The Other 4-Letter F Word

I’m not quite sure how we got here, but, just in case folks haven’t noticed, times have changed. Sadly, it’s quite obvious our kids are growing up and living in a very different world from the world we grew up in. The biggest concern we had as adolescents was getting to play outside with our friends until the sun went down, as we asked, “Mom, can we go ride our bikes?” Now, it’s, “Mom, I know I’m only 10, but I cannot go on living without the purchase of a cell phone.” I remember playing with one of my few “Barbie” dolls, decorating an old shoe box and pretending it was her big, fancy car, and my Mom used to sew tiny, very cool yet tasteful ball gowns, miniature versions of her favorite ‘60’s inspired swing dresses (with matching purses, of course) and even “June Cleaver”-like house dresses. Now, these dolls have enough clothes to outfit today’s gal for any occasion (yes, you too can perform surgery in the morning in your crisp white surgical duds, go mountain biking in the afternoon in your short and sporty outdoor apparel and then make that quick change in the evening into that Bob Mackie for any formal affair, all the while looking fresh and fit). Not to mention, they appear to me to look like over-coiffed teenage hookers, wear platform shoes, have collagen-injected lips and breast implants (although I think they had those boobs in the 70’s, too). They have limo’s, their own beauty salons, pet grooming businesses and fabulous outdoor pools, and apparently, are employed primarily by a p-i-m-p, but are also work in the medical field in their spare time. (Although, I do have to give praise to “Barbie,” she has set the bar pretty high and is obviously is multi-talented, beyond belief.) And a side note: I still own my one “Ken” doll, although, sadly has not yet come of out of the closet and has been destined to a life of naked seclusion in a sea of the aforementioned Barbie tarts acquired by my daughter from the ages of 3 to 7.

Do girls and women really aspire to look like these dolls? (Personally, between my Granny’s southern-fried cooking, the lifelong addiction to anything in the chocolate food group combined with a total lack of desire or will power, I never really stood a chance nor did I hold out hope that I would ever even begin to emulate the perfect representation of a modern plastic woman, anyway.) Perhaps this idealization is really more prevalent in the sub-conscious of women (although men have definitely played their part in getting us here), as it seems women now have the pressure to achieve this unrealistic goal of being the perfect woman, one who takes perfect care of herself and everyone around her, plus brings home the bacon AND fries it up in a pan. So, when you don’t do it all, there’s the guilt party package to go along with the pressure: If you’re a working Mom, there’s often the impression that you don’t care enough about your kids to sacrifice the almighty dollar to stay home. If you stay home with your kids, you are often viewed by the world that you do nothing but sit around and eat bon bons all day (although I’m all for chocolate consumption). For some, it’s an easy decision. For others, the defining of one’s role doesn’t come with a clear and easy choice. While there may be some that disagree, I will continue to throw down the gauntlet until I depart this planet and proclaim that it is just not true that women can “have it all,” even with collagen-injected lips, perfectly coiffed hair, a tricked-out limo, a three-story magic castle dream house or your own Barbie briefcase.

What happened? Where did this pressure come from? Is this called progress? At the risk of becoming one of those previous generation club members who continually pontificate about the “good ‘ol days,” I must say, I do miss the days of shoe box Barbie cars, food fried in Crisco shortening with a big, guilt-free side of carbohydrates and the days when the biggest dilemma of the day being was whether to watch “The Brady Bunch” or “The Partridge Family” because they came on at the same time, on two of only three local channels on TV. That David Cassidy guy was so dreamy, but, even then, I was torn between the fantasy of living his family’s “rock-and-roll” lifestyle on the road in a fabulous, multi-colored school bus or having the perfect, happy, well-dressed middle class Brady family, sitting together at the dinner table, eating Alice’s meatloaf, with the never-ending happy endings and a clear lesson that was learned the not-so-hard way. Choices are the perpetual contradiction that haunt many women, as they pave the road for us in adolescence and then fork sharply between youthful optimism and mid-life crisis.

Life was so simple when we were kids – we were less aware of all the choices (and made even more simple by our parents not giving them to us). I guess every generation longs for their days gone by and feels the same way – that there is no better era or life to lead than the one they went through. And, it is true, today there are many great, modern advantages (USB keys and microwave popcorn!), so many choices and new opportunities that we did not have growing up, and truly great experiences to be had by our children. But, sadly, there is also much to shelter them from and even much more to teach them. As a parent, it’s hard to know where to draw the line with information you give your kids in order to protect them from this world that’s moving too fast, because you know if they don’t get the education first-hand from you, they’ll get the it from their peers, television or even worse, if they are not educated at all, they could find themselves naively led to a situation that can only ends in bad. It’s often stressful and questionable to know when to teach them what. How do you keep them safe without keeping them from leaving the house? And, is it possible to keep them detached from the “Jerry Springer Society” that we now live in? We want them to have them choices, but we pray they make the right ones.

It is indeed challenging at times to know how to parent and teach our kids how to make the best, and hopefully the right choices for them, especially when life can be full of contradictions. We get so many mixed messages as we’re immersed in a land of opportunity that’s also currently a tabloid-driven, reality-television world of over-exposed “role models” where anything goes. While I would never condone or model such a lifestyle for myself of my child, admittedly, I too, am indeed a self-proclaimed connoisseur and addicted fan of a few of today’s trashiest reality television show characters (I want to look away and change the channel, but somehow can’t bring myself to do so). I am embarrassed, bewildered and intrigued by the fact that I have been introduced to a whole new version of the English language that I thought was only part of some underground sub-culture that surely in my day, would have received an X rating. Don’t get me wrong – I’m no prude. And while I’m no stranger to using the “F” word on occasion (usually when on the search to find clothes in my closet that have adjusted to whatever my current size is at the moment), “dropping the F bomb” doesn’t warrant a blink of the eye. And, even though it warrants a censor’s audio beep, you know it’s there, right there on cable television!

But, as I’ve grown older, I realize that another “F word” has played a bigger role in my life than I ever realized. It was always there, under the surface, but, nobody ever saw it or knew it but me. Just as denial had played a part in most every relationship I’ve had with men, and obviously every single diet I’ve been on over the years (also fueled by a Hostess cupcake conspiracy), denial also covered up this embodied “F word” until it bubbled to the top one day, and I could see it, hanging there in front of me (like a flashing billboard sign that Wyle E. Coyote approaches as he sees seconds too late as he’s about to chase the roadrunner over the edge of a cliff). Very quickly my sense of denial gave way to the true understanding and the impact this “F word” has on me. It didn’t really click that this word was such a big part of my subconscious vocabulary, until I actually heard the words come out of my mouth, as I gave advice to my 10-year-old daughter. She was about to do her first play as a comedic character at the local community theater and she was really nervous. With that “Carol Brady”-inspired positive attitude I told her, “Just remember the 3 F’s. First: Be Funny. Secondly: Have Fun. And, third: Be Fearless!”

There it was: a clear, concise, simple message that she could take and carry with her throughout her first play. I repeated it to her numerous times before she performed and made her repeat it back to me to make sure she remembered it. Each time I said it, the little devil that sits on one shoulder whispered into my ear, “You are such a hypocrite.” My friend Denial tried to block out the voice, but it was there. How could I possibly convince my daughter and enlighten her with such a script of profound parental advice when, secretly, the other “F word:” FEAR, the #3 on the list, was a part of my everyday life? I felt more ashamed to use the word “fear” than the other “F word.” Like an alcoholic who thinks he/she can start with one drink, but it snowballs into 8, or like the one piece of chocolate that turns into the whole cake, I realized then, I’m also an addict to something other than carbs: fear. It’s the curse of the “People Pleaser” and I believe the irrevocable badge of honor of an only child. It’s the addiction never talked about at parties and only defined in the Self-Help book aisle at Barnes and Noble. It’s the fear of letting others down. The fear of somebody not liking you. The fear that your life may have turned out differently than you had expected. It’s the fear you’ll never reach that single-digit clothing size again. The fear of realizing the truth that many important people in your life turn out to not be the people you had hoped or thought they were. It’s the fear that you’ve made some wrong choices. But, the biggest fear of them all is the one where your children never take advantage of the many opportunities in the new world – some of the same opportunities that you might have missed along the way between “The Partridge Family” and Reality TV.

But, now, hearing the sound of that “F Word” (FEAR), and REALLY listening to what that word has to say, seems to me it doesn’t mean all gloom and doom or the glass is half empty. And, ironically, the word is not so scary to me anymore. It signifies that with age really does come wisdom, that a little fear is healthy, can be life-changing and that perhaps this realization means that I know fears can be conquered and perhaps that damn little devil will be knocked off my one shoulder once and for all. But, like kicking carbs, though, it’s one-day-at-a-time process and a lofty goal. I plan to teach my daughter to face that particular “F Word” head-on, each day, and approach life with a nice healthy balance of caution, curiosity and zest, emphasizing that she should never live in fear. But if it does happen to creep up on her, she should use it as a tool to push forward, a motivator to reach and surpass her life’s goals. I want to lead her in the right direction and help her realize that life has lessons to offer all of us, whether we are 10-years-old or in the senior citizens’ home, as well as many choices -- good bad or indifferent, everyday, and it’s okay to be a little scared, but to keep it from becoming all-consuming.

As for using that other “F Word,” while I don’t use it on a daily basis, I have to admit, I still “drop the F Bomb” every now and then. And, I’ve learned that while I may often still feel afraid of how this world and life has changed, and while I still worry about the hard lessons will continue to come along for my daughter in her life, I know I cannot let fear get the best of me, as it may rub off on her. I now try to take my own advice and choose to practice the philosophy of the “3 F’s,” if not everyday, as often as possible until that little voice on the right shoulder fades to an inaudible volume. It’s a choice I’m grateful to have. I have also come to realize there is indeed a place for all of us, and even at times, a place for that little devil and that “F Word,” as well Barbie,” her dream house and her platform shoes.