2013-05-21T03:27:34-04:00 Jowita Bydlowska http://www.huffingtonpost.ca/author/index.php?author=jowita-bydlowska Copyright 2008, HuffingtonPost.com, Inc. HuffingtonPost Blogger Feed for Jowita Bydlowska Good old fashioned elbow grease. tag:www.huffingtonpost.com,2012:/theblog//3.1729150 2012-08-03T12:55:52-04:00 2012-10-03T05:12:02-04:00

Jowita Bydlowska http://www.huffingtonpost.com/jowita-bydlowska/
I couldn't see him as his back was to me but I it had to be Brad Pitt because I don't know what else could've explain the way the date seem to be going -- with the man treating the entire corner of the restaurant where we were to booming-voice stories about everything: from his allergies to Gluten, to his roommate who traveled to Mexico and got a sunburn, to why he prefers a laptop to a desktop. I watched his date smile and nod, and once heard her offer a squeak of information: She tried to talk about her long commute to work -- but that was quickly hijacked by Brad Pitt's enthusiastic tale about the time he interned at a place that took two buses to get to.

Eventually my own meal was done and I paid the bill and hoisted my date -- my three-year-old - on my hip and left the restaurant. Because I'm so nosy, I walked by the window to take a look at the man and confirm that indeed it was Brad Pitt. It wasn't. Yes, it's shallow to think that perhaps the man's looks could've made up for his behaviour but I couldn't think of why else the woman would just sit there and beam at him wordlessly. (I have a very attractive, unemployed, crazy ex and women keep getting engaged to him all the time, so.)

What happened at that restaurant is, I think, a perfect illustration of what it's like to date now. The men are no longer the pursuers; they are pursued. They are coddled, feted, loved for just being men essentially. As a friend once said, "All you need to get laid in this city is to be a man." Things like hygiene, lack of fungus or active addiction, employment, roommate-free apartment and milk crates-as-chairs are totally optional.

I remember my friend B. telling a story about a guy she thought she was dating. B. is six-feet tall, a model type. The guy was cute, almost nice, and she was happy to have finally found someone steady. One evening he called her and invited her to the opera. The only catch was, he said, that the performance was starting in a few hours. My friend B. started getting ready, happy to go on such fun date. Then it occurred to her that the timing was strange: Was she perhaps a backup for someone who couldn't make it? She phoned the guy and asked how he managed to score the tickets so quickly. He unabashedly told her exactly what she suspected: a female "friend" cancelled. He added, "But I always wanted to take you to the opera!" And the thing is B. hung up and continued getting ready. She came to her senses last-minute and stayed home, but she still wondered if she had made a mistake. That man, after all, was a man who was mildly interested in dating her.

I write a relationship column for a men's magazine. In it, I often give humorous advice to men on how to meet, date, love and understand women. I write it with the assumption that men really want to know how to, well... romance women and be in successful relationships. But the truth is, I know that men don't really need to try very hard at all. I'm subtle with my advice or if not I soften it with jokes so that my sensitive male readers won't get too upset and call me a bitch. I am also often slightly apologetic about giving suggestions like: you've got to buy her flowers, or it's a nice idea to get her some chocolates and tampons if her period is stressing both of you out to show that you care. Oh, right, the time I suggested getting a woman some tampons there was a comment from a reader: "Please. Typical... Buy me this buy me that. I have a better idea, take that $20 and go buy myself some fishing stuff and go fishing."

I wish this was as simple as the dilemma of buying things in order to make the intentions clear. Money is a complicated issue when it comes to modern relationships and although it's sometimes easier to show that you're interested with a bouquet of flowers, a lot of awesome women nowadays would be happy with a flirtatious guy who could remember her name when texting. We don't expect too much, really. And if we expect some special things (like, let's say, knowing how to spell), we're called "picky." Also, "single."

I was raised by a woman with outdated, old-fashion values. She taught me some old-fashioned tricks: never call a guy first, act like you're the cat's pajamas (or rather, the cat's Lejaby lingerie), own your femininity and never apologize for it. After moving to North America and living in the modern world of dating for a while, I updated some of those values, lost some self-esteem and learned to apologize more. Still, my current partner referred to our dating as "Victorian courting" (meaning I didn't put out on the first date, perhaps?). Recently, we talked about that time and he said that Poland is simply more conservative (it is) and the European dating advice wouldn't ever fly here -- if it did, we'd have bars filled with lonely women and confused men.

As for actual relationships, I could list all the beautiful, smart, interesting women I know, and talk about what they put up with. How about a little sample? Guys not paying rent, guys not washing, guys cheating, guys not working and guys whining about how they're still not sure about kids or getting married after years of dating. Not necessarily bad guys, but guys who put half -- if not less -- the effort into the relationship that those women do. The thing is, these women love them. And they'd rather put up with these adorable little quirks than risk being thrown into a dating world filled with guys hijacking conversations with their tales of laptop preference.

Then there are women who settle, and end up marrying the guy who does put in the effort and wants the same things but who's perhaps slightly less lovable than the stinky unemployed brute who won't put a ring on it. Good for them; they can now go through the rest of their lives feeling like they dodged the bullet of singledoom (doom not "dom" since this is still a world of couples). There are, of course, some relationships too where by some magical interference two people fall in love, are decent to each other and live happily ever after... and the guy even buys her flowers once in a while "just because" -- that's me and I know I'm lucky.

And speaking of luck, I'm not single now, but if I ever were, I know it'd be tough luck for me. There I would be, sitting in my Rapunzel tower, waiting endlessly for my prince on a white horse to come and get me. But the hill would remain empty for months, years. Eventually, on the horizon, I'd see a beer-gut of a toothless dude on a donkey who'd grunt at me: "Coming down or what?" and I'd slide gently on my own hair, hoping that it wouldn't wrap into a noose around my own neck.]]> tag:www.huffingtonpost.com,2012:/theblog//3.1616110 2012-06-22T11:05:29-04:00 2012-10-12T14:55:23-04:00

Jowita Bydlowska http://www.huffingtonpost.com/jowita-bydlowska/
It escalated when the adults got involved. But not in the way you'd think. In fact, the adults gave us the impression that what we were doing was okay. Our music teacher even made up a song about Slawek that he made us sing as a group! It went like this (translated from Polish so it doesn't rhyme at all): "Oh little sun, show us your face because the cloud looks funny on you. And the frown doesn't suit you."

Slawek was the "little sun" in the song and although it sounds cute and innocent, it wasn't. Imagine a whole group of kids singing that to you, a new strange kid with a frown on your face? My memories of that time are cloudy but I think I remember him crying when we sang that. I think that's when it sunk in that he was different and that everyone was picking on him. At least that's what my broken heart tells me when I think back to that time.

Meanwhile grownups kept not saying anything about Slawek's abuse. Take our homeroom teacher. She wasn't any better. She commented on Slawek's funny accent all the time and she berated him for being slow in front of the class. She wrote him up for talking to himself -- she wrote kids up for the strangest offences. (I got written up for "moving too much while sitting at my desk" for example.) She was an abusive person who wouldn't think twice of smacking a kid on the head. I got smacked. It wasn't a big deal. I was tough. Today this sort of behaviour from teachers would be considered criminal and would probably have some serious repercussions. Back then, it was only mentioned in passing... after Slawek killed himself.

Or maybe he just fell out of that window? At least that's what we kids were saying to each other. (He was only 10 -- how would a 10-year-old even think of doing such a thing?) When the media showed up at our school, the teachers gave interviews and suggested the kids were taunting Slawek and that there was possibly some abuse at home, too. Later on that week, on the news, a strange short dramatization aired that showed kids tattling on a boy and poking him with sticks on the playground. In the end, there was not a kid left in my class who wasn't traumatized by this event but, most importantly, there was one kid dead.

I have a little boy now. He is three years old. A while ago I watched him get bullied by three older boys in a sandbox at the playground. I didn't catch on too quickly because I wasn't sure what was happening. But there they were, pointing to him and shouting, "You are bad! You are bad! You are bad!" and he was crying and I ran up to him and took him in my arms and hugged him close and felt rotten for not noticing sooner. The thing is, the mother of the boys was standing right next to the sandbox and did nothing. Nothing. It seems she is OK with her sons growing up to be A-holes. Perhaps she feeds them bullets for breakfast and tells them to "man up" when they soil their diapers too.

I just watched the Karen Huff Klein bullying video. You should watch this video. In case you're not sure what bullying looks like, it's captured perfectly. If you can't stomach the whole 10-something minutes of it, just watch the beginning. Early on, you can see Huff Klein take off her sunglasses to wipe the tears off her face. Off the camera you can hear the little monkeys hooting and spewing obscenities. Better yet, watch that video with your kids. Show them what bullying looks like. Teach them.

Group mentality can be a terrible and deadly thing. It's been written about in fiction (for example, in Lord of the Flies by Wiliam Golding); it's been studied by psychologists; it's been discussed ad nauseum in the media in reference to bullying. Bullying is bad. Whether it's a little kid named Slawek or an adult named Karen Huff Klein.

The thing about children, however, is that they're just forming their little brains and it's only natural for them to be swayed by the stronger kids in their group. Without grownups to tell them that to do that is terribly wrong and cruel, they have no chance to learn sensitivity toward those who may be a little different than them. I know that I'm not making the most original point but perhaps this is the point that needs to be repeated: Take responsibility and don't let your kids grow up to be bullies!

Originally published on they don't tell you.]]> tag:www.huffingtonpost.com,2012:/theblog//3.1410346 2012-04-23T15:29:31-04:00 2012-06-23T05:12:02-04:00

Jowita Bydlowska http://www.huffingtonpost.com/jowita-bydlowska/
When I was a little girl in communist Poland, one of my favourite toys was a crappy little "postal office" in a box -- a cardboard fold-out with two cut-out windows, and on the sides a couple of cut-out slits where you were supposed to deposit letters and forms. You wrapped this little contraption around the box ("the office") itself and voilà -- let the bureaucracy begin! Mini envelopes. Forms. So many, many different forms to send packages, to receive packages, to send telegrams (look it up, kids), to send money and receive old-age pensions (for reals). Stamps. Stamps! Stamps! Air mail stickers, play money, stationary, notebooks, notepaper and ink stamps. It was an orgy of officialdom.

Last winter, we went to the Ontario Science Centre. On the kids' level the busiest place by far was the kiddie grocery store. There was total chaos at the cash with big, strong kids shouting and slamming the buttons on the register, pushing each other out of the way to take turn in ringing the less fortunate through. The less fortunate however still enjoyed having to stand in line with their cans of beans and fake bananas and boxes of fake cereal. My kid lined up as well with his little basket of groceries -- we caught each other's eye and he gave me the most resigned, grown-up look. I rushed over to pull him out of the lineup, thinking he'd probably enjoy doing something more interesting (like maybe help with the plumbing or other kiddie house repairs going on right next to the kiddie grocery store?). But as soon as I suggested we leave, he went wild-eyed and screamed, "No, leave me alone!" What was I thinking? So I apologized and I left him to finish his chores.

Because I remember what it was like (that postal office) to be a bureaucratic little goofball, I don't discourage my son's desires to push buttons and paper, pretend-clean and pretend-shop -- I know it makes him feel important and adult-like. Whenever we go to a toy store, I notice his eyes fixating on horrible little toys that mimic our everyday grown-up struggle -- the fake kitchens and fake toolboxes and fake vacuum cleaners. One of his favourite toys ever is a kid-size yellow plastic shopping cart. He likes to fill it with toilet paper and apples, and we play a game called "Mommy-do-you-want-some-bread?" It goes like this: "Mommy do you want some bread?" I say yes and he goes and pretends to buy the bread. Then he says, "Mommy do you want some bread?" And... Well. Yeah.

It's the end of tax season here in Canada. Taxes, as we know, come every year, like that stupid cold that you just have to get before officially starting to enjoy the warm weather. As usual, I've delayed filling my taxes till the last minute and even though it's never as complicated as it used to be when I worked as a freelancer, I have some kind of a block about it (and not an HR block... ba dum tss!). There aren't that many forms to fill and I've only two envelopes to deal with. Still, I wish that there was some way I could channel my toddler's obsession with the establishment and make both of us happy. Because I'd love for someone to give me a nice bath and read me a couple of bedtime stories and then hand me a glass of warm milk with honey before brushing my teeth and putting me to bed, while my son sits in the badly-lit basement punching in numbers on a calculator, ecstatically filling in forms and hoping that we've run out of bread so that he could go to the store before it closes.

Originally published here. Where there's more.]]> tag:www.huffingtonpost.com,2012:/theblog//3.1373713 2012-03-26T14:38:55-04:00 2012-05-26T05:12:01-04:00

Jowita Bydlowska http://www.huffingtonpost.com/jowita-bydlowska/
Recently, I was talking with some girl friends who laughed about other parents becoming a little too into their kids -- taking hundreds of photos of them, writing about them in obsessive detail on blogs, changing their own diet habits to suit their kids' tastes... buying them complete sand castle molds because I don't know, it's too hard to build a sandcastle yourself? (Besides, you probably shouldn't let your kid play in the sand anyway because of sand fleas.)

Speaking of sand, a few weeks ago, while on vacation, I encountered a mother of a 13-month-old who could talk about nothing else but her daughter. The Über Mom sat in the kiddie pool with her Miracle (thankfully, that wasn't the kid's name) and blathered on about the little girl's birth, her habits, her vaccinations, her diet, her pee-pee, poo-poo, her... eventually I tuned out and excused myself, running to my son to pretend to fuss about the tower of cars he was building. Out of the corner of my eye, I noticed Über Mom latch on to another victim to talk with the manner that was more like the fervor of the newly converted than an account of mother's love.

In my case, it was partly mother's love that inspired me to write this blog and document some of the little shockers that come with becoming a parent. I'm guilty of posting my son's picture on facebook, of sending videos of my kid dancing to unsuspecting and innocent victims (friends), of relating funny poo stories only to realize that I was the only one thinking it was cute and the people faking laughter were also flinching slightly as I gaily proposed having a look at some hilarious pictures I took of the incident. I think perhaps I was starting to becoming that kind of person, you know the person everyone asks "How is your kid?" before they ask about the book project you're working on. But before I started being that person, I had a head full of dreams and only one of them involved being a mom.

I won't dispute that becoming a parent gives you this complicated type of joy that's incomparable to anything that you've ever experienced before. It's wonderful and very fulfilling. It can also be puzzling when things don't go as expected (postpartum depression, anyone?). Ideally, you fall in love with your child, but unlike romantic love this one rarely -- or never? -- burns out. I would argue that like with falling in love you can take your affair a little too far, however. Indeed, with your child you can become an obsessive stalker, an affection-starved whiner, a needy ball of insecurity, an enabler... A sMotherer (although you could be a sFatherer, too but that doesn't have that clever ring to it so let's -- hey, a bird!).

Look, I have been known to get briefly devastated by my son's refusal to hug me. I have had my heart broken when he's chosen Daddy over me on certain days. This morning, my husband got his heart stomped on brutally when the kid completely ignored him and insisted on being exclusively dressed, picked up and fed by his one and only Mommy. And both my husband and I have been caught in long, blissful moments pausing mid-sentence during our breakfast paper reading to just stare at our brown-eyed child of rose cheeks and pouty mouth, whom we sometimes call putto (a cherub) because he looks so much like one.

So yes, I, too, am in love with my child. But I try to stay sane about it. Like past loves, there are moments when I have to stop myself from kissing the object of my affection (my son) so much and so often I'd probably give him a rash. I have to cut out any sort of idea about hanging off a tree next to his daycare to "observe" him or about installing a tracking device to his shoes. I had to store my camera in a drawer so that it's not on hand every single time he does some cute thing -- I mean, how many pictures of him wearing a funny hat do I need? (The answer: at least 500 by now.) Most importantly, like in the past, I let the object of my devotion build his own castles and I let myself build the dreams I had before he came along.

Originally published here.]]> tag:www.huffingtonpost.com,2012:/theblog//3.1216686 2012-01-24T12:12:17-05:00 2012-03-25T05:12:01-04:00

Jowita Bydlowska http://www.huffingtonpost.com/jowita-bydlowska/
But enough with metaphors. I'm talking about mental health issues. Here's what I'm talking about specifically: post-postpartum. Or anxiety. Depression. Or call it what you want. Not doing well.

I first saw a psychiatrist (at Mount Sinai) when I was pregnant because of huge trauma during my pregnancy. That visit was a disaster. Dr. D, a dead ringer for Mary of Downton Abbey, brought in one of her overeager, drooly students with thick glasses, who asked me questions from a sheet of paper, her thick glasses sliding down her nose whenever she'd start to sweat from excitement (I give good answers). I sat patiently through "the class," but I couldn't wait to get the hell out of there. The doctor watched on, silently, unnervingly. Then she spent the last five minutes sing-songing about how hard it must've been and how well I'm doing and what do I want to do next? "I don't know, you tell me." She smiled and said I could come see her again. "Nah, nevermind," I said, and left. To this day, I don't know what the point of all of that was. I hope that student passed her interviewing techniques class.

Because I am extra special, I had to see a social worker at the hospital after giving birth. Besides a rough pregnancy, I have history of depression, so they were keeping a close eye on me. The social worker lady came in just as I was floating on cloud 99, absolutely blissed-out from having a beautiful baby boy, and she asked me if I was feeling okay. Was I feeling sad? Anxious? Coping? Anything she could help me with?

What are you talking about, woman? I'm OK! HAPPY! I'm higher than god. In fact, I am god. A Goddess. A human came out of my body and now the same human being is able live off of my body. How is that not godly? How would I ever feel bad?

The social worker said, "That's --" and then I blocked her out and floated back up to sit on my cloud 99.

Two weeks later, a public nurse came over to our house to help with breastfeeding and check up on my mood. I had descended from cloud 99, but was still floating comfortably. We hugged, promised to keep in touch, OK bye!

The problems began a month or so into being a mom. It wasn't anything specific -- it never is -- but I was starting to get that antsy feeling that I was doing this whole thing badly, that my partner wasn't helpful enough, that I wanted to cry but couldn't (thanks, Prozac!), that there were no grandparents around to help us, that I was stuck home with the baby all the goddamned time, that I was sad but was too numb to feel it (thanks, Prozac!), that, that, that, this and that. I was honest with my doctor and she directed me to see a psychiatrist through the Women's Health Network.

I saw this psychiatrist twice. She was very attractive. Older, in her late 60s perhaps, but so well taken care off that she seemed like one of those ageless beauties. A sculpture of a woman. Botox for sure, maybe a facelift? She wore well-tailored pants. Small-heeled shoes. The red soles flicked at me a few times, warning me not to bring in any grimy stuff, like the fact that I was such a mess, eating like a pig, for example, and thinking about drinking, too.

She had some interesting books on her shelves. Lots of Canadian authors. Alice Munro. And non-Canadian books, like The Joy Luck Club, which I read and which made me wonder if the psychiatrist was suffering from some mother-daughter issues herself. There were framed photos of women who resembled her. Daughters perhaps. What did they argue about? Staying thin? "Mother those Louboutins are too much for someone your age."

The psychiatrist wanted to know about my partner and how I felt he wasn't being helpful enough. "He's not helpful enough," she suggested.

"No?"

She smiled. Her hair was absolutely ash-blonde perfect.

"He's not helpful enough!"

"He's not?"

"That usually happens with fathers. They feel isolated, even competitive with the baby."

"They are?"

"They can be."

And so on.

Huh. But it made me think. I was seeing a psychiatrist with a feminist bent at a women's hospital. I'm not stupid. I can see an agenda even when it's wearing daisy-stomping Louboutins. But it still planted a funky seed in me, those conversations. I went back to see The Joy Luck Club again and then on the third visit we sort of concluded that I needed to tell my partner to proverbially pull his weight and that was that. I was not getting depressed.

(I need to note here that my partner is a great dad. In the beginning, everyone was just trying to figure out how the hell to adjust to this baby situation, so it was natural we were trying to work out our schedules and lives that were suddenly upside down because of a 20-inch long vomiter.)

After The Joy Luck Club, I saw the Soother: a soft-spoken man, a social worker I found through my GP again. At that time I was doing quite badly, but, as before, I focused on everything but what was wrong. There was a painting in his office, all pastels, of a ship in full sail. He wore fantastically patterned socks. I pictured him naked and on top of me, both out of boredom and because it would've been so absurd. I thought about the beer store that was nearby. The printer jammed. The Soother gently wrote in his notebook from that point on. We parted and met again and then one more time and it felt like the most useless Om of useless Oms.

I'm sure by now you can tell, I'm not the funnest client to have around if you're trying to help me as a mental health professional. I suspect this is because I wanted to be one myself (undergrad in psych) and because now I'm a writer and I keep thinking of most of my life as "research." This is the kind of attitude that lands me in trouble almost every time, this removal from reality.

I am now again trying to get in touch with a professional who can help me through some issues (such as anxiety). Except that now it's hard, given my spotty track record and the fact that unlike a new mom, a not-so-new mom doesn't have as much support and it's just harder. Had I been honest about struggling and kept in touch more diligently (which, paradoxically, often seems impossible when you're in your deep, dark hole...), I might have been able to find someone sooner. Right now, the waiting lists are longer. And I'm eroding a bit, too; the fight gets weaker with every phone call I make to put myself on one of those lists. And then I feel kind of stupid, thinking I should have really taken advantage of all those characters in the past who were trying to help me. Even if I didn't feel so bad at the time, I should have insisted on some very casual monitoring (check-ins every few weeks or so). I'm sure that could've been arranged.

I didn't do that. And now I am very, very sorry.

So, if you're a new mom (or are pregnant) and you have the ability to imagine the future and there's something in your life that indicates it may get a little darker around the edges, do yourself a favour and get in touch with your doctor and talk about your problems now and get a therapist to guide you through those possible bad times in your future. You've got nothing to lose. And you can lose everything if you don't do that -- trust me, I'm picking up a lot of pieces now and barely keeping them together as I try to get healthy.

Originally published at http://theydonttellyou.wordpress.com/]]> tag:www.huffingtonpost.com,2011:/theblog//3.1153852 2011-12-22T10:36:04-05:00 2012-02-21T05:12:02-05:00

Jowita Bydlowska http://www.huffingtonpost.com/jowita-bydlowska/ Christopher Hitchens died recently (Dec.15).

First, about Christopher Hitchens: I'm weirdly sad. Maybe because I've just started to love him (I'm a late Hitchens bloomer), or maybe because I thought his last columns in Vanity Fair on his "living dyingly" were so poignant, considering he had some big questions and challenges for the laws of universe and god (not being great). When else but during death does one turn to god and religion? He -- as far as we know now -- hadn't, wouldn't: "I shall continue to write polemics against religious delusions, at least until it's hello darkness my old friend," Hitchens wrote in the last year of his life.

He is dead and I'm grateful that he was such a strong voice (even after he lost his own), making those who don't believe -- or at least question -- feel represented in this religion-crazed world.

I want my son to at least question (see how I did that?). I know that with my partner and I as parents, he won't start frothing at the mouth at the mention of god, a higher power, Jesus or Muhammad for a while, but naturally he will come of age when he'll try to rebel and perhaps he will even come home wearing a white robe, pockets full of rosaries and his head full of conviction that our lack of conviction is a sure work of evil. Or maybe not. Maybe he'll let his mind consider other possibilities that will bring his life meaning and will make him a good human being no matter which side of god he ends up on.

Religion is the mother of touchy subjects and it's one I've never really cared to argue against or about because I find arguing about it somewhat pointless in general. Grown-ups usually have their minds made up about it one way or another, so either you're (pun intended) preaching to the converted, or talking to an unholy wall. I'm curious as to what will happen when it (religion, god) will be brought up by a child, my child specifically, who with his fresh mind will be seeking ways to form his own opinions.

I'm sure it will come up sooner or later (we live in a Portugese neighbourhood and if that doesn't tell you anything, you should say a couple of Hail Marys for good measure). I will probably tell him that I was born into a Catholic faith and that I was baptized and that, yes, there was a point in my life when I obsessed over god being really mad at me because I said a swear word. I will tell him these things because he'll need to know where I'm coming from when I tell him to question religion and even god. I want to influence him, but I want him to have a mind of his own. I want to tell him that it's bad to blindly buy into dogma, but at the same time I don't want him to feel like I'm prohibiting him from developing his beliefs. My only lesson would be to question everything because you should always, always be curious and work your mind in all the bendable ways possible. (Yes, even allow it to consider god, if god happens to appear to it one day after bouts of atheism -- just make sure it's never the god that makes you scared, unforgiving and closed-minded.)

And speaking of fear, I've given my son's baptism some thought. I'm shocked that his Polish grandmother (my Ma) hasn't kidnapped him yet to get him dunked in holy water, though there are moments when I think, darkly, that she had, like my friend's mother who took my friend's daughter to have her secretly baptized. I could see my mother doing the same because she often worries about god being upset over this and that, and her church finding out, too. I'm not blaming her at all for being this way -- that's how she was raised. And so, I too have grown up being told that I would be doomed for eternity had I not gotten dunked in the said holy water and I've had this belief so ingrained in me that there are moments now when I still wonder if I'm damaging my son's heavenly future by not getting him that particular ticket to salvation. I will look at my partner (a hardcore atheist who was baptized to please his grandmother) with wild eyes once in a while and say, "Maybe we should get him baptized?" My partner looks back at me and we both shake our heads and remind ourselves that the child -- when he's all grown-up -- can make that decision for himself, especially if that will make him feel better about life. I'm sure I won't be too impressed if he does show up in a white robe with rosaries in his pocket and if he does, we will probably try to exorcise each other -- him with a Bible, me with Hitchens on the opposite side -- but I want my son to know that his faith or lack thereof should never come from being afraid.

Hitchens didn't let himself be scared by death into buying into something that brought him no comfort even when there was fear of the unknown. But he's been kind, even when talking about people who wanted to pray for him (Sept. 20 was "Everybody Pray for Hitchens Day") to bring him salvation: "I don't mean to be churlish about any kind intentions, but when September 20 comes, please do not trouble deaf heaven with your bootless cries," he wrote. "Unless, of course, it makes you feel better."

Originally published on they don't tell you. ]]> tag:www.huffingtonpost.com,2011:/theblog//3.1133880 2011-12-13T11:17:52-05:00 2012-02-12T05:12:01-05:00

Jowita Bydlowska http://www.huffingtonpost.com/jowita-bydlowska/ This sucks but listen, you gotta get with the program. You really do. So many people want to have babies and can't. And so many new parents adjust so well! And there you are, moping about, thinking how strangely horrible this is and feeling guilty about thinking this way. Look at this beautiful baby! Look at her. With her round cheeks and fat arms and bean-shaped belly, how can you possibly be blue? But you are. Always so ungrateful. You ungrateful, unloving monster. A failed parent -- no, a failed human being!

Oh, hello, postpartum brain. I remember you. We used to talk a lot, if you call that talking, because for me it was more like some satanic hum in the back of my head as I tried to keep a happy face and pretend that everything was okay. And in fact, mostly everything was okay. And the brain talked to me that way only occasionally, but when it would, boy did it ever resemble something out of a horror movie.

I remember lying on the operating table and the doctor bringing over the brand-new infant for me to see. The happiness over this event was so large that it seemed to erupt inside me, breaking through every single wall I've ever built to be tough and composed. Seeing that tiny, slimy being was so incredibly powerful -- the realization that this was an actual person, "my" person -- that it razed through any doubt about the point of my own existence. This is not to say that only children make one feel fulfilled -- not at all! -- but in that moment, that was it for me. I cried so hard that the doctors had to tell me to calm down; they were still putting me back together behind the green sheet (C-section). The next day, when I woke up (after a morphine night of in-and-out exhaustion and bliss) and I saw that tiny, red face in the see-through bin beside my bed, I had the most incredible feeling of connectedness. From that moment on, or from the moment I first saw him, I felt euphoric.

And then I fell all the way down. Or not fell down, but I was stuck between soaring high and crashing. I was still feeling the euphoria, but it was getting difficult to maintain it (and I wanted to maintain it -- it was like the most powerful drug that makes you chase its high the first time you take a hit). And there was suddenly so much time. And so much routine. And so much unknown. I found that I could do OK with learning all the new parent things about baby care, and there I was: a brave, confident mother. But routine and time killed me. I couldn't maintain a routine. Nothing ever turned out as planned and there was so much time that seemed to stretch infinitely before me that I was completely baffled as to how to keep myself occupied (while caring for an infant). This was making me sad and anxious. And while all that was going on, I felt like the world wanted me to keep a happy face because isn't a new baby just the greatest thing? It is.

There's a lot of information out there about postpartum depression. It can be brought on by a combination of things -- usually hormones, but also traumatic pregnancy (or birth), difficult circumstances, and so on. It can happen to both women and men. Like any other form of depression, it may come on suddenly (right after birth, or up to a year later) and it's circular in the way that you may very well be aware of being depressed and feeling guilty about it (see the conversation between me and my brain), but you can't see the way to get out. And the deeper you get into it, the harder it gets to maintain the happy face. And if you're similar to me, you end up doing harmful things to change the way you feel.

From talking to some parents (and believe me, it's not a topic that comes up often -- it's still hugely taboo to bring it up), I know those harmful things can be anything from obsessive shopping (I maxed out my credit cards on regular basis) to eating to using substances. It can also be just sitting on the couch and watching TV shows in the middle of the night (hello, over here). It can be not leaving the house much (ahem). And add in those thoughts, those awful, ugly thoughts...

Despite the fact that there may be a lot of information, postpartum depression remains a tricky subject to talk about. I'm having a tricky time right now. Do I really want to out myself with this stuff? (Ok, I just did.) I mean, I'm so hesitant to bring it up because I've had people say to me things like, "Well you shouldn't have another child because you had such a bad time." And it's true that I had a bad time, even though I was so freakin' happy. I don't want another child at the moment, but I hate the fact that I'm made to feel like a leper because I didn't fit the idea of what motherhood is supposed to look like. But the truth is that there's no such thing as "supposed to look like" with parenthood.

I was thinking of finishing this up nicely for you and telling you how much better things are now, but I don't take anything for granted anymore, so who knows if they are. Plus I'm kind of over believing that I have to fit a certain mould, whether it comes to parenthood or even writing this post here, wrapping it all prettily with a bow and shit like that. The only thing I do want to say is that if you're struggling, if you're not having a great time, tell someone right away -- your general practitioner, your sibling, your closest friend or another new parent. Whatever difficulty you're going through as a new parent, don't be quiet about it. And if it ever comes up in the future, well, just wear your experience and flaws proudly -- there's nothing more boring and predictable than perfection.

Originally published on they don't tell you
]]> tag:www.huffingtonpost.com,2011:/theblog//3.1083139 2011-11-09T13:03:55-05:00 2012-01-09T05:12:02-05:00

Jowita Bydlowska http://www.huffingtonpost.com/jowita-bydlowska/ baby who's using the hand gestures you'd use on an iPad when leafing through a magazine. This video kind of pissed me off. Or not the video, but rather the father's commentary: the baby doesn't understand how a magazine works because she's so used to an iPad!

Bitch, please. The baby doesn't understand how pages work because you've never showed her a book before. Sure you showed her an iPad and got her to tap on apps and slobber all over the screen and perhaps you even read her some digital pages, but what you haven't done is show her a real, old-fashioned book. How does a one-year-old not know how to turn pages?

This is the part where I tell you about my genius son who's been read to since he was an infant and who's got shelves of books and who loves to be read to and who can now (at two-years-old) actually sit quietly for a long time flipping pages and "read" to himself, and how wonderful it is and how proud it makes me feel to see him do that. There. Done. Told you that.

But what I really want to say is that nothing replaces reading books with your kid -- not just because it's about appreciating this "outdated" art form (of print), but because reading with kids is one of those activities that's fulfilling for all parties involved. There's the story, the pictures, the satisfying physical activity of turning pages (instead of skating with your fingertips on the capricious iPad screen) and also the fact that you have to sit side by side and enjoy each other's physical presence. This -- combined with the parent telling the story, the child's ability to ask questions, and even the parent not worrying about the toddler breaking the goddamned book when he/she throws it during a tantrum -- this is what makes reading books one of those unique bonds between a kid and a parent.

With an iPad children's book you have many options. The pages turn for you. The characters talk to you. You can shake the tablet to make the characters fall or flip, like in the iPad Alice in Wonderland. You can have your book in 3-D, you can tap a button to have an automated mom or dad read to you (parents can record their own voice), you can make characters dance on a page -- none of which is possible with a real book. It's not only super easy and super extra fun, it's also perfect for the mind that doesn't want to make too much effort. And it removes that major connection -- I mean, why would I want to read to my toddler if I can just click a button on a screen and have a perfectly pronounced recording do the job? ( Eventually we'll all just fall into the habit of clicking buttons on everything because it's easier. At the end of our lives we'll click one big button to go and [bleep] ourselves for good.)

Every night after a bath, either my partner or I will read to the toddler. Some weeks we read the same six books over and over (per the toddler's request). It's kind of boring for us. No, sometimes, it's mind-crushingly boring. (Really? You want to read Duckie Doesn't Wear Diapers again? FML.) Often, I think how I'd prefer to watch TV instead, or shove an iPad at the toddler; plug him right into a reading app so he'll leave me the hell alone. But listen, there's nothing better than to have that warm little body sit next to you, helping you turn the pages as he whispers parts of the story and asks about the characters. And, as you put the book away, he'll rush to the shelf to grab another book and, with his big round eyes staring and his pointing finger waving at you, he'll say, "One more, mommy. One more book, peas."

Originally published on they don't tell you. ]]> tag:www.huffingtonpost.com,2011:/theblog//3.1067959 2011-11-02T09:25:27-04:00 2012-01-02T05:12:01-05:00

Jowita Bydlowska http://www.huffingtonpost.com/jowita-bydlowska/ Guardian article, "Growing-up for goths" by Louise Tickle, brought back memories of that first year with the baby and the whole idea of giving up your identity when you become a parent.

In the article, Tickle talks about the goth subculture, how they keep their lifestyles far into adulthood. She writes how other groups -- punks, ravers -- usually drift off from their scene and abandon their previous life in the name of adulthood (though I tend to think that some of the hardcore punks or ravers end up on the margins of society due to their lifestyles). Unlike any other group, goths seem to have easier time adapting to life as a grown-up; toning down their appearances to fit into the office culture, for example, by rubbing black off of their fingernails or keeping the hair dye to minimum. At the same time, they remain faithful to their subculture by keeping the goth friendships and listening to the same music and donning gothic outfits (though perhaps outside of the more conservative offices).

I've never subscribed to any subculture, so I didn't have to make any major adjustments like that when I became a grown-up, but I certainly went through a period of rebellion when I became a mom. When I say rebellion, I mean, having a feeling of not wanting to give up what my baby-free values were -- independence, lack of responsibility, spontaneity... In other words, the ability, for example, to slam the door behind me and getting on the plane to Europe just because I felt like it (or not even doing that, but just having the assurance that I could, if I wanted).

You see, I kind of thought that giving birth would automatically and naturally turn me into a bouncing, bib-juggling, broccoli-mushing machine who felt self-fulfilled because of motherhood. But it didn't. Having a baby was equivallent to a mini nuclear bomb going off in my mentality. Baby-care repertoire bored me and I became quite defensive about what I thought was expected of me as a mom. I felt so lost. I took care of the infant and I loved (LOVED) being around him, but I still often felt like I was playing a mom in a movie about a mom. It always seemed like I would be able to yell, "Cut!" and the motherhood would stop for a second while I took a break to reflect on it. It didn't. It kept going and I kept trying to run along with it, improvising my lines and gestures.

I felt alienated from other moms who I thought were having a much better time being moms. I made myself feel alienated too. I didn't want to do mommy activities: baby yoga, or chugging along fellow stroller-pushers, or dunking my kid in the pee-warm swimming pool while talking about stretch marks with other mommies at the local Y. I refused to participate, but not because I wasn't feeling lonely -- I was totally feeling lonely -- I just worried that I couldn't muster the proper amount of enthusiasm and people would catch on to me faking being a satisfied mom. Every mom I met seemed so on board with the whole baby thing!

After the baby was born, I became obsessed with the fact that having a child equaled being old(er) and I think I tried to convince myself that I didn't have to be older, that I still got it. What 'it' was exactly, is a mystery to me now, but I think it was a combo of seeing many of my peers still baby-free and me generally not being psychologically prepared to be a mom (long story, but I had no one to ask about that whole motherhood thing during that time). I think the 'it' was that freedom and spontaneity that I thought was no longer available to me because there was a little person attached to my boob, permanently.

I did some stupid things too, to counter the reality of having the baby and being a grown-up. For example, I went out to bars a few times but because of general lack of sleep, I'd usually end up half-napping by myself beside my defiant pint of beer instead of getting on fabulously with my new friends and chatting up the bartender or dancing up a storm on the shaky table (thank god). What a rebel! But I struggled for a while. I recalled with some nostalgia DJ shows that would start at 5 a.m., costume parties with men who kept electric chairs in their libraries, puking discreetly (yes, I missed that) behind mammoth speakers in underground clubs because the bass was set too low, dancing in my big platform boots with wrist-thick Velcro straps, and so on. But even the regular, average rebellions like reading all night long or breaking into a public pool on a hot August night -- I missed those too. It was as if I was in constant mourning over the past.

But as time went on, I realized that I didn't want those things either anymore. I mean, I've already done them. Repeating them would be too pathetic, tragic even. Nostalgia is great but one should never try to rebuild experiences from it. It took me longer to adapt than most moms I know, but, eventually, it dawned on me that just because things have changed this is not necessary a bad thing. It's natural for things to change and my inability to adapt was not a sign of rebellion or free sprit but rather, it signalled closed mind and rigidity. So I gave into change. And I kind of love it now.

Originally published on theydonttellyou.wordpress.com.]]> tag:www.huffingtonpost.com,2011:/theblog//3.952361 2011-09-12T09:23:30-04:00 2011-11-12T05:12:02-05:00

Jowita Bydlowska http://www.huffingtonpost.com/jowita-bydlowska/
The first show is Keeping up with the Kardashians, which I haven't seen ever because I read so much about how dumb it was that I felt I didn't need to. The second show is The Real Housewives. I've watched the New York Housewives enough times to confirm that indeed, the two requirements (stupid, female) have been met when making the show. The third show is Bad Girls Club, which is a less well-known production that doesn't even try to hide its premise that much -- they would've called it Stupid Girls Club and the women who end up on it would still audition for it. Finally, there's Toddlers & Tiaras, which is pretty much my idea of what hell looks like: a windowless conference room in a hotel in Burptown, Michigan, where well-fed women and their gay male husbands cheer on dancing child prostitutes up whose brains are so deeply encased in hairspray they can't remember five simple dance moves. (They are worse performers than dogs in dog shows. But who could blame them? At least in a dog show, the animals get to do their tricks without fake eyelashes and wigs.) The cheering is done between fighting and tanning, in other words, between teaching the little girls the important values of being a female in the modern world.

All four shows are about females dressing up and prancing around. And having fights. I can't think of one example in any of these shows where something of essence happened -- like let's say, somebody making something creative (applying hemorrhoid cream to an under-eye area doesn't count), or visiting a library or a museum or, oh, I don't know, somebody giving a lecture or applying to school somewhere.

I understand that these shows are successful precisely because of the ongoing conflicts and that they are often scripted and heavily edited, but I wonder how difficult it is for the producers to set up these premises. I think it's natural for women in these shows to act the way they do -- the shows simply unleash the basic instincts of (some) females which seem to be competitive aggression and attention-seeking neediness. Most intelligent women are capable of reining these instincts in but find a pretty, insecure idiot and you've got a TV show.

But it's not even about lack of intelligence. I watch Housewives sometimes and I'm baffled at how these supposedly shrewd businesswomen seem to spend their entire lives planning outfits, plotting against each other, having drunken confrontations about the planning and the plotting, and occasionally throwing a party where more plotting and drunken confrontations are to be had. Sometimes there are even some serious issues at hand (divorce, debt, gay rights) but even then something seems to stall in their hardened brains and it all gets reduced to flapping offended eyelashes at each other and squeezing into another gem-infested dress.

It's a similar story with Bad Girls who are like these women in training -- a bunch of cross-eyed drunks with fake eyelashes and bouncy tits incapable of completing a sentence but very skilled in the art of hair pulling and shoe-slapping. (The word "classy" gets thrown around in both shows more frequently than the Kardashians sisters' commentary about the adventures of their own breasts or asses.) To make up, the Bad Girls put on their makeup and a dress and go dancing in a club practically mirroring their "classier" and older Housewives, counterparts.

But what seemed to take the cake for me was the episode of Toddlers and Tiaras where a little girl got stuffed in an outfit resembling Julia Roberts' Pretty Woman prostitute costume.

In the clip that's going around the Internet, the girl is prancing in a wig on a stage and there's an interview with another girl's mother who voices her opinion about the appropriateness of the outfit. Her own little girl is dressed up in proper little girl attire and wearing only enough makeup to cover seven drag queens. The mother, resolutely, acknowledges that pageants "already take a huge rap for what we're doing to our little girls" and dressing a child as streetwalker is in bad taste.

Indeed, you probably don't want to make this too literal, I thought, by dressing the girls as hookers. But worry not about bad rep, pageant mom -- we can only go up from Toddlers & Tiaras -- all the way to Bad Girls, through Karidshans' with a nice finish at the Housewives. Yay women.

http://jowitab.tumblr.com/]]> tag:www.huffingtonpost.com,2011:/theblog//3.944771 2011-09-08T09:32:17-04:00 2011-11-08T05:12:02-05:00

Jowita Bydlowska http://www.huffingtonpost.com/jowita-bydlowska/
Though perhaps leave your students at home so you don't end up like the group that I saw huddled at the entrance to the beach, a couple of them making a few steps forward, turning around and instantly clashing with the rest of the group who decided to follow. The older-looking person -- a teacher? -- shouted to go back. There was some nervous laughter, some oh-my-gawd exclamations and back they marched into the forest. Welcome to the nude beach, er, good-bye!

I have to admit the brat in me made me sit up and observe this from my nearby towel until I myself got observed. I'm not saying I caused them to leave -- I had nothing on the big-bellied guy with micropenis who was strutting about -- but I probably contributed to it. Freedom can be defiant. I didn't really want them to leave, but I knew they would anyway so why not show them some tits to speed it up? Before, I would've left too and, in fact, I almost did the first time I came to the clothing-optional beach. (I know, we Canadians, are so polite -- even rules are more like suggestions.)

Five years ago, I came undone on that same beach. I sat naked, head on my knees, arms around my knees, hiding my bits. I cried. In my head, real-life nudity was ridiculous, offensive, absurd. In my head, I was absurd, offensive in my nudity. I couldn't possibly expose others to it.

Something happened because I loved being topless and nude in my late teens and early 20s. It was possibly the relentless exposure to the airbrushed, pneumatic canons of beauty in media got to me after a while. Unbeknownst to my friend who took me there, the first time I came to the nude beach, I was not a young woman -- I was a monster with awful breasts and ugly tummy and thighs so unsightly that it was a surprise nobody fainted when I undressed. I even questioned my colouring -- I was no pale, pink-nippled beauty that I imagined people preferred to see naked. In short, the first time on that beach, I was Carol, the Monster, from Where the Wild Things Are.

But I'm the kind of person that likes to beat her monsters into submission.

So I went back to the clothing-optional beach repeatedly. I was interested in the absurd, especially absurd bodies, having been so obsessive about mine. I wanted to see wrinkles and sagging bits, hair tangling where you never see it tangling in modern porn. I wanted to look at penises and asses and I wanted to see breasts that weren't perfect half-moons or full moons, breasts that were just breasts with nipples that proved motherhood. I wanted to see scars and secret mistake tats. I never stared, but I'd glance discreetly and register. My looking was always connected to the process of affirming that I, too, was human and beautifully flawed. Eventually, as I satiated and looked less I settled into my own imperfect skin.

At the nude beach it's mostly gay men there, but occasionally you run into families or even single women. My mother said I was nuts to take my baby there -- it was just so abnormal. But what could be more natural, really? I've heard three nude guys have a lively conversation about the type of pear you can pair an Arugula salad with. Or the naked landlord in sandals who was shouting at his tenant, into the Blackberry. He said he was calling from his office and couldn't just leave in the middle of a workday to fix it, now could he? I saw a baseball-hat guy cordially crouching in front of every towel, with his penis dangling along the pen on the string attached to a clipboard. There was a petition on the clipboard asking to rephrase the "clothing-optional" parts of the sign. It was those seemingly absurd, "abnormal" moments that normalized being nude. And once I became comfortable and comfortably fully nude, I remembered what it was about it when I was younger -- freedom.

One time a group of what looked like Asian tourists emerged from the forest at the gate. Unlike the group I saw recently at the beach, these guys didn't turn around. They strode right across the sand. I didn't see any cameras but they were definitely there to look at us, the nudists. They walked slowly but efficiently, closely clustered. They were watching. Pointing. We were a zoo of sorts. Out of all the moments on the nude beach over the years, this one was the truly absurd one.

Find me at http://jowitab.tumblr.com/]]> tag:www.huffingtonpost.com,2011:/theblog//3.936242 2011-09-02T07:00:12-04:00 2011-11-02T05:12:01-04:00

Jowita Bydlowska http://www.huffingtonpost.com/jowita-bydlowska/
Recently, it was announced that Adam Giambrone is about to marry Sarah McQuarrie, his live-in girlfriend of more than five years. For those who don't know, Giambrone is Toronto's would-be mayoral candidate who had to resign because it was revealed he had an on-going affair with a 19-year-old girl (who, resolutely, disclosed transcripts of their passionate texting and messaging). Furthermore, Giambrone revealed publicly that there were multiple affairs going on in his life. Then he resigned from his candidature.

An attractive journalist friend confessed to being hit on by Giambrone at a media event; said he had a boyish, single-dude vibe about him. She was intrigued, especially since he seemed so sincere. If you read the incriminating texts, you'll see how Giambrone comes across as someone who really is sincere and, is, additionally, tragically committed to a woman in pearls who photographs well. If you're a 19-year-old you will buy this, but you don't have to be 19 -- you can be a middle-aged desperado and a tied-down man's lies will sound like the sweetest nectar to your ears. This is because you believe in love and because (some) men are good at manipulating this belief.

In any case, here we are now, 18 or so months later, Giambrone asking to marry his woman in pearls, despite, at one point, swearing up and down he would not do that (in one text to his 19-year-old lover). If you were a cynical person you could say Giambrone is marrying his political beard. But if you go by what Joe Pantalone, a former deputy mayor of Toronto and a friend of Giambrone, says, you'll be happy to know that "the couple is deeply in love."

I believe in love. And I also believe in men having fire lit up under their asses after dalliances, suddenly panicking and making the gravest of life decisions to save the said asses. I'm sure Giambrone is planning to run for the office again so his marriage to McQuarrie may be politically motivated after all, but I'm also quite sure that he'd finally realized what a gem he had at home all along while chasing skirt elsewhere. Or maybe he just realized that he didn't like to be alone and she was the only one who understood him (yikes).

Either way, bad boys don't let go so easily. They are all about prodigious-son returns -- at least my own experience shows it. And women are forever forgiving, posing with pearls and pearly smiles beside their bad boys. Is McQuarrie's "Yes" a case of low self-esteem blues? Possibly. But then, hello Hilary Clinton!

And I can tell you that my own self-esteem has nothing to do with forgiving my bad boys in the past. I mean, even if I wanted to get rid of them there was no way to do it -- the amount of declarations, poetry, gifts and begging was astonishing, weakening every defense I had... And then there were always the big guns (marriage, moving in, therapy) that would finally make me capitulate completely and give it another go. As I said, I believe in love and love means forgiveness, even though, for me, cheating was supposedly a deal breaker. At the same time, I can always lower my standards (not my self-esteem as I don't draw it from my relationships, thankfully), especially when it comes to love.

Plus, with the opposite sex, I'm just naturally weak. How could I not be? Biologically, I'm programmed to respond to pursuit. And what is begging and pleading and promises if not a form of pursuit? You get worn down and you capitulate. Sometimes you end up with a very heavy rock on your finger that blinds you so effectively that you can't see past it. I don't know for sure what made McQuarrie stay but I'm guessing it was biology and belief in love. Because what is "will you marry me?" if not the biggest declaration of love in our screwed up Western world?
]]> tag:www.huffingtonpost.com,2011:/theblog//3.939162 2011-08-29T00:47:52-04:00 2011-10-28T05:12:01-04:00

Jowita Bydlowska http://www.huffingtonpost.com/jowita-bydlowska/
I was with my toddler and I promised him a parade of sorts. Without understanding, he managed to behave himself as we waited for Jack Layton's casket to pass us by. When I say "managed to behave," I mean the toddler wasn't trying to self-annihilate for a long stretch of time, which was a huge success. I think he could tell the momentous occasion, the excited (not somber) mood around us as people waited and waited. He sat on the curb and vibrated, occasionally showing his belly off to the public when the mood struck him. To his left there was a woman carrying a poster, which read "Solidarity" and I was struck by this word because that's what was happening on the street in that moment -- solidarity. A bittersweet event. Here we were, all together, waiting to say goodbye to the guy most people referred to as "Jack," which is what happens when people feel that the person is real, even if we've only seen this person in papers or on the screen. So, Jack was Jack and we were saying goodbye to Jack.

In my 17 years in Canada I've never been to an occasion like this where so many people gathered to celebrate a politician. I understand this was a state funeral so that was a draw, but there was also almost a week of preceding events, a spontaneous showcasing of support and love such as messages scribbled in chalk all over Nathan Phillips Square, the candlelight vigil on the Parliament Hill in Ottawa, candle light vigils in the windows of Toronto homes, the massive media coverage -- people were getting together to celebrate the life of the man who led NDP to become the Official Opposition in the House of Commons for the first time in Canadian history. And we were also celebrating something else -- Jack's message of hope and optimism.

I've always voted NDP so I'm perhaps biased, but my support of the party reflects my sentiment for what I grew up with: a pro-democratic movement that began in 1980 and managed to topple communism in 1989. I come from the country that had its own Jack, complete with defiant moustache and charisma, though ours was called Lech and his revolution was much more bloody. You could say I have a soft spot for the guys who stir the s*it in politics, especially the guys who are pro workers' right and support social, educational and environmental programs.

As a young child I was obsessed with being allowed to partake in the Labour Day celebrations that, although originally conceived to support ideologies that I'm in favour of now, were just pompous Soviet Bloc propaganda-spreading parades where children with red ties were forced to wave red flags with the hammer and sickle. My parents, thankfully, were so cruel that they forbade me to go and I had to console myself with leftover flags brought over by friends whose parents were nicer than mine, obviously (and liked to kiss big Soviet ass).

I'm glad that I waited to pick my political flavours. Years later, when I was in Solidarność-supported division of Girl Scouts, my parents finally allowed me to go to gatherings that had political agendas. We would get together at special assemblies to subtly mark our support for the ongoing Round Table discussions between the old government and the opposition groups. We sang songs, we talked about the 1944 Warsaw Uprising a lot, the older kids talked about its symbolism in terms of ongoing political situation in Poland. At the time I liked being a part of these gatherings for three reasons: because I liked the singing, because I was thrilled for our Girl Scout unit to have been kicked out of the elementary school when our alliances came to light, and also because I was full of the thrill that comes from feeling truly hopeful, the hope that things could change for the better.

The reason why I was allowed to go was because the world felt safer already. The old government was pretty much done -- my parents could see the proverbial light at the end of the tunnel; optimism was soaring ahead of any difficulties that follow a major change.

Layton's final message to Canadians calls, among many other things, for hope. He wrote, "Optimism is better than despair. So let us be loving, hopeful and optimistic." As the four police motorcycles slowly opened the funeral procession, led by horse-mounted police, followed by pipe and drum bands, and an honour guard, then finally the hearse with Jack's casket inside, the people broke out into a thunderous applause and I grabbed my toddler and lifted him to see better, to see how the messenger of hope brings people together and how his message builds a feeling of solidarity.
]]> tag:www.huffingtonpost.com,2011:/theblog//3.931602 2011-08-20T10:36:10-04:00 2011-10-20T05:12:02-04:00

Jowita Bydlowska http://www.huffingtonpost.com/jowita-bydlowska/
Two: When I was 12, I read Lolita.

Three: I have a problem with the Jours Après Lunes (days after moons) collection campaign that shows prepubescent girls in lingerie, with big hair and makeup, sitting in poses that suggest, oh let's just say it -- a recent sexual encounter or a possibility of one.

The company has defended itself saying that they are a family brand and that there are no vulgar connotations, the children are professional models, "not Lolitas who have stolen women's clothing."

Additionally, it was said that the panties are opaque and there are no bras in the collection (presumably, the featured striped bikini top or a satin-and-black-thing-that-is-not-a-bra are socks). Other defenders of the company have blamed the outrage on North American prudishness. Which is also what seemed to be at fault recently when people got upset over Thylane Lena-Rose Blondeau, a 10-year-old who posed for the French Vogue looking like a child version of Brigitte Bardot in most of the photos.

I don't have a daughter, but I used to be a little girl and I remember how confusing sexuality was, for example, my lack of understanding between the power of clothing as signifier (of sex) and the people (men) who responded. Because clothing is not just clothing -- we, animals who dress -- use it to tell the world certain things about ourselves. A guy in a colourful Etro shirt is a peacock with his tail in full spread. A grown woman in a Catholic school girl outfit is suggesting perversity (through the uniform's connotation combined with the woman's age). A 12-year-old girl with big teased-up hair in a clothing ad, wearing a satin not-a-bra and panties is suggesting that she's playing a woman, someone ready to have sex.

Jours Après Lunes defended itself by saying that the clothing is not "stolen women's clothing" and further on that it was designed, specifically to suggest the idea of dress up. What a brilliant idea -- the girls don't have to raid their mother's closets because now they have their own suppliers of almost same kind of clothing but in the right sizes. Except that when little girls dress up to be like mom or a lady on TV they do it precisely because it's part of a play and after the playing is done they get to put away mom's lacy bra stuffed with Kleenex and put on their own dresses. If they end up wearing women's clothes every day what exactly are they saying?

When you make the grown-up-like clothing available and acceptable, the kids will wear it -- especially if moms (who else?) buy it. Why not? Mommy has a frilly tank top that shows off her chest, so why shouldn't her daughter have one, especially one produced by a pretty French company named days after moons (or should it be "the morning after"?). And the little girl will put on a string bikini not understanding at all what the string is meant to suggest, not understanding that it's a signifier. When I wear a string bikini I am more than aware that it signals the possibility of the string being pulled, the idea that I can just loosen my clothes like that. If I had a daughter I would not like anyone to think that when looking at her.

But as I said, I don't have a daughter but I have pictures of myself as a kid wearing a grown-up corset. My friend A. stole it from her grandmother's closet; it was a beautiful thing supported by metal stays and heavy silk exquisitely stitched together. It was meant for a much smaller grown-up person, but, as we discovered, it fit an 11-year-old. Our idea of sex was that you kissed a man who should probably look a little bit like Michael Jackson, whom we both adored.

We knew about intercourse and we understood that the corset was sexy but how the two were related was a mystery. We took photos of each other wearing the corset, even striking a couple of what we thought were sexy poses. We got the photos developed later and I haven't looked at them for many years, slightly worried that I committed a minor crime, had definitely done something troubling. I also knew that I meant something but I didn't know what I meant. This was not in North America, the land of prudishness, but it still seemed like a bad idea.

And then I read Vladimir Nabokov's Lolita when I was Lolita's age, not understanding any of it but I heard that it was about a relationship between a grown man and a very young girl and that there was sex in the book. Plus the book was kind of a scandal. I read the words and sentences and I saw page numbers. I understood what they were but the meaning escaped me. So I read the annotations explaining the symbolism, imagery and allegory. Still clueless. I thought I even found the sex parts but I wasn't sure. All I knew was that there was something huge eluding me, some kind of a thrilling, dangerous thing that I couldn't see because despite my eagerness to grow up I was too young, too stupid, too dependent on grown ups to explain things to me and, hopefully, lead me in the right direction.
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Jowita Bydlowska http://www.huffingtonpost.com/jowita-bydlowska/ Jennifer Egan. I know the two (reading and pickling) aren't exclusive but why waste time trying to fit them in when I can just do the one I really enjoy? At the same time, for all my defiance, I sometimes feel inadequate as a woman when I take this stance -- I'm a minority among my female friends, even a minority among the ones with busy careers and chaotic family lives. I'm a minority because I believe that some (stress on some) of those cooking women do it out of feelings of obligation to fulfill their traditional role in the household, not because they love it (but others do genuinely love it). I refuse to do it simply because I'm a woman. Still, would it hurt me so much to make one little pie to fit in?

Yes it would.

Personally, I consider cooking to be not necessarily less important than some other activity, but rather too fleeting to derive real satisfaction from. All that work for one experience? Please. Perhaps if I were to videotape it, it would be better. But don't listen to me -- I've got my logic upside down (If you look at Psychology 101's Maslow's hierarchy of needs you'll see that physiological needs -- breathing, food and water -- are on the bottom, where self-actualization and creativity are right at the top).

As far as being a useful domestic partner, I find cooking and baking and pickling too dull to bother with and I prefer to do almost anything else around the house -- paint the walls, mop the floors, do 17 loads of laundry. Sure, I'm capable of making simple meals (and I do, sometimes), but I make them to get it over with it, only to feed myself and my boys; I don't experiment, don't open the cooking book, don't find any pleasure in discovering new spices or combinations of flavor.

Does my pooh-poohing of culinary "arts" make me a better, cooler person? Not in the least. At least not in the current times. As I mentioned, a lot of my female friends -- young, modern women, artists, daughters of feminists (and themselves often second-wave feminists), etc. -- actually revel in domestic arts and become experts in pie crusts and jams. They are liberated, educated women and they can make a killer pie! I suspect that my inability and refusal to cook is actually the opposite of rebellion -- I'm like some rrriot girl throwback from the 90s who claims to prefer working on a car over pickles, except that I've zero political agendas. My only agenda is my own self-satisfaction, a fulfillment of my creative needs, and I suppose another problem lies in the fact that I prefer to have something tangible (scarves and sweaters excluded -- I also don't knit or craft) to show for, a higher form of art such as a painting or a photograph. At the same time, I know that some consider a sweet memory of a rhubarb-strawberry pie as valuable as a photograph of the same pie. And, unlike a photograph of the pie, the real thing will nourish someone.

So I'm also not much of a nourisher. In my life I've made the following: 30 sandwiches for my toddler's party, one chłodnik -- a Polish beet soup whose proportions I miscalculated and ended up with enough soup to fill a bathtub, no more than four simple cakes, a cheesecake for my mother's 37th birthday, and countless salmon-in-foil, rice-from-a-package & boiled asparagus dinners. Because of the said toddler, I've also dabbled in smoothies and pasta as well as home-made pizzas but overall my cooking record is pretty slim. This causes some tension at home as my partner grew up in a traditional household with a mother who was an amazing cook and he has dated women who were kitchen geniuses (many of them were artists as well -- their cooking didn't impede on their ability to create). I can't help but compare myself sometimes, especially when he waxes poetic about fabulous dinner parties hosted with an ex, or his mother's meringue pie. But then if you ask him if he'd rather read a good short story or bake some cookies, he'll err on my side of the preference. Still, he's an amazing cook, which some my female friends find shocking and delightful -- lucky you, they say. Lucky me, indeed. Because for all of our feminism lessons, in a male-female household cooking (and baking and pickling and so on) remains a domain of women, at least at home. I know, I know that a lot of men cook (my man included) but when they do we still see it as a bonus. When a woman doesn't cook, it means that she's failed in some way as a perfect female who should be able to juggle this and that and a tray of freshly baked cupcakes.
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