The New International Symbol of Peace

As one of my preparations this year for Christmas, I decided I wanted to make some ornaments with my daughters who are 4 and nearly 3. It needed to be something simple for their sake and for mine. My husband is a pacifist: peace is probably the most important condition for him. So I thought a dove would be a lovely thing to do.

A tree hung with many white doves would be symbolic of so much. It is not just peace they bring. A dove brought the branch to Noah signifying the flood was over. The Holy Spirit descended like a dove on Jesus at his baptism. It is a sign of God's work in our world, and perfect for decorating a tree that we use to help celebrate the birth of the living God.

At first I thought we would buy some pre-made wooden doves and paint them white, sparkle with glitter and have our ornaments. However, I couldn't find any wooden doves at the craft store, so I had to scrap that plan. Next I began looking for a dove ornament I could trace onto card stock or craft foam. No luck there either.

Then my thought turned to those Christmas cards. I noticed every store was selling them for 50% off. Surely there was a box with a lovely, prominently placed dove that we could cut out and hang as our ornament. So on my big Christmas shopping trip, I began to look. I looked, and looked, and looked and looked. I visited 4 stores, and must have looked at over 100 different cards and found not a single card with a dove. What I did find was a very unusual trend in peace symbols for this year, it was almost offensive really.

Sure there were any number of distasteful cards (if you ask me). What does a woman on a motor scooter with a santa hat have to do with the birth of the Christ child? Or the many cards depicting thin, stylish women in some sort of festive situation: with heals on, a feathery scarf, martini in hand, overloaded with packages. None of those convey the message of peace and hope the savior brings to the world. Materialism was everywhere, it seems that's the true meaning of Christmas these days. But there were other disturbing cards like cats, dogs, rabbits, chipmonks etc. in santa hats that say nothing about the meaning of Christmas. Of course my favorite card to hate is the one that wishes me a Merry Christmas, Happy Chanukka and Happy Kwanza all in one. That one is pretty much offensive to anyone who celebrates one of those holidays and is only given (I hope) by idealistic teens and 20somethigns who think they're honoring everyone by saying "have a great holiday of the variety you celebrate, even if I don't take the time to find out or acknowledge exactly what holiday that is". I'm pretty sure there aren't many Christians or Jews out there who go around thinking "wow, isn't Mary so considerate for including my holiday in this list."

But it wasn't these meaningless cards that bothered me. What really caught my attention was a trend in cards, cards that said "Peace" on the front. The first time I saw it I simply thought "how odd", but as I continued looking, and even in different stores I began to wonder: when did the Snowman become the new symbol for peace?! Yes, that's right, the snowman. I must have seen a dozen different cards that said "peace" while prominently featuring a snow man!

The more I thought about it, the more odd it became. If anything, the snowman is a symbol of oppression. Come on, people, can't you see it? I mean first of all it's a "man", next, he's white. Do you see snowmen of color, ever? But beyond that, there's so much more. For one thing, one has to have a few luxuries to make one, including: a yard, warm clothing, free time, accessories that you don't mind leaving outside, the list goes on. No one slaving away to put some crumbs of food on the table is going to be making a snowman anytime soon. But then, look at snowmen, they should be wealthy figures considering their makers are, right? No, they're not. they're workers, often holding brooms. They have very little, if any, clothing. These are clearly poor figures. And you can see what their wealthy makers think of the working class: fat with skinny arms and noses often made of carrots, or eyes of coal. It's not an attractive carricature. And many snowmen smoke: as if somehow that's a class or economic habit. Truly, let's face it, the snowman is one of the least kind depictions of winter, and perhaps worst of all: it's disposable. We expect them to die rather quickly.

So why a symbol of peace? Truly it baffles me. There is nothing in a snowman that proclaims "peace on earth" or that encourages divisions to cease. However, several cardmakers have decided it does some how. It's truly perplexing.

In the end, I gave up finding the perfect model for my peace doves and drew one myself to make cutouts with. Our tree looks lovely. But next year please don't expect to find me breaking out the new international symbol of peace: the snow man.

Home is....where?

It's that time of year. The leaves on the trees are all red, yellow, orange and brown. There are more leaves on the ground than on the trees. The air has turned cold, the days are shorter. It is autumn, and signs that winter will be here shortly are all around. I noticed something today for the first time. Inevitably at this time of year my thoughts turn toward home. It's so natural. It is the harvest season and all our traditions point us to going home and celebrating our abundance and giving thanks. It is the ultimate family season and everything around us points home.

That begins me thinking: where is "home" exactly? There are a great many ideas about home. It's where the heart is, right? Or is it where the heart was? Is it where our memories lie? Or is it where our families gather? Where is my home?

I think for many people, home is a specific building where one grew up and lived until one set off on adult life adventures. I know this is true for my father. That home he moved to as a child is still occupied by my 90-year-old Grandmother. The small town once inhabited by workers in the local mine has changed little over the decades, and when he would go back, my father still was called by his high school nick-name. Clearly this is his home, and it's no surprise to me that in the autumn of his life, he has returned home to live. He is comfortable there, he is known there. His home is truly there.

But I don't have a home like that. My childhood home was sold a while ago and is now occupied by strangers. I have no family there anymore and I wonder if I would still be known in the small town I grew up in. Even if I was known, where would I go to visit? Who would welcome me? Where is my home?

My husband's parents moved frequently and left his primary "home" around the time he graduated from college. Is he, like me, without a home? No, not quite. While his parents moved, they went together to a new home and have made it so much their own it has a home like element. It is the place family can gather and celebrate holidays and enjoy the company of one another. It is one of many places my husband and his family are at home. For them, it is the gathering of family and the celebrations together that make a home.

I don't have a home like that either. My parents divorced about the time I went away to college. There is no happy gathering place. My father's hometown is completely foreign to me. His family ways are not the ways I am accustomed to. We never spent a holiday with them. I don't know the people, I don't recognize the traditions. Likewise, my mother's family rarely gathered for anything but weddings or funerals. My mother was the daughter of a forest ranger and lived all over the Midwest. And while that culture is somewhat more familiar to me, it does not provide a frame of reference. I think, in fact, that my mother spent her adult life trying to escape home and the traditions and history of her family. My family does not gather. My family does not have holidays together.

As Thanksgiving approaches, the ultimate family holiday, I find myself longing for a home. Of course we have a lovely house with darling children laughing and playing. But what I want is that greater home that tells of my history and traditions. I find myself wondering where that could be. Is it on an Island I left 8 years ago, inhabited by strangers? Is it shattered in so many pieces like the marriage my parents could not repair? Do I have a home?

I find myself feeling homeless, but then thinking that is unfair to people who truly are homeless, but it is not unlike the feeling of being an orphan I had after my parents' divorce. I want so badly to have that home to connect to, and realize it doesn't exist. It makes me wonder if there isn't something terribly wrong with our culture. Maybe people aren't meant to uproot and move around all over the place without extended families. Maybe we need to stay where we are from or at least with our people.

Maybe we humans are really tribal beings deep inside. I've always marveled at cultures that had long oral histories, people who carried their stories with them where ever they went, passed down for centuries. I always longed for that sense of who I was, from whence I came. Without a place called home, I had no people I was connected to. Family members were relative strangers, their stories had no meanings because I did not know the places or people they spoke of, besides the stories were rarely told since we rarely gathered.

Whatever is at the root of my feeling without a home, I know that this time of year particularly brings it on. I didn't feel this way in the perpetual summer of the subtropical climate we just left behind. There's something about the smell of smoke coming from chimneys and the cold weather that makes me think of baking that also turns my mind and my heart to that place and family that simply do not exist. It happens every fall, I am just now realizing. It's this kind of homesick sadness that comes over me and never quite resolves until the holidays have past and spring is upon us. Where do I come from? What is my history? What are my traditions? Who are my people? Where is home?

Dorothy said "there's no place like home" I'm sure she was right, I just hope that one day I will discover mine.

Important moments in motherhood

From the moment of conception of your first child, people begin telling you about the days that will be the most important of your life from that moment forward. There is the day of birth itself. Many people would put that day up there. Indeed it is no small task to produce a 7lb human being from unmentionable body parts. I have done it twice, and would say that it is a significant accomplishment. However, I'm not sure if that was the most important day in my life, or even the most important day in my life relative to a new life.

I think mothering is about a series of events, each one important and significant in it's own right. Growing a baby into a fully functional human being is an ongoing process of important moments that build upon important moments. As a mother it's my job to live the most important day of my life over and over again as I take on the awesome responsibility of shaping the future as represented in my offspring.

Some days it is hard to look at the charming little tear streaked faces that have spent all day not listening to the wisdom of their loving mother only to find themselves with endless bumps and bruises from all the accidents they could have avoided if they had heeded warnings. The frustration of all the tasks that could have been accomplished if only they'd heard your instructions rests heavily on their shoulders. And as their mother you wonder how on earth you make a difference on days like this.

But every once in a while there comes a moment when you think "this is what it's about". Recently I had a moment like that in the most unlikely circumstances. After a long day at work, I took my girls out for the ultimate parenting sin: fast food. Their dad was states away and I was exhausted. It was kids night at a local fast food chain and we were going if it killed us all (and at moments I feared it might). It was balloon artist night. I made sure to grab seats near where said artist was lavishing attention on cute college age girls, having learned from last time that if you sit near the kids you might not get a visit before it's bedtime and this leads to screaming children who think you are the very meanest person on the face of the earth.

Fortunately the artist of the night must have been lectured on the point of kids night and after we sat down, he excused himself from the company of those young ladies and turned his attention to mine. He was young, and not so bad at his balloon art trade. He wowed my oldest with his butterfly sculpting skills, and then as he was shaping a yellow flower for my youngest, he made small talk. "What do you want to be when you grow up?" He asked my oldest "Cinderella at Disney" was her instant (and usual) reply.

Then he turned to my baby. Now this is always an iffy prospect. She might respond, or not. She might cry, bury her head in my arm, put her paci in her mouth, who knows! But I was interested in hearing what she had to say. I watched as he asked her "And what do you want to do when you grow up?" Her eyes lit up and she said without hesitation and with joy and certainty "A mommy!" And my heart was filled with a joy more powerful than I describe.

Day in and day out my one hope is that my children feel loved and supported. Through the struggles of parenting I strive to let the last words they hear from my mouth at the end of the day be words of love. That they know I love them is one of the most important things for me. And in this one moment she let me know that she not only knows that, but she wants to do my work too. I know it wasn't her intention, but in that moment she told me that I am doing okay.

For now I'm going to treasure that day as the most important day of my life. One of the 2 little people who are most qualified to judge my mothering skills gave me an A that day. She probably will never remember or think about that moment again. 10 years from now she might have different career aspirations. But in that moment she made days, weeks, months worth of challenges melt away and left only hope and love. And I will forever remember that my baby wanted first of all to be a mommy.

A child's mourning

Recently I arrived home, worn and tired after 11 hours straight at the office. This is my new life: the 10 hour work day, which inevitably means 11 hours away from home; 11 hours away from my girls; merely 45 minutes on each end of the day to treasure them. Most days my arrival is great with gleeful shouts of "mommy, mommy, mommy's home!"

But today was different, today, instead, my 3 year old burst in to tears. "The Teletubbies store is gone" she wailed. And on and on she sobbed. I was bewildered. What was she so upset about? I tried to comfort her, we could certainly buy some Teletubbies videos if that was the matter. But really, it wasn't.

"The Teletubbies store" was a local video store. It was not some Blockbuster, or Hollywood video, but a small, local store. It was just a few blocks from our house. It was old style, they looked up your account by your phone number, and they only needed 7 digits. It was a reminder of an era past, where the local merchant was normal, and large chains were a novelty yet.

Growing up, I had a friend whose parents owned such a video store in our home town. It was the only video store, and they looked up your account by your phone number, and they only needed 4 digits. It was the place to go on a Saturday night. I remember how excited I was to go with my dad and establish our account when we got our first VCR. It was before we got cable television and it felt like the world was at our fingertips.

"The Teletubbies store" felt a lot like that store did. Even though we live in a city, it had a small town feel to it. On Saturdays you could borrow 2 family videos for a week at no charge. That' s how my girls came to call it "The Teletubbies store". We would often take a walk over to the video store on a Saturday and borrow videos. Their favorites quickly became the Teletubbies. They would ask to watch those videos all week. And it was a kind of a ritual for us. Not an every week ritual, but a regular ritual of visiting the store and delighting in the fact that some things in life still were free.

I had noticed the large signs in the windows for a few weeks selling DVDs cheap. "No big deal" I thought, they're just rotating stock, making room for new videos. The thought crossed my mind that they might close, but "nah, they're a staple in the neighborhood." But apparently I was wrong. Our beloved video store fell victim to rising rents, the trendiness of our location, and perhaps worst of all: Blockbuster.

And I must admit I am guilty myself. I subscribe to the mail delivery DVD service that conveniently drops DVDs in my mailbox, and doesn't charge me a late fee when I forget to return it for a few weeks. Maybe if I had just gone to "The Teletubbies store" a bit more often, they would still be there. In the days that have past, every now and again she'll emit a sniffle and a tear as we pass the shell of a video store. It's gone. She loved it for what it was. It was a joyful memory for her. I hate to see her mourn. I realize she is agonizing over something that is truly wrong in our culture. The small is replaced by the large. It happens in retail, in restaurants, in grocery stores, in clothing stores, in food portions, in automobiles, in houses. Everything small in our world is being bulldozed to make way for something bigger. And this small child already knows it is tragic.

A true story

Your daddy set off for a mission trip to Honduras to work in an orphanage where they took in street boys and gave them an education. I went to church the next day and asked a friend’s son to come mow the lawn that afternoon. Just as he finished the mowing, it started to rain, hard. It rained for about an hour, and then the sun came out to a beautiful, warm June evening. I was on the phone talking to my mother when I thought I should go out and check that they had locked the garage door when they put the mower away.

As I moved down the steps, my foot slipped on the bottom step, there was a “crack”, I looked down and saw my leg was not right. I screamed “I’ve got to go, I broke my leg” into the phone and hung up. I turned it on again but couldn’t get a dial tone. Off again, and then on, still no dial tone. I yelled for help. Surely no one could hear me, we lived so far from any house. I tried to move up the steps and crawl into the house, but my leg was so bad, I knew the bone was broken clear through.

I tried the phone again, this time I got a dial tone. Quickly I dialed the police and explained that I had broken my leg, I was pregnant and all alone. They said they would send an ambulance. When I hung up, I called for help again. I was worried I would go into shock and faint, that something would happen and my baby wouldn’t be okay. I picked up the phone and started dialing the first numbers I could think of. First I tried our friends the Cunninghams, there was no answer, so I left a message. I later found out that they were home but had a rule about not answering the phone during dinner. I also found out that they changed that rule that night. Next I called my friend Betsy . Her family was also having dinner with some other friends, Nick and Laura . Betsy said she’d be right over. “Right over” was relative, I figured, since it was a 10 minute drive from her house to mine.

I called for help again, afraid to be alone while I waited. This time a voice called back “are you okay?” “No” I called, “I broke my leg”. Very soon I saw a woman come up out of the woodsy driveway with 2 dogs. “I was walking the dogs, and I heard you yell.” She said. “I was afraid, but I thought you might be in danger.” I don’t think I’ve ever been so glad to see a stranger in my life. She put the dogs on the porch. She sat down next to me, she helped me get into a position I could sit in and she held my hand and talked to me. She assured me it would be okay. She sat with me and comforted me for a while before I thought to ask “what’s your name?” “Shawnda” she replied. She was sweet, and quiet and she treated me like a friend or a sister, not a stranger she’d just met. She worked at the bakery in town, but I’d never noticed her before.

It felt like forever, but it was just moments when a pick-up truck pulled up and out rushed Betsy and Laura. Now things were cooking, but there was no ambulance. We called the police again and found out that no one was on duty at our local volunteer station and there was a wreck on the interstate, so the ambulance was coming from half an hour away after the call had been relayed twice. Thankfully my friends were there, and Shawnda stayed too.

It felt like forever again. I was sitting in pain, just trying to hang on, when I heard the sounds of the siren. “Thank God!” I thought, but my relief quickly turned into tears as I heard the siren pass by on county highway that our road forked off of. They had missed the turn. I called the police station again “They missed the turn!” I cried to the dispatcher. Meanwhile, Laura and Betsy got back in the truck, one went to the end of the street, and the other to the end of the driveway to flag down the ambulance as it came back. In all it was more than 45 minutes after I placed the first call that the ambulance arrived with paramedics to splint my leg and take me to the emergency room.

The local Emergency Room was just 5 minutes away, even for a slow driver, but it was just a stopping point. They couldn’t set my leg, I’d have to be transferred. The doctor barely looked at it, there was no need for him to do an X-ray since it was clearly broken. He gave me some morphine. He checked the baby’s heart beat, it was about all he could do. It was okay, but fast, 155 beats per minute. Not too fast, technically, but faster than her normal 130-140. The doctor would have sent me to Chattanooga, except there was that wreck on the interstate between us and there. Nashville would be the choice, which was fine since that’s where I was having my prenatal care, but it was an hour and a half ride in the ambulance with a broken leg, and now it was getting late, I was tired, and in pain. Sleep wasn’t possible. And how was my baby?

“How’s my baby?” I begged to the ER doc in Nashville. Someone came in with a lap top, and rubbed a probe across my belly. “She’s fine” they told me as an ultrasound image came up on the lap top screen. “Thank God!” I thought. “Your sister’s here, we gave her your things.” The nurse told me. I didn’t even have time to wonder what they meant when Laura walked in, it was late, maybe after 11, and she had driven the hour and a half to stay with me. It made sense, of our friends there that night, she was the only one without children, but what a long drive to make for me.

“When was your last tetanus shot” a young doctor asked “I don’t know.” Came my reply. “You have a compound fracture” he said, “you need one.” “Wait, what about the mercury, does it have mercury?” “very little” he said. “No” I said firmly. “You don’t understand” he assured me, “we can’t tell if you broke the skin in your fall, this may not be a sterile wound. You need a tetanus shot.” “Can’t you tell?” “Not until after we set it” he said. “Well, take my titers then, see if I’m still immune.” “We may not have results in time.” He left the room. Minutes later he came back. “I spoke to the pharmacist, the shot only has trace amounts of mercury.” “You people won’t let me eat a can of tuna fish, but you want to shoot mercury straight into my body?! No!” I said with fierce determination. It turns out I was right, after they set my leg they discovered I had only an abrasion, the skin had not broken.

The pain was getting really intense. I’d had a shot of morphine at the local ER, but they were refusing to give it to me now. “We have to wait, there’s no Obstetrics staff to okay it.” Came the answer as I cried in pain. “Please” I begged… “Please”. A technician came to take me for X-rays. “Could you be pregnant?” she asked “Yes, yes I am pregnant.” I told her. “Hold on, I have to go check if I can film you.” She left me in the hall. She came back with a lead apron she draped over me and wheeled me into the X-Ray room. “Hold your leg straighter.” She ordered. “I can’t” I said. “Straighter”, she called back with an edge in her voice. “I’m trying” I cried, putting as much effort as I could into moving a leg I had no control over. She marched over to me and moved my leg, I screamed. She shot the X-ray, came back over and moved my leg again, I screamed louder. I had never felt so much pain in my life. Falling hadn’t hurt this bad “stop your yelling, or I can’t get these films” she yelled at me. I couldn’t stop screaming. Tears we pouring down my cheeks as she brought me back, I was so stunned I couldn’t even tell them what she had done to me. And no more pain medicine that night. In all I was 15 hours with only 1 shot of morphine to make me comfortable.

Dear Mrs. Clinton:

May I call you Hillary? It's all over your signs, so I am guessing that you don't mind being addressed by your first name. I notice most of your supporters do, in fact, refer to you as "Hillary" in conversation. It's a pretty good name, too, if I may say so, though I prefer it spelled with 1 "L" myself.

Perhaps I should get to my point. I'm writing to encourage you to go ahead and concede the race to your opponent, Mr. Obama. I know it might be difficult for you to read this coming from someone who should, theoretically, support you. I did support your husband, to the bitter end, I might add. I admired Bill's abilities as a statesman. Regardless of any personal indiscretions he may have committed, he did a remarkable job of advancing our country in the eyes of the international community. And I see that as increasingly the critical role for a president. Sure, there are other roles, but moral compass has long been tossed aside, arguably, it never really was part of the job. I've read in your book that you forgave Bill, and I have too.

Back to your candidacy though. Perhaps I should be one of your supporters, mother of 2 girls, feminist in my own right. I remember thrilling at the idea that a woman could be vice president back in the days of the Mondale/Ferraro ticket. That was before I reached voting age, so I couldn't do my part to help her. But I have to say that I have never quite embraced your campaign. I can't tell you exactly why. I suppose, had you clinched the nomination back in February or so, I could have come around to support you eventually. But now I find myself in the awkward position of feeling that you'd be more likely to find a Florida gator enjoying the cold snow of a Michigan winter than you'd find me casting my vote for you come November.

There's something rather ugly and petty about the way you've pressed forward with your campaign. I despise how you claim votes in 2 states that were sanctioned for holding primaries too early. Believe it or not, I live in one of those states, and I did not vote for you, but I went to the polls knowing full well my vote would not count. I believe many of us did. So knowing our votes would not count, I don't really care for my vote to count, and I certainly don't think it fair to count the votes of those who voted without the benefit of hearing what you and your opponents had to say to our state. I think it's ridiculous that you would claim a majority in Michigan when yours was the only name on the ballot, that's just rude! It would seem to me that all along Michigan was a pawn in your plans, you left your name on just so you could use it. Nothing seems further from democratic to me. Besides, you agreed along with the others that the delegates from Michigan and Florida would not be seated, you only changed your tune as you began to lose ground to Mr. Obama. Really, Mrs. Clinton, stop using Michigan voters as if they were yours to beat into submissive supporters as you please!

Frankly it looks downright desperate for you to be grasping at super delegates who have already pledged to Mr. Obama. Sure, some of them left your camp, but I think it's because they saw the sinking ship you were on and decided it was time to get off. At one point we might have called you "determined" but "desperation" is a much better term for the qualities you are now displaying. They've spoken their minds. If you clinch the nomination by bribing, er, I mean persuading, super delegates to flock to your side, is that really a nomination? It is not in my book. A win by any means is not a win befitting our next president.

How many voters, Mrs. Clinton, are like me? How many watch with horror as you grasp at slippery straw after straw, trying desperately to claw yourself into a race that is no longer yours? How many sit on the side thinking "wow, I could never vote for someone that desperate" as the days grow on? How many become so turned off by your insider politicking? How many are you winning over to Mr. McCain with your antics?

You must consider Mr. McCain in your formula, for it seems you have not. Each day you attempt to chip away at Mr. Obama is one less day you've spent gaining on Mr. McCain. Are you not aware that many of your potential supporters would also turn out for him? Were he to be in a race against a true conservative candidate, surely any number of "swing voters" or "moderate democrats" would be drawn to Mr. McCain. It's these kind of folks, those who wanted change, who likely propelled him to win his party's nomination. Do you not realize that you have already lost the battle against him by prolonging your fight with Mr. Obama?

Mr. Obama realizes it, surely he does. Have you noticed that lately he only praises you publicly and addresses his criticisms to Mr. McCain? Mr. Obama, it would seem, knows a thing or two about graciousness. He seems to have figured out how to look good in public. Perhaps you could take a lesson or two from him and publicly praise him for winning the nomination you have coveted so intensely it seems you won't allow someone to take it from you unless from you cold, dead hands. I hate to say it, but they might as well be just that. Your campaign has been cold and dead for far too long now, and you seem to be the only one who doesn't know that.

I'm sorry Mrs. Clinton, Hillary, but it's time to throw in the towel. Please, Hillary, for all that is decent and good about women in politics. For the hope of the future, for our daughters and our daughters' daughters, give up! We have much to be proud of this time around. We have a woman as Speaker of the House, and a nominating race come down to a man of color and a woman. We have come so far. Let it go. Otherwise, I'm afraid election day will find me staying home. I have voted in every election since I turned 18, even as a part of a generation who appeared clueless and apathetic when it came to politics. I voted in every election, yet if I must choose between you and Mr. McCain, I will not cast my vote. Wouldn't that truly be a race lost?

A Modesty Proposal

Okay, I wrote this a long time ago and most of you have already read it. But hey, I love it and I think it should be on my Blog!

A Modesty Proposal
January 2006

I want to applaud Representatives Susan Lynn and Glen Casada for their commitment to breastfeeding. Babies, after all, should be able to eat when they’re hungry since they are still growing. I am particularly impressed by Rep. Lynn’s comments about discretion (Tennesean article 1/12/06). We need to uphold traditional values, and babies should be discreet when they eat. Who wants to see a baby eat, don’t we all know it’s disgusting? Even newborn babies should learn to conform to standards of decency. And if they won’t cover up, then they just shouldn’t eat. If a mother has a baby who refuses to wear a covering (as mine does) she really shouldn’t go out of the house around meal times. I understand that in some cultures, especially in parts of Pakistan and Afghanistan, there is a practice of confining women to the house. Really, this is the only practical solution for a breastfeeding mother since breastfed babies need to eat every 2 hours or so.

We probably need some legislation to allow bottle-fed babies to eat on state property as well. They probably also get hungry from time to time, but let us not forget to compel these babies to cover up too. It’s practically pornographic the way they suck happily on those nipples for the whole world to see. At least the breastfed baby has the courtesy to face away from the rest of us while he eats.

Upon further thought, it seems to me we should have some legislation allowing the rest of us to eat in public as well. I sometimes get hungry when I’m in public, and I would also like the right to eat on state property when and where I’m hungry. But, please, don’t get me wrong. Just as I think those babies should cover up, I think the rest of us should too.

It’s just unthinkable that anyone would do something as indecent as eat in public. I mean the act of passing a hotdog through your lips is practically sexual. Really this should be a private thing, not something on display for all to see. What kind of person would do such a thing out in the open? Certainly when we appeal for the right to eat in public we should make it clear that we should do so discreetly, and cover ourselves fully.

Or perhaps we should have a special eating room that is small and private so no one can see what we’re doing. A small, dark closet with a hard bench or chair would do fine, much like the “nursing rooms” provided for mothers and babies. No one really needs much space to eat, after all. Actually, I think it would be fine to just eat in a bathroom. I’ve been directed many times to take my baby there when she’s hungry. And really, it is quite pleasant to sit in the bathroom and eat; my daughter never complained. When you think about it, this idea fits perfectly into our modern world. We are all about efficiency. What could be more efficient than eating in the bathroom? You have to visit the bathroom to discard of the digested food you’ve eaten, so why not save a trip and just do both there? We can eliminate restaurants altogether in favor of restrooms. We could have one happy dining and defecating experience without even having to move. Yes, I think the restroom is a great answer to our dining in public dilemma.

While we’re busy legislating, can we PLEASE do something about these girls who walk around wearing lingerie-like tops that reveal more breast than a nursing baby? Or those men who walk around without shirts at all showing off nipple galore? Shouldn’t bikinis be illegal? How can we tolerate such exposure of the human body in public? Even the breastfeeding baby is more decent than these folks since the baby’s head completely covers a mother’s breast. Perhaps we should take a lesson from the Taliban; they required head to toe covering of women, maybe we should have such a law and extend it not just to women, but to men as well. Please, let’s build some more decency standards into our laws so we can all eat more comfortably, privately and so no one is unnecessarily offended by our being human.

Please note that since the writing of this, Tennessee did in fact pass a law allowing women to breastfeed in public on state property any infant 12 months or younger. So if your 13 month old is hungry, best find a bathroom :/