Domestically Disturbed

This morning, I sat on the hardwood floor between Toddler and Baby, brokering peace negotiations between the pajama-clad girls who are many long months away from receiving their Masters in Sharing. Mission accomplished. Within a few moments, Toddler was playing with her Mama Tape Measure and Baby was playing with her Baby Tape Measure. And I had a few fleeting, but delicious moments to go online before Baby pulled up on my back and yanked out a massive fistful of my hair. Maybe she wanted me to get off my computer. Or, maybe she's envious because she's bald.

Anyway, before snapping my laptop shut and giving my girls the absolute, unmarred attention they deserve, I was able to read this article. It's the latest entry in Judith Warner's NYT blog Domestic Disturbances. And I was sufficiently disturbed (in the best possible way) to forgo that much-needed shower and read it over a few times, read all of the comments it elicited, and then write my own comment. In that little comment box, I wrote one of my Insecurely Yours letters. I thanked Judith for her brave words, for speaking up, for defending those of us here on ILI and beyond who are educated and interested and insecure. If you are curious, you can read my letter below.

Now, off to analyze my infant-induced hair loss and take that much-needed shower. In case you are interested, while I am showering, I will be giving myself a very articulate pep-talk to prepare myself for the attacks I fear are headed my way. And if there is time left over, I will contemplate the symbolism of those tape measure "toys" with which my girls love to play. Cheerio.

Dear Judith,

Thank you. For daring to lift that proverbial lid on our society’s simmering stew of resentment of women with “major educations,” of women who are intellectually-curious and interested, of women who are unwilling to stay mum behind a lipstick smile just because their lives are charmed in some way.

In writing this post and triggering the comments that precede mine - many of which are unnecessarily snarky and collectively serve as a prime example of the very resentment you explore — you cast a light on profound and provocative topics of education and wealth and social perceptions. Many of your readers are missing the point here - and maybe willfully so. Patently, your article is not about the law of child endangerment, or what it means to be a responsible mother. Nor is your article truly about this one woman, a professor in Montana.

Rather, your article (bravely) points to an arguably wider phenomenon, namely our culture’s apparent desire to put a muzzle on women who are affluent and educated. There does seem to be a belief that because these women enjoy noteworthy privileges of elite educations and financial freedom, they should keep quiet. Often, it seems that acceptable stories - of struggle, of adversity, of that enigmatic “real world” that we all live in — can only be voiced by members of the more “normal” species of women. I recently started a blog called Ivy League Insecurities in an effort to give these women a voice, to combat the societal message to stay mum and enjoy my “good” life and I have been criticized and - shocker - told to keep quiet, that my story is not a story worth hearing, that my insecurities are inauthentic because of my objectively “privileged” life.

So as one of the well-educated women you write about who is simply unwilling to stay mute, I applaud you for writing this and for welcoming and weathering the very predictable and revealing maelstrom it has triggered.

Insecurely yours,

Aidan Donnelley Rowley

Is Knowledge Always Power?

Last week, I posted a letter to fellow mothers urging them to stop sharing their labor and delivery stories with pregnant women. This letter like my blog and like life was part serious and part silly. And it prompted a pair of insightful comments from loyal ILI readers. One of these comments came from fellow-blogger Mama over at the delightful blog The Elmo Wallpaper. Mama stated - ever-diplomatically of course -- that she disagreed with my argument that women should lie about their labor stories.

She wrote:

...I believe in telling the honest truth, because not telling it just makes women freak out when they are in the middle of it and things AREN'T going perfectly. I would rather them know that it's perfectly normal to NOT have the birth you expect. And I think it's almost criminal that nobody tells you about the aftermath. Knowing it's coming, IMO (in my opinion), makes the experience less terrifying.

And instead of responding to her comment in the comment box, I decided to make this is its own post because really this is about something far bigger than birth and babies and pseudo-serious letters to fellow members of the Mother Species. This is about knowledge.

We all know that I am a hopeless romantic when it comes to education, to my alma maters, to concepts of knowledge and continued learning. There is something magical and majestic about knowledge. But does it always empower us or does it sometimes hinder us? Is it always better to know more, or does a little (willed) ignorance perhaps go a long way?

When I quit my job at the law firm and told people that I was going to write a novel, I was serenaded by a chorus of condescension. The gist? My plan to jump ship and write a book was cliched and cute. An ill-conceived, utterly blonde move. And then people who knew more than I about the publishing world (which at that point was practically everyone) regaled me with countless stories of failure, of dusty manuscripts, of slush piles, of evil agents. I was fed statistics - alarming ones - about how hard it is to complete a novel and then find an agent and then sell the book to a publisher.

But I tuned these people out like I do waiters who read dinner specials and I nodded politely and then I continued to chip away at my first novel. I would venture to say that it was because of this willed ignorance or timely naivete that I actually finished the book and then started looking for an agent. If I did too much research, if I soaked up all of the dismal details of the stories told, I would likely have been derailed, deflated, discouraged.

This is what I meant when I urged you moms to gloss over the miseries that might have marked your deliveries. Not because I am a proponent of dishonesty. (Quite the opposite. My aim in creating this blog and nurturing it is to be honest with you and myself and the world and my fingers are crossed that this honesty is deeply contagious.) Rather, my feeling is that there are times when full knowledge is not power, but the opposite. When a little mystery is a good thing. I think a woman who goes to the hospital to give birth should be excited (and, yes, a bit scared) and cautiously optimistic and realistic that uncertainties abound. I do not think this woman should have specific visions of a litany of minutiae that might go wrong. No, I think she should be shrouded in a thin veil of blissful ignorance about the admittedly tough and undeniably rewarding road ahead.

What do you all think? Is knowledge always power? Or are there times when we should dial back on details?

Dear Cats

Dear Cats,

We are coming home today! Hope you had a nice vacation from us and the girls. Hope you've taken good care of the place. I know you might be a little mad that we left you, but know that most cats and dogs are boarded at a kennel during these times. And you are lucky that you get to stay home. So, don't be mad. When we open the door and drag the babies and the suitcases in, come running. Nuzzle against our legs. Purr loudly. Pretend you missed us.

Insecurely yours,

Mommy

Dear Baby #4

Dear Baby #4,

Daddy says I'm not allowed to have you. That only three kids fit in a rental car. Your Daddy is so sane and practical. And unfair. I will work on him.

Insecurely yours,

Mommy

Dear Baby #3

Dear Baby #3,

You don't exist yet. Not even a tiny cluster of cells. But I'm beginning to think about you. Your sisters are a handful and yet I crave more. More chaos. More cheeks. More.

Insecurely yours,

Mommy

Dear Fellow Mothers

Dear Fellow Mothers,

Stop telling your labor stories to women who are about to give birth. And if you must tell them, lie. Lie big time. Tell them that your doctor was a genius. That the nurses were sent from heaven. That the contractions were mere twinges. That your hospital bag was perfectly packed. That the epidural worked like a charm. That all tears were happy ones. That your husband was a cheerleader. That the baby came out pink and screaming and got a perfect 10.

Lie. Or zip it.

It just scares people. And childbirth is scary enough on its own. No one needs to know how many stitches you got or how many times you needed to push. No one needs to know how miserable your contractions were or that you made it to seven centimeters before getting your epidural. No one needs to hear that you had an emergency C. No one needs to know that the cord was wrapped around your baby's neck and she didn't cry for the first fifteen seconds of her life. No one needs to know about the catheter or the mucous plug or those disposable undies that you wore. No one needs to know these things.

These things make people nervous. Just like this letter does.

Insecurely yours,

Aidan

Dear Columbia Law School Girls

Dear Columbia Law School Girls,

There must have been something in the water or the Strokos fat-free tuna we consumed with wild abandon in those good old pre-mercury-paranoia CLS days. Because between us, we now have six baby girls (and another any day). No boys allowed.

Who would have guessed back then when we were busy making final exam outlines (okay, you guys were busy making them and I was busy thinking up artful ways of asking you to share them with me) that we would collectively produce more than a half-dozen baby girls in the next half-dozen years?

I have never regretted going to law school. Never. Columbia was a fantastic school and I learned a ton there. I learned all about Constitutional Law and Evidence. I learned about all of the bars along Amsterdam Avenue. I learned how to answer a question about a case I hadn't read. I learned how to spot a group of girls among the masses who would prove life long friends and fellow mommies.

Now let's do everything in our power to make sure our girls don't become lawyers. Just kidding. Kind of.

To life, law, and little girls! I love you all.

Insecurely yours,

Aidan

Dear Danielle LaPorte

Dear Danielle (White Hot Truth teller),

Thank you. For listening to me ramble. For encouraging this riled-up rookie about the possibilities that are endless as long as you dare to dream. For introducing me to two brilliant women Gretchen Rubin and Kelly Hoey, with whom I hope to spend time and trade ideas going forward.

For too long, I thought women were essentially catty creatures because I was one of them. But now, I realize that there is true camaraderie to be enjoyed and support to be gained.

Your words inspire and enlighten. Your dreadlocks remind us that you are not business as usual. Your website is a constant source of nourishment for the soul, that enigmatic item too many of us sell, or ignore, or forget.

I can't wait for your next book. Please come start some metaphorical fires here in NYC!

Insecurely yours,

Aidan

Dear Anonymous D

Dear Anonymous D,

I'm sure many ILI readers read your comments and think we are friends. They would probably be shocked to know that you stumbled upon my blog randomly. But I am thrilled you have.

This is the beauty of the Internet. The rueful randomness. The fact that two total strangers can bump into each other in invisible terrain. The fact that with the stroke of a key, words and ideas and emotions and confessions can travel from here to there. And from there to here.

We share Kyle and a passion for our kids. We are both experimenting with a new and delightful drug: honesty.

In my darker hours when I wonder why I am doing this, why I am blogging, why I am putting myself out there, I think of you. A person, a successful and good person it seems, who has taken time out of her busy days to read what I have to say. And to say something back. And when I think of this, I realize that it is all worth it. Very worth it.

Thank you for your web friendship. What do you say we talk life and law over a glass of wine one of these days?

Insecurely yours,

Aidan

Dear Skin

Dear Skin,

I know it's a lot to ask after three decades, but now would be a good time to thicken a bit. You see, I've recently started a blog called ILI. And blogging = putting a small percentage of myself and my words out there. And many people out there like it, but some people seem to hate it and me and everything I have to say. These people love to point out just how my elite education has failed me. They love to point out the typos. And I am expert at pretending that these things, these odd, but pointed jabs of criticism don't faze me, but the truth is they do. I get sad. And I complain to Husband. And sometimes I even cry. And then I buck up and console myself with a string of good well-worn cliches. Like it's all par for the course. It comes with the territory. Yada yada yada. I tell myself to grow a thick skin. But you don't seem to listen. I will give you some time. If you could fatten up by next summer when BLACKBERRY GIRL is released, that would be fine. And if you want to learn how to tan too, I wouldn't object.

Insecurely yours,

Aidan

P.S. Congrats on being the largest organ! Nice work.

Dear Jimmy

Dear Jimmy,

You are a troublemaker already. Tucked inside C's belly, kicking and punching and turning somersaults, keeping her in NYC while the rest of us are fly-fishing miles away. And we wish your Mommy and Daddy were here with us now, catching fish, taking in the views, eating cheese curds.

But I think ahead to next year. You will be almost one. I can see you now - bright blue eyes, a mini-mess of blond hair, a vast and undeniable smile, stumbling around on that old wooden porch, reaching for your Daddy's rods. Playing with your cousins.

You better stay cozy in that belly until I come home.

Insecurely yours,

Aunt Aidan

Dear Facebook

Dear Facebook,

It's one thing to mess with me, but another thing entirely to mess with my mother-in-law. Grammy is a good person. And when I sent her that photo album you were kind enough to allow me to create, you insisted she join your site to view the album.

All she wanted to do was see pictures of her darling grandchildren. Do you blame her? So, she joined. I'm not sure what happened next, but I blame you. You (or some not-so-nice spammer-type) sent friend requests from Grammy to all of my Facebook friends. Very sneaky. Not nice. How dare you?

Grammy would never do this. You've put her in a tough spot. Everyone makes mistakes, but I'm not sure I will forgive you for this one. Or whether Grammy will.

Insecurely yours,

Aidan

Dear Dad

Dear Dad,

Wherever you're fly-fishing these days, I'm sure there's no Internet access. And if there were, you wouldn't care or know how to use it. So I will keep this short.

I miss you more than I have ever missed anything. Your silly smile. Your dancing mustache. Your irreverent wit. Your tattered khakis. Your lunchpail wisdom. Your bottomless blues. Your tough love. Your bear hugs. Your bird calls. Your voice. Your laugh. Your "Hi, Hi" and "Morn, Morn." Everything.

You should be fishing with us. But, alas, you are in distant waters.

Happy Father's Day, Dad. I miss you deeply and love you madly.

Insecurely and always yours,

Maidy-Bunks Picnic

Dear Fathers

Dear Fathers,

Tomorrow is your day. Enjoy it. Put away the BlackBerry and the briefcase. Close the laptop. Turn off ESPN. Let the day roll by in slow motion.

Look. At your kids. Study them. Their smiles, their eyes, their elbows, their pinky toes.

Listen. To the laughter, the songs, the complaints, the phone-call from far away.

Taste. The food you make or order. That mid-afternoon beer (or four) you more than deserve. The moment that is fleeting.

Feel. The little hand clutching yours. The grips of that stroller you won't need much longer. The pride that you've done a good job so far.

Smell. The sizzling bacon. The Play-Doh. The Sunday air.

Tomorrow is your day. Yes, there are hours to bill and bills to pay. There always will be. But this is your most important job. A job you won't lose in a bad economy. A job you can't quit in a good one. The best job.

Insecurely yours,

Aidan

Insecurely Yours

"Letter writing is the only device for combining solitude with good company." - Lord Byron.

Dear ILI readers,

As you read this, I am likely doing any of the following things:

1. Sitting in the backseat of a taxi en route to LaGuardia Airport sandwiched between two carseats holding two girls who are thisclose to vomiting.

2. Bent over a filthy airport changing station, removing vomit-soaked clothes from my girls.

3. Sitting on an airplane praying that we take off on time, that there are no lurking ear infections waiting to spring to maturity, that our plane is not defective, and that our fellow passengers like screeching (and vomit).

4. Sitting in a rental car between two vomit-crusted carseats filled with two vomit-crusted kids with brand new ear infections.

The point? I'm going away. To Wisconsin. The magical middle of nowhere. To fly-fish and spend time with family. Yes, this is the ideal destination for a rookie blogger with two tiny tots; a place with no air conditioning, no Dora, no Internet access.

I'm not going to lie. This last fact (no web access) troubles me because I have just started this blog and I love it and I haven't missed a day (a sad, sad sign of obsession or perfectionism - take your pick) and I don't want to miss a day. So what should I do?

First, research. Per the blogging experts out there, it seems I have a bevy of options: to give you guys a vacation from reading my blog, to post ahead of time, to sign up a guest blogger.

And since I do not like the idea of having gaping holes in my blogging, I won't. There will be something here each and every day for you to read. But what should I write about? I gave it some thought and I had an idea: I will let you guys read my letters. Because in this modern age of email and social media and linking, letter-writing is a dying art. So sad. So I will not let it die. No, this letter will be the first in a series of letters - to people and creatures and inanimate objects. You'll just have to wait and see.

And, no, these letters won't look like the beautiful antique letter above. They won't be quaint and coffee-stained. They won't be handwritten. They will be typed and sent over the web. Not very old-fashioned, I know. There will be no ecru envelopes or licked stamps or mailboxes or mailmen involved in this equation.

But there will be words. Words that are true whether they are written now or later, in real-time or ahead of time. And that is something.

This is a good plan because letters are timeless. This is a good plan because I need to take a break once in a while. This is a good plan because there is something wrong about blogging from a rustic hideaway overrun by deer and trout and ticks.

I hope you like my letters. One of them might even be to one of you.

Insecurely yours,

Aidan