March 27, 2008

The Real Reason...

Today we discuss the real reason women are still looked down upon in professional circles.

As I sit, mentally singing along with "Oh Little Joe!" and "That's Why I Am So Blue", which is currently playing for Captain Chaos to settle him prior to his nap, I am startlingly reminded of the intellectual conversations I had only 24 months ago with my coworkers. We discussed literature, music, art, cinema, politics, fashion, sports. I was regarded as "someone who knew" many things.

As I was out last week with my mom to buy Easter clothes for the kiddos (who looked adorable BTW), I was shocked and dismayed to find myself having "the conversation" with a total stranger in the Gymboree store...that's right...I, Kork, a college-educated woman of the millennium, was standing in a children's clothing store, searching through a rack of clearance items for great deals, turned to a stranger and said "how old is your baby?" "Oh...how adorable! Have you started thinking about what you'll be doing for school?"

I almost passed out from the shock!!!!! I SWORE when I became a parent I wouldn't be THAT MOM! And here I am, not even 2 years after my firstborn child was born, asking strangers their feelings about parochial, public, charter, and private schools...which was followed by a conversation about potty training.

This caused me to search my brain for knowledge of the above-mentioned subjects. I realized that my repetoire of "hit songs" has grown to include "He Don't Got a Belly Button" by the Boyz in the Sink, the Handy Manny theme song, Higglytown Heroes theme song, and the Hot Dog Dance from Mickey Mouse Clubhouse. While the last 3 are by They Might Be Giants, what does it say when a once-cutting-edge band is recording and releasing albums for Disney?!?!?!? My film conversations now include comments such as "why do they have put such vulgar toilet or sexual humor into children's movies? Can't parents sit for 90 minutes and enjoy truly clean, innocent entertainment without an implied love triangle, or hints of sex?" in relation to movies such as Robots, Happy Feet, Shrek, and have to wonder why a movie like The Last Mimzy should be shown to my children when it talks so openly about the power of ancient mystical things, and one of the characters openly meditates and reads palms? Politics brought me to wonder why it is that a Moms' group has the "cool" crowd and the rest of us? and why wasn't I invited to the play date at the park the other day?

Yes, I have come to the realization that the radical shift from that which society claims important to all things benefiting or enriching, or troublesome or dangerous for our children makes us less important. After all...shouldn't we be more concerned with whether Barack is related to Brad Pitt and Hilary is related Angelina Jolie?










And if you didn't catch the sarcasm of the last comment I made...I'll lay it on a little thicker.


Actually, I'm saddened by the fact that the well-being of the next generation of politicians, doctors, scientists, and teachers (and all the other professions I didn't list) is less important than which charity I'm supporting this year, or which manager is moving to which department...


And now that Veggie Tales, the Ballad of Little Joe is almost over, I should put this away, make up the meatloaf I promised my mother (she's sick and Daddy's out all week taking a woodturning class), and get myself all dolled up to go work at the consignment sale my Moms' group is helping with.

Then I need to prepare the bags for the kids, and prepare myself to have Tiny Princess in the nursery for the first time in her 10 weeks of life outside the womb. I am, needless to say, a basket case about someone other than me, or an immediate family member holding and rocking her, changing her diaper, or feeding her (I'll be pumping a bottle for her, just in case).

I think I'll need a Valium, or a good shot of whiskey to get through this....

1 comment:

Ang said...

(((((Kork))))
Love and Prayers being sent up for you girl..And this too shall pass