The response to Natasha's Queer Parent 101 post was so overwhelming, that I've asked her to become a regular contributor here on Offbeat Mama!

I am a feminist. I believe firmly that a woman's "place" is wherever she wants and needs to be. (I wish very much that we lived in a world where that were possible for all women). I also believe that happy (reasonably) well-adjusted parents make happy, (reasonably) well adjusted children, regardless of whether those parents work outside or inside of the home. So why is it that I find it so difficult to answer the question: "What do you do for a living?" I find it equally distressing to respond to the ever present: "So, when are you going back to work?"

I hate the word housewife. I hate the word homemaker. These words are so loaded with patriarchal bullshit that I can barely utter them in any seriousness, much less use them to describe myself or what I do. Yet that's the check-box that applies to me. And because of it, I get dismissed by the folks at the bank, the car dealership, and occassionally, other parents. It feels like a pretty limiting check box. But what else do I call myself? How can I encapsulate what I do, day in and day out, without sounding either overly-simplistic or self-denigrating?

Continue reading "Yes, I am a feminist housewife" →

So there I was…about to sit down for some lunch with my father, step-mother, Ranger and The Kids. Ranger and Big J were wrestling in the living room when Big J shrieked with laughter, "Daaadddy, you hit me in my penis!"

It was as if a record scratched to a halt in the distance. My father looked up from his newspaper, and my step-mother glowered over in my direction. In a low whisper she said, "Did-he-just-say" (wait for it…) "Penis?"

"Yeess," I slowly and mockingly whispered back.

Keep in mind that we're Texans, true "suthanuhs" my father would say, and there are just some topics that those with proper decorum do not discuss in the presence of others. Especially when you are about to eat. Correct terminology for private parts are one of those topics.

Continue reading "So, what do your kids call their genitals?" →

A version of this post originally appeared on Single Spaced.

I just read this AWESOME post over at Feministe about attachment parenting and feminism. The discussion is still unraveling, but I wanted to write more thoughts about this, especially now that my daughter is now an fiercely independent toddler and having none of that attachment shit.

Strange enough, for as long as I’ve been a mom, it had never occurred to me to google the terms “attachment parenting” and “feminism” in one go. Point blank, I’ve been having a very difficult time trying to marry my feminist ideals with my thoughts on what a mother should do because these early years of my daughter’s life have been so demanding and I have a lot of hang-ups about whether or not I’m making enough sacrifices for my daughter.

A lot of those hang-ups are also a result of the way I was raised and the way my mom talks about motherhood, but the reality is, BF and I actually share parenting duties more than most couples I know, and I still have a sense that I’m entirely responsible for her as the mom.

Continue reading "Is feminist motherhood an oxymoron?" →

The hardest part of being a mother is trying to be a mother.

Let me clarify.

The hardest part of being a mother is trying to be the mother everyone tells you you must be.

For me, being a neo-riot grrrl/feminist with a strong will and an even stronger spirit, it was particularly hard. I wanted desperately to be the mother that I read about in parenting magazines, but I was dealing with raging hormones, leaking breasts, and a sneaking suspicion that that mother with the glossy hair and Ann Taylor clothing wasn't who I was supposed to be.

Continue reading "Why you should forget the mothering magazines" →

The first social reality of which I ever became aware was that my mother was the most embarrassing person on the entire planet.

She dressed loudly, spoke louder, and seemed never to have heard of make-up. She taught piano to poor children and senior citizens. She was a rebel with many causes and wouldn’t allow my sister or me to escape any of them. She burned dinner many a night.

When she attempted to sew me a pair of pants the pockets ended up at the ankles. When she lined up next to the perfect, well-coiffed stay-at home moms with whom she shared the P.T.A., I was certain that I had been cheated by having received a mama well below market-standards.

And so I rebelled.

Continue reading "Daughter of an offbeat mama" →