a good enough excuse.

"The greatest burden a child must bear is the unlived life of the parents." -- Jung

Isn't our own power and creative fulfillment the most important thing to try to hold on to, for our kid's sake?

To me, remaining engaged in "my" life is more important than teaching my child how to baby sign or remembering their friend's multiple dietary preferences or keeping the house clean. It is more important than money.

It is everything.

Because when I don't do my thing I am miserable to be around. Not doing my thing makes me hate everyone who is doing it, makes me uncomfortable to live inside my own skin, makes me lash out and blame the people I love.

That is not good parenting.

And what about single parents, Emelia? Sometimes folks don't get the choice. To those people- this article is not about you.

I am talking to the folks who have resources to stretch. Probably not the ones with newborns, probably not people with special needs kids. I am talking about people who put their child's life in front of their own because they are scared of living on their own personal edge.

Because it is easier to be overwhelmed with Brix's home school art project than sit down and write yourself.

I recently heard an interview with a man who was hiking up a mountain. There was an accident and the lower half of his body became trapped under a 3-tonne boulder in a stream bed. He almost drowned as the rain made the stream rise. He had to watch as fish ate his feet. Fire ants were stinging his chest, ears and face continuously. He waited 48 hours alone until help arrived. Both of his legs were amputated to the top thigh. Ten months later he succeeded in climbing (in a wheelchair he designed) Mount Kilimanjaro.

If he can do that, I can find 30 minutes to do what I love once a day. And if I truly want my child to know that they are unique snowflakes then I better do what I love doing around them -- a lot. My child will find what out they love to do by watching me do what I love to do.

Maybe I'll get a rude awakening. Maybe I will be reduced to ashes.

But when I am a mother I want to continue to follow my dreams even if it means being selfish at times, even if it means not rushing to their every pee-pee call, even if it means paying for childcare, even if it means sometimes letting them cry.

Because I'm special too.

We all are.

I want my kids to know that.

Motherhood I am beholden to you. I lay myself at your feet.

Please take your time with me.

Let me enjoy the ride.

This Yoga Festival Is Making Me Feel Like Crap

2012-09-15T12:48:43-04:00

I am at a yoga festival with thousands of yogis from across the U-S of A. We are all gathered here to practice, to play, to work hard together and I am sitting all by myself feeling like shit.

This is the kind of festival where white people gather to affirm each other's privilege and their butts and my job is to be their teacher assistant in the process. As I am a naturally cynical person you may ask: Why Emelia, would you go to such a thing you were preparing to dislike so much? Good question.

The first class I'm involved in has over 300 people squished into it. The teacher has huge hair. The girls behind me are talking about how their dream is to be "yoga rock stars" just like her. Right away, my little inner a-hole comes creeping out of my butt and gets ready to pounce. Vapid bitches.

This big haired teacher talks to us about how we are all one. She talks about how our natural state is to always be in union with each other. It makes me want to cry a bit because that sounds like such a good idea.

I leave the class and walk past all the hundreds of vendors hawking their yoga food and funky clothes and spiritual bracelets guaranteed to bring you into balance. I feel even more sad and lonely than before.

I head to the teachers' lounge to have a rest. All around me are other teachers podcasting, live blogging, giving interviews. Their voices are loud. The energy is high. It's almost like they are out positive-ing each other.

I cannot be here now with any of these people because they are all too busy selling their sacred and revolutionary brand. I feel like a real failure amidst all these spiritual entrepreneurs. I think "God, I am such a nobody loser." Which is such an ironic thing to feel at a yoga festival because didn't she say we are supposed to be all one?

What's wrong with me? I feel bad. As in. I am a bad person. All of me is not allowed to be here.

I have to ignore the part of me that questions these people when they talk about loss of ego and then hard-sell their yoga DVDs.

I push away the part of me that gets annoyed when I hear words like manifestation and co-creation but then I see it relating to manifesting their own personal wealth and fame. I get pissed off when someone is talking to me and then sees someone who is more important to talk to so walks away mid...

Don't get me wrong, this is definitely jealously speaking. I would love to be extremely successful and rich from what I do too. I just get super confused when I am told to let it flow and relax into my destiny and then I see teachers around me giving themselves hemmies from career pushing effort.

Yoga is such a mind f&%k.

There is elitism in the yoga community that I have not encountered anywhere else in my life. There is a hierarchy and if you are a rule-breaker in any way, or a swearer or a smoker or chubby or poor you might find yourself on the outside looking in.

Which is hilarious. And sad.

I wonder how many other people at this event of thousands feel like shit? I wonder how many other people want to sneak into the bushes and eat a hamburger? When told to breathe into their hearts and feel the love surrounding them, how many other people are thinking to themselves: I can't feel a thing?

Maybe it's just me.

"No, it's not," says my cool friend. "The world is full of negativity and you get sucked into it, of course you engage. You are a microcosm of the macrocosm and your job is to decide if you are going to breed more of the hate or not. Don't be your mind's bitch, Emelia. You cannot control your thoughts but you can control what you do with them."

So in the afternoon I start to rebel. I run around and punch a few people in the arm (I ask first) and it feels great. I do a couple donkey kicks around the sacred space. I put on my big bling dollar sign necklace that I use when I need a big up.

I fart in class and then laugh. I tell a woman that her handstand F&%#ING rules in my outside voice.
I let the part of myself that feels so tiny here a bit more free.

It is true that the emperor has no clothes on at this yoga festival. He is in down dog showing us his hairy balls and making money off it and it is easy to judge and shame him but that is what you always do Emelia. You are fighting the wrong battle here.

It's not the yoga assholes that I hate; it's the thoughts I have about the yoga assholes that I hate. So I want to invite you all to my new yoga festival. The prerequisites are high:

There is no need for you to like yoga.

F*&@ 'em if they can't take a joke.

Depressed allowed.

Addicted allowed.

Overeaters allowed.

Imperfect allowed.

And if you see someone who has bullshit sparkles shooting out of their butt, spank it! That is totally allowed too.

I make it to the end of the day. I am assisting a Thai yoga class and my teacher asks everyone to get into pairs, face each other, put our hands on each other's hearts and look directly into each other's eyes. Then we are told to breathe together.

This is highly uncomfortable, bordering on impossible for me because I have suited up with so much protective armour... but I look right into this woman's eyes.

I meet her gaze and my belly softens. I go deep and I feel it. Just for a moment. The oneness they have all been talking about. I see her as me. And it is real. And it is easy. And my heart opens. And it feels so good.

I start to cry because this oneness is such a great idea. Someone should trademark it. They would make billions.

Jade Eggs And The Dave Matthews Band: Inside A Vaginal Weightlifting Class

2012-09-04T13:41:01-04:00

She buzzes me up. I go up to the 20th floor and she lets me into a tiny studio apartment crammed with women sitting on cushions on the floor. The room is (in my small town opinion) gauche. A white fake fur rug, red satin pillows, gold cord wrapped around the sheer drapes. It looks like an early '90s concubine's lair in outer suburbia. None of the 12 middle-aged women look like they want to be there.

The instructor begins, "Vaginal weightlifting dates back thousands of years to the emperor's concubines in China. They would teach the emperor how to pleasure his many women, how to give and receive multiple orgasms and how not to come."

Oh god. She said a sex word. I flush red hot. Here we go.

She continues: "Nowadays vaginal weightlifting is used post-birth to re-strengthen your vaginal muscles. It's used to prevent incontinence in old age and it's also used as a sexual empowerment tool for women."

The last reason is why I'm taking the class. I am 33. I'm very adventurous in all aspects of my life but I'm a total prude when it comes to the making of love so I figure it's about time I get to know myself better down there.

How it works is you take an egg-shaped rock made of jade and put a string through the hole in the top end of the egg. Then you weight the end of the string with a bag full of rocks, seashells, a cellphone or whatever you have lying around.

I'm getting ahead of myself, I'll back track a bit.

In this tiny room we stand together in a circle and the instructor begins with breast self-massage. She puts on some Dave Matthews Band and she begins rubbing her breasts clockwise and then counterclockwise from the nipple outwards and then back in towards the nipple again. We all try to follow along. Try it sometime. It's ridiculously impossible.

Then comes the vocal coaching: "Just let any sound come out that you want." I begin faking these breathy oooooo's and mmmmmm's. We're all looking intently out the window or at each other's left ear, or top of shoulder as we make the unnatural sounds. There is no eye contact.

The instructor takes the egg and licks it first to "lubricate it" then she lifts up her skirt and slips it in. She inserts it so cavalierly I swear to God this woman is getting off on making me uncomfortable. Now the cellphone she's attached to the string that's attached to the egg inside of her is dangling between her legs. She begins the vaginal weightlifting exercises.

"Squeeze the egg at the base of your vaginal opening so it feels like it is just about to poke out, then tug at the weight between your legs, Not too hard now, for a count of one, two, three, and relax," she says.

I spit on my egg a bit and squat down and shove it not at all gracefully up and then look for something to weight it with. The woman beside me heaves one leg up on the ottoman to get her egg inserted.

I find some rocks and put them in the little baggy dangling between my legs. I don't feel the "tug" the instructor was describing so I look around the apartment for something heavier to put in my sack.

I edge myself into the bathroom, egg still tight in place. I go through her medicine cabinet and find a bottle of cough syrup. I slip it into the bag. I feel the tug on my vagina. I clench and it drops out, clunk, bump, bump, bump. I pour half the syrup down the drain and re-insert. I clench and it stays put. Perfect.

I waddle back into the circle and try to do the hip circling exercise with everyone else, although my hip circles look more like hip triangles. I bump knees with the women next to me. Her egg plops, drops and rolls across the room. She scuttles across the circle -- "Excuse me, pardon me," she whispers as she reaches between another woman's legs like a crab to retrieve it.

ROOM FULL OF CLUCKING HENS

We all start laughing now at the absurdity of this picture, at the desperate intimacy. We cannot help ourselves. We're a room full of clucking hens laying eggs in a highrise and the ruler of the roost might be a sex addict.

I'm laughing but I'm also secretly burning up with shame. I am a feminist. I am supposed to be comfortable with my body. What's wrong with me that I think something is so wrong with me that I need to be here in the first place?

It dawns on me now why I've been so annoyed. I was longing for a class that was not so penetration focused. My vagina does a lot of things. She bleeds, sometimes she itches and smells bad. When I got a Brazilian wax, she cried. One day she'll birth a baby. I thought this class was going to be about my body. I wanted to slip into a cave. I wanted to move slowly. I wanted to go back thousands of years and study with a concubine who is respected for her art. I wanted a ritual.

I do not trust this woman. This form of Taoist mastery takes a lifetime of study and I do not dig her modern take on the whole shebang. I mean the Powerpoint photos she showed us at the beginning of the class about how great your sex life gets after jade egg practice were homogenous and stock boring. I didn't get to see two regular fat people slipping around together. Instead she showed us a photo of a golden supermodel licking a hard dude's hairless chest.

Yucky.

'THIS ISN'T ME'

This isn't me. This isn't how I feel. I feel scared in bed. I feel shy. Sometimes I feel turned off and annoyed. I want a class that has Powerpoint pictures of a really big, pock-marked ass and I get to ask the questions "Is this all there is? Is something wrong with me? Why do I sometimes feel dead inside? How can I stop blaming him?" I want a sex class that addresses my fear and uncertainty.

Finally, two hours later I get to stop rubbing my breasts.

Finally, I get to push out the egg.

Finally, I get to put my bike helmet on and get ready to go home.

"How was that for you all?" she asks as we are putting on our coats. She wants to get testimonial quotes for her website.

"Liberating," says a single mom who wants to learn more about self-pleasure.

"Empowering," says a flushed 65-year-old woman as she dons her hand-knit cardigan.

"Hilarious," I respond. Because sex is hilarious and worrying about sex this much is hilarious.

I sent my jade egg to a friend who had a baby recently and her uterus is falling out so she wants to tighten up.

I, on the other hand, need to lighten up. Does anyone have a workshop for that?

Brazilian Waxing as Spiritual Practice

2012-03-01T22:30:35-05:00

I may be the only 33-year-old in the Western world that has not gotten the full meal deal when it comes to waxing, so I thought it was high time.

I was unclear about options, rules and etiquette, so I spoke plainly.

I would like the front to look tidy. I would like the undercarriage clean.

Why am I doing this? I started to wonder as I took off my pants and lay down on the dentist's chair. To be completely honest, it's because everyone else is doing it. It's because I've been told that "keeping it real" is considered grotesque. It's because when my hippy, nine-month-pregnant friend walked naked into the living room the other day and I saw her huge bush enter the room before I saw her belly, I thought, "How on earth could her partner navigate through all that?" I gotta simplify.

So here I am lying supine with nothing but a cable knit sweater on and the tension is palpable. Am I ready? Will I falter? My esthetician is 21, soft-spoken and clearly wise beyond her years. I feel safe with her. She has walked this journey before.

There is mantra music playing in the background. Whales, bells, flutes, chimes and another sounds that reminds me of a whispering baby. The relentless repetition calms me.

She asks me to put one leg into half Baddha Konasana. I am suddenly exposed as she assesses the situation. She can't even begin at the bikini line as first she has to clean up all the way down to my knee. My first experience in this practice is deep humility. "Sorry," I want to whisper, "I'm sorry that my hair grows." She finally moves into the bikini line area and this is the first time I have to focus on white light and deep breathing. It fucking hurts. I only now realize that this woman is putting hot wax on my vagina, then ripping it off and I am paying her to do it. She unfolds my labia and begins to work on the inside. Now I am moving from humble to a deeply vulnerable state. I don't know if my partner touches me where she is going. She asks me to help by keeping the skin taut.

Like in any deep spiritual practice, there is a moment of wanting to turn back. This was mine. My vagina starts to cry. I don't care if half my pussy looks cut up by a five-year-old, I want out. My vagina continues to weep (this is not an metaphor, I actually felt it happen), but I pushed through. I am a warrior. I can take it.

Has anyone ever taken White Tantric Yoga? Well I haven't because I know I am not disciplined to complete it and my ego is too big to fail. This was my White Tantric. This is my 61-minute breath of fire. This is my 10-day Vipassana retreat. This is my master cleanse.

She then asked me to move into Happy Baby. I am holding onto my toes, reminding myself to get the knees directly under the ankles and she goes inside again. This woman is actually inside of me and ripping hair out. I have never, ever felt so present in my life.

It is at this point that the alpha waves kicked in. I am transcending. I do not feel pain anymore. I get very sleepy, my thoughts stop and I am awash with calm.

"Please turn to your right side and bring your left knee across your body." A spinal twist? "Please grab your bum cheeks on either side and pull them apart." No, no, no, what the fuck is happening? No she isn't! As I spread 'em, she poured the wax around my anus. She started focusing, talking quietly to herself "You bugger, get in there, that's right, damn it..." It didn't seem to be going very easily for her. I started to worry. Am I on the right path? Have I veered from the truth? Will I fart in her face? My guide brought me back to my body with her voice. "I'm sorry to be hurting you," she said kindly. You are the one tweezing my asshole, I thought. No apologies necessary.

Relax, breathe deep, white light and again the soft place cradles me in. I began to trust my guide. She is in full control and all I need to do is surrender. I began to let go.

I almost fell asleep again I am so tranced out. Can you imagine, sleeping while getting your undercarriage cleaned? Rip. But I imagine like any trauma Rip, Rip or deep spiritual event Rip we do go somewhere else. Rip. I am rising. Rip. I am above myself. Rip. I am home.

Then with all the love in the world, she slathered cream on my bottom and sprinkled me with talc. Regressing back to my primordial state, I felt like a baby again. Like one feels in a first-time transcendental experience, I had captured a deep calm and I didn't want to let go.

I paid the woman well for her services. For that kind of trip, you must respect the guru. Like good teachers do, she created the space for me to transform. She showed me the path, and then ruthlessly and with great love, she cleared the debris out of the way. I am indebted to my master. I will study with her again and again.

Now I'm going to have a nap. It was an intense journey, but it was definitely worth it. I am sore and tender and my comfort zones are stretched (literally and figuratively). I am a babe. I am reborn.

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