Elizabeth Esther

Purity Culture vs. Purity Ethic

2013-05-24T16:54:25Z

It’s tragic that purity has come to be almost exclusively identified with sexuality rather than as a whole-person approach to living.

Because by relegating purity to merely our sexuality, we set ourselves up for hypocrisy, duplicity and ultimately, dehumanization. Indeed, the unintended consequence of focusing exclusively on “sexual purity” is a fragmentation of our being. Anytime we elevate, idolize or excessively focus on one part of our humanity we fragment ourselves and thus, deny the wholeness of our personhood.

Which is to say, anyone can conform to external standards of dress and behavior but that does not mean the person is pure–because purity is so much more than wearing a baggy, denim jumper or slapping on a “True Love Waits” wristband. READ MORE AT DEEPER STORY.

Confessions of a secret drunk {guest post by Heather Kopp + book giveaway!}

2013-05-19T18:46:37Z

I’m honored to introduce you to Heather Kopp, a woman I love and admire. Heather is one of the editors working with me on my book and her honesty, vulnerability and keen insight into the human condition inspire me to write courageously. Heather’s new book, Sober Mercies: how love caught up with a Christian drunk, tells the heartbreaking, hilarious and poignant story of her alcoholism and recovery. Heather is generously offering a copy of her book to TWO of my readers. Please leave a comment below. I hope you enjoy Heather’s story as much as I have. xo. EE.

: : :

I’m so grateful to Elizabeth for this chance to introduce myself to you! I’m a wife, a mother, an author, a blogger, and a Jesus-follower.

I’m also an alcoholic in recovery who used to be a secret drunk. Unlike the I-used-to-drink-and-drug, then-I-got-religion stories you’ve heard, I was a long-time Christian before I started drinking myself stupid.

By day, I wrote books about parenting and prayer. By night, I supplemented wine at dinner with extra—lots of it—from my secret stash.

For twelve years, I was caught in an endless cycle of shame and remorse, determined to keep the truth of the real extent of my drinking from Dave, our mostly grown kids, and the rest of the world.

In the winter of 2006, as our Colorado town got buried in one blizzard after another, my alcoholism took me to new lows. I drank to blackout almost every night. Many mornings, I woke up in the guest room with no memory of how I got there. Obviously, my husband and I must have had another “dumb drunk Heather fight,” as Dave had come to call them. But whatever was it about?

Stumbling into the bathroom, I’d pause and look at myself in the mirror. Staring at my puffy face, swollen eyes, and sleep-mashed hair, my heart would fill with hate for myself. Right up to the end, I held onto the twisted hope that I could hate myself sober.

Of course, it didn’t work. And neither had it worked when I tried to pull myself up by my spiritual bootstraps, praying and repenting until I was blue in the face. Even as I watched my oldest son begin his own descent into alcoholism, I couldn’t stop drinking long enough to help him.

Now and then the thought of seeking treatment occurred to me, only to get quickly beaten back by my furious, frightened ego. I wasn’t about to admit to anyone something so shameful as being an alcoholic. I was a Christian. What would people think?

Spring came early in 2007. By mid-March, daffodils bloomed in profusion and the fat robins strutted proudly about our yard. I desperately wished that I could share their optimism, but I couldn’t find so much as a single twig on which to hang my hope.

I had no idea that the darkest days of my life were about to give way to the brightest.

It happened one ordinary morning, seemingly out of nowhere. I had awakened feeling hung-over, filled with self-loathing and dread—nothing unusual there.

But I hadn’t been out of bed for long when something inside of me—it felt like a wall of resistance—broke. I fell to my knees next to my bed, crying. Not just regular I’m-so-sorry, I-hate-my-life crying, but the wailing-like-somebody-died sobbing.

I’m not sure now what I prayed, or if it even involved words. I only know that I begged God for rescue in a way that made all my previous attempts at surrender seem half-hearted.

When it was over, I felt strangely calm. I got up off my knees and blew my nose. I drank my coffee. I walked the dog. Then I got on the phone to our insurance company to ask about coverage for treatment.

Two weeks later, I parked my car outside a bleak looking treatment center. Which was the moment I started having panic attacks. For the longest time, I just sat there, heart racing, mind in overdrive. I couldn’t image being separated from my bottles for a single evening, much less weeks. I wanted with every nerve and fiber of my being to turn back.

Instead, I walked inside that building and my life changed forever.

Maybe that’s why I feel this funny ache in my chest every spring when the anniversary of that day draws near. It’s scary to remember how close I came to turning back—to losing my marriage and maybe my life, to missing the miracle.

When you lay death and life right next to each other like that, the way spring does, you see it more clearly: how violent God’s love can be, how risky his timing, and how close on the heels of despair hope starts rising.

Of course, you don’t have to be an addict to keep secrets, feel shame, or hide from the truth. But I’m coming to believe that God holds out to all of us those mysterious, grace-filled invitations to hope and change more often than we think.

I hope you accept one soon.

Heather’s book, Sober Mercies: how love caught up with a Christian drunk is available here. Visit Heather at HeatherKopp.com.

P.S. Eight months after I got sober, my son Noah began his own journey of recovery.

To win a copy of Heather’s book, please leave a comment. One comment per person, please. Comments close on Wednesday, May 22nd at 5pm, PST. Two winners will be chosen.

Why feminism needs men and my gratitude to the male allies in my corner of the world

2013-05-15T21:19:39Z

In this excellent piece, Lauren Rankin explains that feminism is a “movement to eradicate gendered oppression, to highlight women’s voices and experiences, and to challenge restrictive and constructed gender norms.”

Ending patriarchal oppression isn’t just good for women–Lauren points out–it’s good for men, too. This is because “patriarchy doesn’t just privilege men over women, but privileges certain kinds of men and certain kinds of masculinity.”

This made me want to stand up and cheer. Feminism is good for ALL OF US.

I know the word “feminist” has been dragged through the mud (in the past, I’ve dragged it there, myself!). But I’ve made peace with the word feminist, I even dare call myself a Christian feminist now. And I’m thankful for the men who, by virtue of their support for my words and work, are unashamed to stand with women like myself as we fight for freedom for ALL OF US.

The above article got me thinking about the men in my life who have been willing to examine their own privilege and also, support me as I write about my experiences. These are men who trust me to know my own mind and let me speak for myself. As Rankin explains:

The feminist movement needs male allies, but we need male allies who listen, who trust us, who support us. We need male feminist allies who will challenge their friends and male social circles, who will defend us without sidelining us, and who will continue to call out sexism when they see it.

I spent the first 25 years of my life in a highly patriarchal system which routinely oppressed women, children and other men who did not “fit” the mold. I also internalized this system and began to believe in it. In many ways, I even perpetuated the abuse.

But I am deeply grateful for the feminists (both women and men) who helped challenge my thinking–even when it was deeply uncomfortable for me. It has been a long process of deconstruction and I still have a long way to go. But I want to pause for a moment offer a word of gratitude particularly to those men in my corner of the world who have been a feminist ally to me, personally.

These are men who may not even know how much I’ve appreciated their kindness, support and friendship. I probably haven’t taken the time to thank them personally. These men are pastors, authors, bloggers, activists, businessmen, lawyers. In some way or another, these men have helped, encouraged or supported me.

My gratitude goes out to the following men in my corner of the world: (This list is not exhaustive so please add to it! I’m mostly just listing off the top of my head the men who have played active role here on my blog or social media–but if you’re a supportive male reader who rarely comments–or you’re a regular reader whose husband supports my writing or you know someone I’ve left off this list–be sure to add those names in the comment box!):

My husband, Matt

Matthew Paul Turner Aaron Billard Bob Hamp Jason Boyett Josh Riebock

David Drury Allan Thompson Micah Murray Kevin Shoop Pedro Rosario Lyle Brooks Scott Morizot Father Christian

David Kopp Seth Haines Preston Yancey Mark Szewczak Rob Stennett Abraham Piper

Zach Hoag David Creech Fred Clark (aka Slacktivist) Henry Imler Steve Burks

Nate Renfro Kyle Usher

THANK YOU!

When God is your abuser

2013-05-13T21:35:28Z

I was being abused and I asked Jesus to help me. I was a little girl–the age of my own twin daughters–and I was away at Bible Camp. I asked Jesus to help me. I prayed over and over. I asked Him to make it stop. But Jesus didn’t make it stop.

This has been–and continues to be–a huge struggle for me. I do not trust God. And why should I? The God I knew was wrathful and harsh. The God I knew didn’t protect me from my abusers. The God I knew was stone silent in the face of my desperate supplications.

Over time, I transferred my abusers’ traits to my concept of God. I lived in constant fear of punishment and yet, I also believed that punishment was love. They love me and this is why they hit me.

I began to believe that I was unlovable and inherently bad. I certainly didn’t deserve love and I always had to earn it. Love was given or withheld based on my level of obedience. My father told me God’s love was conditional. If I disobey I will be disowned by God and my parents.

As a female being raised in a highly-patriarchal culture, I never developed my own understanding of God because God’s will would be made known to me through my father and husband. My father was God for me and later, my husband was God for me.

This is probably one of the most dangerous lies of patriarchy: a human being (aka, father, husband, pastor) is God for you. It is the most dangerous lie because if someone controls your concept of God, they control everything.

The result for me was that I cast away my childhood and tried to become a little adult, always trying harder to be good and perfect and without spot or blemish. I lived a scrupulously rigid life but I never measured up. They hit me because they love me.

My survival skills included: controlling every little detail of my life, numbing/abandoning my feelings, avoidance and indirect communication.

I rarely spoke directly or asked for what I needed and wanted. I hinted, suggested or spoke in a baby voice. Like this? Maybe? Pwetty pwease? All kinds of hedging and equivocation. As I grew older I used my words to lash out, to criticize and to question. I whiplashed between passive-aggressive language and harsh, attacking words.

When someone treated me abusively, I adopted coping mechanisms like avoidance. I never confronted their abusive treatment and I even avoided my own feelings about it. It was better to look away, pretend it never happened, everything is fine! la-la-la-la.

I controlled every aspect of my life by following a rigid schedule, becoming scrupulous and harshly critical about my personal appearance, my body, my daily schedule and my confession lists.

But all the control and scrupulosity didn’t take away my deep, real need for love. I turned my focus to relationships: seeking friendships and romantic love which would fulfill, heal and make me whole. My emotional intensity enabled me to become deeply intimate with people very quickly. But when someone got too close, I pulled away.

When I left the abusive church environment, I still found the abusive God everywhere I went. It seemed so many Christians believed in a harsh, judgmental concept of God because they were harsh with themselves and others. But I desperately wanted fellowship and I agreed to the terms they set in order to belong. If you want to be part of our fellowship, you must accept our concept of God.

I was willing, once again, to sacrifice my freedom for the feeling of belonging–even if that love and belonging was a substitute for real love.

I never took the time to develop my own understanding of God. I just kept accepting everyone else’s version of God. I kept trying make their interpretation of God my own.

I discounted the few times I’d sensed a kind, benevolent God gently guiding my life because I didn’t trust myself. So-and-so pastor says God doesn’t work that way so I must be wrong.

I hit rock bottom after realizing that even though I was no longer a helpless child, I continued to re-victimize myself by recreating the dysfunctional environment of my childhood.

Numbing myself was a coping mechanism necessary for surviving my dysfunctional childhood but it no longer helps me, it hinders my recovery.

I slowly came to God through the back door, indirectly. I made a connection with Mary. She was safe. She was maternal. She was gentle. I could hide myself in her skirts instead of looking directly at God.

That was a necessary step in my recovery and it was what I needed at the time. But Mary wasn’t God and she couldn’t effect the full recovery I needed. It has become clear to me that a full recovery means facing my root issue: my unhealthy view of God.

I am learning to listen to the wordless language of feelings. Where words have often destroyed and damaged my concept of God, feeling the feelings God gave me is leading me back to myself. God gave me my feelings and I’m allowed to feel them. I don’t need to repress, avoid, manipulate, deny or shame my feelings.

I am learning a new way of living.

I am taking care of myself. I am learning to listen to my gut instinct. As I have begun coming back to myself and taking care of myself, I am being led into a healthy relationship with God that is gentle, trusting and loving.

I don’t have to use all the same words as everyone else in order to still have a relationship with God. I can use words that are helpful and put aside the ones that are triggering.

Whenever I feel a tightening sensation in my chest or stomach, I know I’m reverting back to old, abusive concepts of God. But whenever I feel a warmth, looseness and easiness in my chest and stomach, I feel myself relaxing into God as I understand God.

I am learning the paradoxical truth: loving myself leads to loving God and others.

I have a long way to go, but slowly, my understanding of God is separating from the traits of my abusers.

Elizabeth Smart & the life-threatening danger of shame-based purity culture

2013-05-08T20:35:52Z

*trigger warning: rape, victim blaming*

I read an interesting line in the New Yorker yesterday, describing an important characteristic about one of the kidnapped girls who was recently rescued in Cleveland:

…she had to never forget who she was, and that who she was mattered..

She had to never forget that who she was mattered.

This line haunts me, especially when juxtaposed against the despair Elizabeth Smart felt after she was kidnapped:

…Smart spoke at a Johns Hopkins human trafficking forum, saying she was raised in a religious household and recalled a school teacher who spoke once about abstinence and compared sex to chewing gum.

“I thought, ‘Oh, my gosh, I’m that chewed up piece of gum, nobody re-chews a piece of gum, you throw it away.’ And that’s how easy it is to feel like you know longer have worth, you know longer have value,” Smart said. “Why would it even be worth screaming out? Why would it even make a difference if you are rescued? Your life still has no value.”

What is the difference between a kidnapped girl who actively looks for escape and the one who does not? One possible answer: she knows and owns her inherent worth.

I realize there are many contributing factors but we can’t underestimate the importance that a girl believes she is important. She believes she matters. She never forgets who she is and that who she is matters. She has an unshakeable belief that no matter what happens to her in captivity, SHE is always valuable.

When I started writing about the harmful effects of purity culture, I overlooked one of the most terrible, unintended consequences: when you teach young women that her identity and worth is tied to her virginity, you make her more vulnerable to despair if she is raped and thus, reduce her chance of survival.

A despairing rape victim is less likely report her rape. A despairing kidnap victim is less likely to actively seek escape. Because what would be the point? Why would it even be worth screaming about? Why would it even make a difference if you are rescued? Your life still has no value.

A girl who is raised in purity culture and then is raped may eventually realize that the parenting methods her parents used essentially conditioned her to be… a victim of non-consensual sex. And why would a purity-culture-girl report her rape when, as Jori’s story shows, she’d just be blamed for it anyway: “This sort of thing doesn’t happen to godly girls,” [her parents] told her. “You put yourself in a situation for this sort of thing to happen.”

Even for girls who are not raped or sexually molested but who grew up hearing the shame-based messages of purity culture, the resulting despair can have long-term negative effects on their married sex lives. I’ve received emails from young women who, because they had so internalized the message that My Worth Can Be Measured By My Virginity, felt horrifically guilty after “losing their virginity” on their wedding night. Some of these women still do not enjoy sex. Others have yet to experience an orgasm.

As one of my own friends said to me: “If you’ve been told your whole life no-no-no about sex, how do you just flip that switch after you’re married to yes-yes-yes?”

Ultimately, purity culture isn’t about sex, it’s about control. It’s about burrowing inside a woman’s heart and soul and mind to control how she views her body, her worth and whether she is lovable. Of course, this is done with the best intentions: protecting young women from unnecessary heartbreak.

But by using shame-based messages about sex, purity culture proponents actually expose their daughters to other kinds of danger: learned helplessness and a debilitating despair that prevents them from believing they are inherently valuable, no matter what they do and no matter what happens to them.

Believing she is valuable–no matter what–may literally save her life.

A mandate of freedom

2013-05-07T04:21:47Z

I don’t claim infallible sight. I’ve never claimed to be on a mission from God. What I do claim is the mandate of freedom to see what I see and say what I see.

Some call it truth. Others call it lies. Some call it courage. Others call it cowardice.

Some say I’m leading souls to Hell. Others say I’ve led them to freedom.

I think the truth–whatever it is–probably lies somewhere in the middle.

Ultimately, what people think of me is none of my business.

If I am overly invested in approval OR disapproval, I give others power over what I see and what I say.

I give myself permission to make mistakes, change my mind, apologize, wear a headscarf, wear a bikini, state an opinion, recant an opinion, experiment, ask questions and find answers wherever I find them.

I believe in a Big God who is able to handle my mistakes and if I’ve gone off track, well, God is big enough to let me know that, too.

My loyalty is not to my popularity. My loyalty is to knowing myself.

And who I am is ever changing. Growing and changing is scary but I ask God for the courage to change.

There are many things I cannot change and I acknowledge them:

I cannot change others, save others or wait for others to change before I change myself.

I can’t wait for others to take care of themselves before I take care of myself.

I can’t wait for circumstances to change before I take ownership of my own happiness.

I can’t wait for others to recognize my talent before I start exercising my gifts.

I can’t wait for someone to rescue me before I save myself.

I can’t wait for others to join me before I embark on the journey.

I believe in having fun. I don’t take myself too seriously.

I trust myself to make the decisions that are best for me and my family without seeking prior approval from others.

I make an effort to own my side of the blogosphere and keep it pretty.

My side of the blogosphere is damn awesome and I don’t need to let batsh*t crazy come crap all over my pretty lawn.

When I protect myself, I protect you. When I don’t waste my time, I don’t waste yours, either.

When I refuse to engage the crazy, I prevent the spreading of crazy.

I see what I see and I say what I see.

I am a woman of valor.

I believe in freedom.

The New Misogyny: “bro-culture” pastors, sexist Christian comedians and abuse apologetics disguised as female empowerment

2013-05-06T22:13:34Z

When I was growing up, the Christian misogynist wore a suit and tie, poured on enough cologne to slay an elephant and toted a Bible the size of an encyclopedia. This pastor boomed Biblical pronouncements from the pulpit and quoted lots of Scripture to defend his abusive, anti-woman teachings.

You know, I kinda miss the Old School Misogynist. At least he was obvious. At least he didn’t pretend to be all pro-woman.

These days, the Christian misogynist is far more subtle. He probably wears hip clothing and may even use feminist jargon to disguise his underlying sexism.

These are the pastors who tweet and talk endlessly about their smokin’ hot wives. These are the “Christian comedians” who write dating manifestos about why Christian “girls” don’t have boyfriends. Apparently, reading your Bible at Starbucks is NOT attractive to these men. Maybe you should try wearing white shorts to a prayer meeting.

What makes me ill is that these are men are my peers. These guys are not my Dad’s age. These guys are not my grandfather. These men should know better.

It’s even more discouraging when you call their views offensive only to be told by their yes-men, “Hey, can’t you take a joke?”

This is the New Misogyny: when huge bloggers like Jon Acuff claim that sexist jokes about women help “clear away the clutter of Christianity so we can see the beauty of Christ.”

This is the New Misogyny: when bestselling Christian authors tell “girls” how to live a better love story by being a supporting character in a story a man is writing. [Note: Don Miller took down that post, but I never heard him recant his harmful view of women.]

This is the New Misogyny: when Prodigal magazine publishes sexist articles under the guise of satire and “truth telling.” Oh, yes. John B. Crist believes his sexist humor is excusable because he’s JUST TELLING THE TRUTH.

[Note: Prodigal removed that post w/o explanation]

This is the New Misogyny: when a popular author of many books on Christian ministry and spirituality asks women why they don’t comment on his blog and then he dismisses their answers.

This is the New Misogyny: when a woman engaging theology blogs under a male pseudonym is treated with greater respect than when she comments as her female persona.

This is the New Misogyny: when “Biblical Marriagists” claim they’re empowering women while defending the very theology that oppresses them.

You guys. What is happening, here?

It’s not that I doubt the sincerity of all these Christians. In fact, it’s their sincerity which troubles me. If there’s one thing I’ve learned from all my years in an abusive church, it’s that the most dangerous abuse apologetic comes from a sincere heart and good intentions.

And the most subtle form of spiritual abuse is cloaked in messages of empowerment.

I guess when you’re hip and sincere, nobody suspects you of misogyny. You can tell the same lies about women that have been told for thousands of years and all anybody will see is the sincerity of your heart and your precious nerd glasses.

*due to an anti-feminist website sending an influx of trolling commenters, comments for this post are now closed.*

Outfit of the wEEk

2013-05-04T21:59:23Z

I’ve been in a long skirt mood this past week. The weather has been weird: windy, cool and then suddenly blazing hot. A light, long skirt with a pretty pattern feels lovely in all kinds of weather. I felt flow-y and pensive. I’m not sure what to make of my facial expression, though. I was going for “pensive” and instead I think it comes across “angry/depressed”? I like playing with clothes and facial expressions even when I make mistakes or come across in a way I didn’t intend. Experimenting is an important part of self-discovery, I think. Skirt and 3/4 length cardigan: White House/Black Market.

Drum-roll please My book title is……

2013-05-03T23:50:20Z

Girl at The End of the World
my escape from fundamentalism and search for faith with a future

by: Elizabeth Esther

Releasing early spring 2014

pssst: like my FB author page to get early, insider announcements and book info!

Doe-a-deer has a puh-china

2013-05-01T03:05:26Z

My five year-old twins learned a new word from a friend. Puh-china. They had many thoughts on this word: what it is, where it is and also, that one time? When they fell? On their bike? They hurt-ed their puh-china. They were deeply amused when I offered the proper pronunciation.

“Vuh? Like van?” they crowed, cracking up in hysterics. “Nooooo, Mommmy! LIKE YOU EVEN KNOW!”

“I didn’t learn that word until 4^th grade,” my 8^th grader drolly remarked.

My how times have changed. Oh, for the days of yore when the most scandalous word my little kids said was the “s” word; you know, stupid. It’s funny with a big family because younger siblings seem to grow up so much faster than the older ones. I don’t know what it is, exactly, but when the twins busted onto the scene they stole the show. And our dignity.

Time was, we sent out annual Christmas cards and enrolled our kids in All The Proper Activities. We did Mommy n’ Me and weekly library trips and flirted dangerously with that thing called cotillion—which, I later realized was just a fancy way of saying “table manners.”

But the twins’ arrival in our lives heralded a new season. Or, rather, became a harbinger of doom for our highly Orange-County-ified parenting egos. It was a necessary death, I can see that now.

Still, it was a slow, death-by-a-million-little-embarrassing moments—like when your twins start shouting PUH-CHINA! in Trader Joe’s at four-fifteen in the afternoon while all the Responsible Parents are picking up their gluten-free kale and raw quinoa for a properly whole-paycheck dinner, followed by a side of cotillion no doubt.

NOT THAT I’M COMPARING MYSELF.

Actually, comparison was the first thing to die. Mainly, out of sheer exhaustion. Something had to give and, frankly, I just couldn’t worry about what other parents thought of me anymore. Not even when I got passive-aggressive mass emails from Room Parents wanting to know if Those Parents Who Haven’t Volunteered Yet could be troubled to bring in a container of disinfectant wipes and, p.s. teacher’s gift money is past due! #SaveOurSchools #ForOurKidsSake

When I was feeling particularly undignified, I bolstered myself with poetry, particularly the words of Elizabeth Bishop whose poem, One Art, is about love lost but never mind that. I appropriated it to my own means: dignity lost. Because “the art of losing isn’t hard to master;/ so many things seem filled with the intent/ to be lost that their loss is no disaster.”

It’s no disaster I began repeating to myself in grocery aisles, in church pews, in the company of parents with 2.5 children.

And you know what? It’s really not. It’s really not a disaster when one of your twins—the melodramatic one—throws herself upon the floor of Peet’s Coffee and wails about wanting a MABLE-NUT-CONE!

Because she’s absolutely right: maple-nut scones are delicious and as you scoop her up and waltz out of the coffee shop you can whisper in her ear that yes, life is terribly unfair but it’s also bursting full of wonderful things like free sunshine, raindrops on roses. And whiskers on kittens! BRIGHT COPPER KETTLES AND WARM WOOLEN MITTENS!

This is the second lesson in mastering disaster: you really must break into song because children are easily distracted by the sound of music. Indeed, the way I see it, the butcher’s case at Albertsons is aliiiiiiive with the sound of doe a deer, a female deer.

Granted, your middle-schoolers might skedaddle to the produce section while you yodel through the meat department but your little ones will gape at you with shining eyes. Your heart will suddenly explode with the unabashed epiphany that nobody—not nobody, Mama!—can be The Best Parent to your child except you.

Yes, you with all your quirky, undiginified ways because in the end, all they really want is you and I’m not sure why it took me five children to figure this out but the Universe works in mysterious ways, so they tell me. And yes, sweetheart, doe-a-dear, a female deer has a puh-china. I think. I don’t know if that’s the official name, use my iPhone to look it up on Wikipedia.

Oh, that’s another dignity loss/disaster. Screen time. When my Big Kids were little, I was all about the limited screen time. The restrictions. The rules. The reading of books before the watching of PBS and educational movies, so help me Rhonda. I was so progressive back then, dammit.

I miss my old, progressive self like I miss my size zero jeans. Which is to say, not at all.

[SIDEBAR: Because what IS a size zero, exactly? Is that like Coke Zero for denim—all pretending to be Diet Coke but with sucky taste and 1,000 calories of self-importance? Last time I checked, being zero wasn’t all that great. Being zero meant being nothing and I’m not nothing, I’m something. In fact, I’m the most important something to my kids, stretchy yoga pants and all. But I digress.]

What I really want you to know is that I had a long, responsible discussion with my twins about puh-chinas. We discussed all the necessary things and I made gallant promises to re-up my classroom volunteerism, master the art of losing my dignity and also, introduce them to quinoa. Who knows? I may even enroll them in cotillion–because CLEARLY we needs some manners up in here.

But when the twins asked me why boys have “lines” coming out of their bodies, I said we can wait until they’re in 4^th grade to discuss that. After all, there’s only so much disaster I can master.