Equal Rights for Dads!

Instead of all this Target boycott nonsense, who's ready to join a real cause for public restroom reform?

Demand changing tables in ALL public male restrooms!

It's 2016. Dads participate now. They expect to, want to, and deserve to! 

Some families have only a Dad. Or brother, uncle, grandpa. What are they supposed to do?

Some families have only two Dads. What are they supposed to do? 

Some families have stay-at-home Dads. What are they supposed to do? 

And some families just plain share responsibilities and Moms sometimes need a friggin break.


Ways to ACT:

• Write letters to the offending businesses, their parent companies, and franchises.
• Make and sign community petitions.
• Put notes on the walls and doors of restrooms with your requests.
• Write, "Where's the changing table? #ParentEquality" on the men's restroom mirrors with a dry erase marker.
• Dads, start changing poopy diapers in store aisles, restaurant tables, office hallways, and other inappropriate places. 
• Share more ideas in the comments!

It will be epic. Whatever you decide to do, take a picture and post it on social media with #ParentEquality (unless you come up with something more clever - if so, let me know!). Include the location so everyone else can be prepared when they frequent that business. Also include those businesses that recognize Dad Rights and celebrate them!

Dads can't breastfeed, but they can do everything else. That means they deserve to have the same opportunity and right to a public place to wipe their children's behinds.

We're All 16 Years Old On the Inside

Turns out, there’s no such thing as an adult. Yeah, I was shocked, too. I’m going to be 30 this year and I keep thinking that, for sure, I’ll feel like an adult by then. I mean, I’m married, I have a kid, I run a business – those are all real adult-like things – so why do I still feel like a child?

Why? Because I am still a child - or teenager, I suppose. Every adult is. It's my theory that we stop progressing socially after age 16. We have more responsibilities, maybe. And perhaps a more mature perspective. But after our 16^th birthday, we’re all basically still 16.

This theory first began when I had a conversation with a 60 year old woman about an experience she had going to her 40 year high school reunion. She ran into an old boyfriend – a relationship that ended kindly enough, but she married soon after high school and they hadn’t kept in touch. He confided in her that she had made him feel important and special and felt she was his first real, true friend. This wasn’t a romantic gesture, as he was happily married, but his life had been impacted so significantly by her friendship. As she told me this about this experience, I heard this 60 year old woman turn 16 years old in her voice, her mannerisms, her glee that a boy she had liked had really, actually liked her back, and that, in some way, she still mattered. In the end, isn’t that all a 16 year old girl really wants? A drivers’ license, and a boy to think she’s special.

The theory was further solidified when my mom, probably 50-ish years old at the time, said to me, in complete seriousness, “I know I look old, but I still feel 16 on the inside.” To this day, my mother doesn’t look old or her age. And we talk to each other often about boys and body image and stuff that stresses us out. We share clothes when I visit and shop together. And when I lived with her, it was like living with a roommate, not a mom. (Best roommate ever, BTW – she never asked me to pay my portion of rent and she always let me eat her food.)

Then, the theory was proven when my husband, Tyler, and I had separate altercations with “adults” on the very same day. He, in person - A colleague, 15 years his senior, yelled in his face about something Tyler did not do, and then stomped away without giving Tyler an opportunity to explain himself. And this was not the first time an interaction had gone this way. And me, via social media (that damn social media) – as an administrator on a support group page, where several women got in a cat fight, began name calling, and proceeded to private message me seven times over the course of the day to tell on the others and demand they be banned from the group. Again, approximately the third time something like this had happened to me.

Tyler and I nearly ripped all our hair out that day. Here we were, two kids, wondering what the hell was wrong with people – adults, even. One expects this kind of behavior in middle and high school. But, among people with respectable professions, higher education, and middle and high schoolers of their own? Are they serious? The only explanation for such behavior is that they’re 16 years old. Socially, they’re juniors in high school, they’ve just started seriously dating, emotions are confused and exaggerated, and they must not be told what to do or they’ll slam their bedroom door and paint their nails black. Metaphorically speaking, of course.

I hypothesize that this theory will be beneficial for me during future altercations with “adults.” I can remind myself as they’re blasting insults at me or my husband, or hiding behind their computer complaining, that inside, they’re 16 and the way a 16 year old reacts may be irrational, but it’s the only way they know how to communicate. And I can be kindly, secretly condescending as I take the higher ground and attempt to turn my own insides a year older.

I Can Do (Almost) Anything

I recently took upon the task of building bookshelves for my office. I’ve accumulated a few (hundred) books over the last few years and particle-board bookshelves are THE WORST. Because I had more time than money, I looked up some ideas on Pinterest, headed to the hardware store and got to work staining and measuring. Upon time for actual assembly, I was still feeling pretty motivated and optimistic. I drilled my first hole . . . and stripped the very first screw. After a slight change in design, I switched to a countersink bit to make the shelves look more professional . . . and it snapped in half during my practice drill. After the second stripped screw, stripped beyond repair, I took the irrational leap to SCREW DIYs forever.

Then, I had a most important epiphany: I don’t have to make everything from scratch by myself - I can ask other people to help me; I can pay someone to help me; heck, I can even BUY something already made at a store! And, the kicker? It doesn’t make me less of a person, less of a woman, or less of a mom or wife. Turns out, Pinterest is NOT the golden standard of personhood.

So, woodworking is not one of my skills, whatever. Guess what other skills I have? A BUNCH of other things. Remember that list I made about all the things I’m interested in and all of the things I could pursue if I wanted to? I had graduated from college two years prior and was still on a mad search for my life’s purpose. At the time, because I couldn’t decide what was best for me, I half tried all of it and half didn’t do anything at all.

A few weeks before writing that post, I had enlisted the help of a life coach in order to possibly narrow the search for my “life’s purpose.” Near the end of our twelve weeks, she challenged me to dream: “Dream big,” she’d say, then I’d respond. “No, bigger!” she’d say, and I’d give a bigger response. “No, Abbie, I want you to dream even BIGGER!” Well, my dream got so big and real that, while packing my entire home and preparing to move from Rexburg to Las Vegas, I enrolled myself into a PhD program and started my own wellness consulting business.

Today, I sit facing my gorgeous bookshelves (that a friend lovingly assembled for me) in my home office, researching three different essay topics because I can’t decide which one I want to know more about. Sounds super nerdy to you, perhaps, but to me, it means that after ten long years of searching and praying to know what to do with my life, I’ve finally found an answer.

A Letter to Mothers Who Have a Hard Time Being a Mother

Remember that post I wrote about how having babies isn’t the worst? This is not a rebuttal, nor does it negate my initial postpartum emotions. I lived in a state of euphoria for weeks after giving birth. I had the easiest newborn ever. In fact, having a newborn baby was probably the easiest job I’ve ever had.

But, when my newborn started moving on his own and stopped sleeping all day, and my hormones fluctuated and period returned, the depression hit. And it hit hard. All of those things that forced me to postpone having a baby became my reality. I couldn’t nap when I wanted to. I couldn’t sleep in anymore. I couldn’t go anywhere alone. Heck, I couldn’t ever BE alone. And then I realized why so many moms complain about their kids on Facebook and why so many women decide not to have children at all.

I reconnected with a few old friends this summer, friends I haven’t seen in almost ten years, friends I had pre-marriage, pre-baby. I found myself drowning in the nostalgia of that single, flat-bellied life where days and paychecks were my own. The rest of the summer was spent in a trance, with me wishing to go back to that simpler time. On top of this, I’d been experiencing an identity crisis. Last Mother’s Day, a cashier said to me as I fished for my wallet while holding Coltrane, “Happy Mother’s Day.” I stopped and thought, “How strange, I guess I’ll call my mom and let her know that ‘Cathy’ says ‘Happy Mother’s Day.’” After a second, I realized what she meant and I said, “Thank you.” “Mom” is the person you call when you’re stuck in traffic and need to pass the time, “Mom” is the person with all the answers about what to do when you only have $20 in the bank, “Mom” is in St. Louis, not here. “Mom” is someone else, not me.

That trance lasted until last week when I went to a wilderness and survival conference in Hibbard, ID, of all places. The whole field smelled of burning wood and patchouli, and I’ve never seen so many beards and cowhide pants and earth tones all in one place. It was pretty magical. I only had the time and resources to sign up for one class on foraging and preparing herbs. I really wanted to leave Coltrane home so that he wouldn’t be a distraction to me and the others in the class, but I had to bring him with me because it was a Tuesday and Dad has a real job now. The class was spectacular, Coltrane was relatively peaceful and happy (thank you, raisins) and I only missed part of the discussion on white willow while I followed him as he explored the outdoors.

Learning to play the guitar is necessary for survival.

 

As the class finished preparing their tinctures, a man came over to me and said, “I just have to tell you, I’m very impressed with you as a mother.” He went on to say that he has observed a variety of mothers like “The Shopping Cart Mom” who is frazzled and on her last nerve as her kids whine at the grocery store, and me, who is “on the other end of the spectrum.” I was so flattered, not just because I often feel frazzled and on my last nerve, but also because he said he could see how much love I had for my child. He believes that is what matters most in a person’s life: the love the mother has for her child and how that child grows up and shares that love with others. He could not have picked a more perfect time or way to share this.

I attended the conference for another couple of days and having Coltrane with me in the cold, damp outdoors was not a distraction at all. I loved having him with me digging in the dirt and making friends with the most awesome, intelligent, relaxed, and peaceful people I’d ever met. I decided to try emulating their attitude and stop criticizing myself as a mother. So what, I don’t sit on the floor and play learning games all day. I haven’t taught him how to do sign language or use a real toilet. So, the word “Batman” comes out as a guttural “Mama” and that’s about the only thing he knows how to say. What-ever. In the end, I really, truly, and completely love my weird baby.

Yes, my life has changed completely since he arrived and I’ll probably always miss aspects of my pre-baby life. But, Mothers, we have a super rad job where we get to stop every so often in our crazy lives and color a picture of Iron Man without it being strange. We get to go shopping for teeny cute clothes that cost almost nothing and have snack time. Kids are stinky and obnoxious, but they’re also hilarious and weird and beautiful. Their little hands and toes and potbellies and wispy hair. 

And my Coltrane’s enormous eyeballs and birthmark.

Photo by Abbey Belliston, A. Lee Photo & Design

As I write this (instead of doing homework), Coltrane is talking to himself in his crib in the other room, most likely reading books he’s pulled off of his bookshelf and I think, what else was my life supposed to look like, but this?

Gender Is Relevant

Do you find this picture offensive? Embarrassing? Uncomfortable? Well, you shouldn’t, because it’s just science. (And, come on, Kindergarten Cop is such a classic!  - “It’s not a tooma” will always make me laugh.)

Disclaimer: The following opinions are by no means a statement about the LGBT community. Like, not at all. I truly love everyone and just want you to be happy no matter who you are inside or out. That said, I do have some strong opinions about biology.

I recently watched an interview where Boy George said that he hopes that one day, gender will be “irrelevant.” While I agreed with the general point he was making, I have to lovingly disagree and say: GENDER IS RELEVANT.

• If gender was irrelevant, there would only be one door to the public restroom.

• If gender was irrelevant, clothing stores would have one department.

• If gender was irrelevant, the debate about equal pay would sound like, “Some people get paid less than other people for doing the same job, and that’s not fair.” (That isn’t fair, but that debate is for another time.)

• If gender was irrelevant, the LGBT movement would not exist. LGBT would mean that people love other people and some people identify as people.

• If gender was irrelevant, Bruce would not have felt the need to become Caitlyn.

Gender matters. There are books and journal articles written on the subject. Some people have a penis, testicles, a prostate, and a tendency towards developing facial hair. In the scientific world, these characteristics make a person male, man, boy. Some people have a vagina, ovaries, a uterus, and a tendency towards developing breasts. These people biologically would be considered female, woman, girl. Animals have gender. Insects have gender. Plants have gender-specific parts. Plumbing and automotive parts are referred to by gender-specific terms (this always makes me giggle). There are languages throughout the world where even words have gender. Gender is relevant.

When Tyler and I first learned I was pregnant with a boy, I stared at the ultrasound monitor in shock and didn’t believe the nurse until Tyler shouted, “LEGOS!” (I would have bet good money that I was carrying a girl. Her name was going to be Juniper.) Now, I have no problem with Coltrane wanting to play with Barbies or other “girl toys,” but, scientifically speaking, he’s a boy. And I plan to raise him like a boy. I wouldn’t send back a doll if he really loved it and it made him happy, but I’m pretty sure Santa is planning to give him Legos and dinosaurs and cars this Christmas.

Maybe I’m misinterpreting the conversation and gender neutrality actually means that we need to treat everyone with the same kindness and respect regardless of gender. If that’s the case, then I wholeheartedly support gender neutrality and we can all disregard everything I’ve just said. But even so…

Gender will always be relevant. And it always should be.

I am woman. And you’ve heard me roar.