Her hair is very light, so it doesn’t show up as well as it could - but this is how it always looks. It is actually getting cuter, as the sides are now getting long enough to stick out, while the middle section in the front is getting long enough to lie down flat. I think I’ll be dissapointed when her hair starts behaving.

She inherited this hair from Sam - who is so devoted to his VO5 hair cream that I tease him about being like George Clooney’s character in “O Brother Where Art Thou”…looks like Julianna will eventually need to find herself a tin of Dapper Dan Pomade.

I’ve been getting some really nice comments on my photography. It makes me (an admitted approval whore) feel really good. To know that there are people who appreciate something that is bringing me such joy – well that is just plain cool. I feel like maybe I’m on the right track, and that gives me the incentive to keep working and trying to improve.

Mostly though, I end up feeling like I’m putting one over on you all - like you just don’t realize that I’m really not that great.

Note: This is not that annoyingly insincere form of self-deprecation designed to extract praise. (You know, when you say I’m good, and I say I’m bad, and you say “no, you’re really good” and I say ‘nah, I suck, really” and you say ‘really, you’re good” and I say “please, I’m the most terrible, horrible, awful excuse for a xyz that ever existed and I should be taken out back and shot before anyone lets me try again” and you say “sheesh woman, get some therapy already, I’m so over your shit*” and then I say “okay, so I’m not really the most terrible horrible, awful excuse for a xyz that ever existed and I shouldn’t really be taken out back and shot before anyone lets me try again” and you breath a sigh of relief that finally this nonsense is over until I quietly mumble under my breath “but I’m really not good you know”).

I’m a perfectionist. Worse than that – I’m a perfectionist with terribly low self-esteem and sometimes debilitating co-dependent leanings. A vicious combination, to be sure.

I don’t like doing anything that doesn’t live up to my (often unrealistic) standards. I get down on myself a lot because I don’t usually measure up to my own lofty ideals. As I result, I often end up doing absolutely nothing. Why risk doing something badly if you can sit on your ass and beat up on yourself for not doing anything at all?

Photography is no different. There is SO much to learn, so much to absorb, so much to remember. I’m a serial underexposer, and I have a serious problem with focus. I’m pretty mediocre at Photoshop, and sometimes I think I’ll never get it all together. In the photography forum I frequent there are so many incredible artists, individuals who possess impressive technique and an enviable awareness of their own personal style. When I look at their photographs I alternate between being mesmerized, inspired and depressed!

I’m my own worst enemy, and my own worst critic.**

I just came across an article that summed up my feelings fairly well: “The Fraud Factor”. It is directed at entrepreneurs rather than photographers, but anyone who has ever tried anything new and difficult can probably relate.

“The Fraud Factor” is a feeling most entrepreneurs have when they’re still relatively new to business. It’s a sensation that what they’re doing isn’t really real. Because what they’re doing is unfamiliar, it often feels as if they’re posing or playing a part. That often makes them feel like they’re incapable, clumsy, a fraud – no matter how good they are at what they do. “

That is it for me. I’m not a photographer, I just own a nice camera and take lots of pictures. A handful of those turn out well – must be dumb luck and perseverance. I can’t lay claim to any particular talent and take credit for what I’ve produced. Can I?

I love photography, and capturing life and seeing the spirit and personality of my subjects come alive in the finished photo. When will I give myself permission to own my passion and talent*** and feel improved enough in my skill-set to call myself a Photographer?

Another example I’ve insisted more than once to many people that I’m not really a writer– I’m just someone who writes (MB is a writer, and so is Terrible Mother and my newspaper writing friend Beth and the always articulate and talented Michelle H.). Because writing is my escape and my sanity and my art – can I not claim the title Writer?

Perhaps I can and should call myself both writer and photographer, but I don’t. I don’t because it would feel presumptuous. I don’t, because it would feel fake. Perhaps most importantly, I don’t include those titles as part of my identity because doing so would leave me exposed and vulnerable. If I call myself a writer or photographer, than all of a sudden I’ve opened myself up to more scrutiny, higher expectations and (most difficult of all) potential criticism. As long as I’m just playing at writing and picture taking I’m somewhat sheltered. I am putting my craft out into cyberspace, but as long as I’m an amateur I won’t be held to professional standards – and there is safety and comfort in that.

Why do I feel this way? I know it is not just me. I also know that this post started out being about photography, but you and I both know that it is really about so much more.

Why do we as women, feel so undeserving of praise and applause? Even when we crave the affirmation and recognition, why are we so willing to sweep our efforts and our abilities under the carpet? Why are we willing to believe that everyone else deserves the limelight more than we do? Why don’t we spend more time shouting from the rooftops that we’re damn amazing and fantastic and thrilled with our own goddess-self? What does it take to get ourselves out from under the crushing weight of our own perceived inadequacies?

I shared this quote recently in my Bliss entry – but it seems fitting here as well:

“Our fear is not that we are inadequate. Our deepest fear is that we are powerful beyond measure. It is our light, not out darkness, that most frightens us. We ask ourselves, Who am I to be brilliant, gorgeous, talented, and fabulous? Actually, who are you not to be? Your playing small doesn’t serve the world. There’s nothing enlightened about shrinking so that other people won’t feel insecure around you. It’s not just in some of us; it’s in everyone. And as we let our light shine, we unconsciously give other people permission to do the same. As we’re liberated from our own fear, our presence automatically liberates others.”–Marianne Williamson, A Return to Love (1992)

So – what is your Fraud Factor? What particular skill or talent have you not claimed as your own? What passion do you need to own? Why don’t you own it?

And – just for fun….why don’t we take some time to build each other up a little. If you know someone who regularly reads this blog – send them a little lovin’ and tell us what you admire about them, their skills, their passion, their talents.

I’m going for warm fuzzies all around here people – and I won’t leave you alone till I get there.

____________

*Sorry mom, I had to. Sometimes &^%$ just won’t do.

**At least, I sure hope I am. A request to the universe: If there is anyone out there more critical of me than me – please don’t ever let me find out about it. Ignorance is most assuredly bliss.

***See, I even felt hesitant to say talent – it felt presumptuous to even presume talent at this point. This goes deep my friends, very deep.

After much frustration I gave up on my saggy, baggy, dingy nursing bras and went back to my old pre-baby bras. It would have worked out fine, except for the fact that they no longer quite contain my bosoms. I was reduced to constant adjusting and lifting and tugging just to get things to remain covered. It was certainly rather tacky, perhaps even mildly obscene. The quadruple boob affect is one thing; nipple spillage is another thing entirely. I was bypassing a simple fashion faux pas and going straight for completely indecent.

The final straw came when I attended a birth a few weeks back. After eight hours without nursing or pumping, things were getting dangerous. Birth work means a lot of bending over, and I was worried – quite frankly – that I was going to fall out of my undergarment entirely. This, my friends, would not be a good thing. The only person who should be showing some nip at a birth is the mom to be – definitely not acceptable for the doula.

After making trip after trip to ‘regular’ stores and realizing once again that bra manufactures seem to think that people like me (small ribcage, big breasts) don’t exist – I finally headed to Nordstrom, knowing I’d leave significantly poorer but hoping I’d at least come away with one bra that actually fit.

I walked in, tired and sweaty, after a day of shopping and sightseeing with my aunt and uncle who were visiting from home. Julianna was in the Hotsling, nose caked with green snot from the cold she’d been fighting, and wilding grabbing with drooly, grubby hands towards the racks of bras. Bella was in Julianna’s stroller, legs dragging on the ground, whining about some perceived injustice - wild hair, mismatched clothes and a voice like a chainsaw. Aside from falling out of my bra, I was (inevitably) wearing a shirt stained with baby puke and smeared with the remnants of Bella’s chocolate chip cookie – and I noticed on my way past one of the mirrors that I’d missed a large section of hair on the back of my head when trying to subdue it with the flat iron that morning.

I was staggering blindly from rack to rack – taking a stab at guessing my size, and trying to procure one bra from the tangled mess that inevitably seems to form on any lingerie rack (who designs those crazy hangers anyway?). Julianna was sucking on a beautiful silky purple bra (34B – as if), and Bella was getting ready to erupt in full tantrum because I was unable to carry Julianna, find a bra AND push my 40 lb-almost-five-year-old in the stroller one handed.

In summary – we were not the target Nordstrom customers.

Then, an angel of mercy appeared from out of nowhere (actually, she came from the customer service counter – but that doesn’t jive with the flow of my story near as well as imagining her emerging magically from the mist). Lena had a kind face, a long tape measure dangling around her neck, and spoke with a warm, (yet decidedly no-nonsense) Eastern European accent.

She was firm – I must be measured. She hustled us back to the fitting room, and had me out of my t-shirt faster than any quick-talking pick up artist could have managed. Her tsk-tsking at the site of my poor overworked brassiere made her opinion of my lack of good sense quite apparent. She whipped out her measuring tape with a quick flick of her wrist, tightened it around my ribcage and was gone before I even had a chance to turn around.

Moments later she returned carrying a handful of…contraptions….that looked about as comfortable as a medieval coat of amour – and just about as large (I actually think you could have hidden King Arthur and all his knights in one of the cups).

“What was the measurement?” I queried distractedly, thinking I had some idea what to expect.

“32F”, Miss Lena replied without hesitation.

Yes, you read that right. I said F.

As in A, B, C, D, DD, DDD, DDDD, (WTF happened to E?), F.

I walked in there wearing a 34 D.

No wonder I was experiencing fit issues. No wonder I had no luck at Target (or Robinson’s May, or Kohls, or Victoria’s Secret, or any of the other lingerie departments I tried). No wonder I was always attracting ogling glances from acne-ridden adolescents and lecherous looking hairy-backed old men.

It was enough to make my head spin.

I gamely tried on the first bra she handed me, substantial enough that it looked as if it could probably contain the blast from a small nuclear explosion (Oprah’s favorite bra, I later learned).

“Is there anything with narrower straps?”, I asked hopefully, thinking wistfully of my beloved tank top collection.

“In YOUR size honey? (Insert sarcastic smirk here) Um….no”.

When I had myself all in place (my busty readers will appreciate the lifting and tucking and adjusting necessary to get ones self appropriately fitted into a bra) I turned around to seek her opinion, as anxious for approval as a teenage girl getting ready for prom.

“Now that…” Lena clucked approvingly, “…is lift AND separation”.

Indeed. Even I had to admit it was a fairly impressive feat of engineering – one that you could only truly understand if you’d recently seen the girls in their natural state*

I left Nordstrom with two bras and a $140 (!!!) charge on my credit card. Although I was not any bigger than when I went it, my breasts suddenly felt heavier, more unwieldy. I’ve always dreamed of being one of those slim, perky-busted types who can wear thin strapped tank tops and strapless dresses. I bemoaned my matronly physique when I thought I was a 34 D…how was I supposed to integrate the idea of an F cup into my self-image? F doesn’t sound perky, and it doesn’t even sound sexy-it just seems…excessive, overdone, desperate. ** Sheesh – F sounds like Pam Anderson.

Ah well – at least they’re real.

________

*My similarly built friend S. and I were talking about the difficulties of big-boobage lately. “Where are your breasts, honey?” she mimicked her husband’s voice, “They’re hiding in my armpits dear. Why do you ask?” I totally got where she was coming from. After all, I can nurse Julianna without even rolling over. Lying down, I’m pretty much flat chested.

**Sam, on the other hand, immediately voiced approval at the news. I think that perhaps there are bragging rights associated with having a wife of such measurements – especially when you’re in South Beach living it up with your college buddies, drinking copious amount of beer and going to desperate lengths to gain access to the hottest clubs. (Yes, I am a very good wife. He owes me big time for this trip – and some day I will collect.) Maybe he couldn’t pick up one of the hotties at the bar like his friends could, but at least he could remind them that he had his own Centerfold stand-in keeping the bed warm at home. I could tell Sam was thinking about a way to work this news into conversations with the guys, and this was confirmed when he returned.

Taylor or Katherine?

“I am only one,
But still I am one.
I cannot do everything,
But still I can do something.
And because I cannot do everything
I will not refuse to do the something
that I can do.”

Edward Everett Holt

What can you do that you have not done because it feels like your contribution could not possibly be enough to make a difference, could not possibly be good enough or significant enough to matter in the grand scheme of things? What are you not doing that you could do?

I came across this quote today and I intend to spend some time tonight meditating on the subject - I know that I am very guilty of not doing - and I’d like to change. How about you?

Edited to add: Re-read that and realized it sounded awfully negative, like I had very little faith in my readership. So…. what ARE you doing? What have you done? What little steps have you taken by your very own self that have made a difference, that will make a difference? How do you keep yourself motivated and determined? What is your ’something that I can do’? Are you doing it? If not, what steps do you need to take so that you are?

Bella and her friend Brenna holding a sign at the Midwives Rally held on the lawn of the state capitol on Friday - International Midwives Day. Nobody asked them to, nobody told them what to do - these two little homeborn girls found a sign, picked it up and held it up on the sidewalk for all to see.

Those two little girls ARE the change we hope to see in the world of birth. Imagine the power of two little girls who will grow up believing in birth, and in the power and wisdom of the female body. Two little girls who will never doubt that their bodies were perfect, just the way they are, because they witnessed from birth onwards just what women can do. Two awesome little girls who know that their bodies can grow and nourish a baby in pregnancy and beyond. Two little girls who will grow up knowing the powerful feeling of women in community, of women coming together to create change.

Just imagine that.

More photos from the rally:

Midwife Marinah with Leigh’s daughter Kaia

Homebirth Junkie Leigh - who helped organize the rally, and who put together a simply amazing slideshow of midwife attended birth photos.

My beloved Mani and the incredible Robin - now teacher and apprentice (I feel like a matchmaker)

Leigh, the girls and another supporter hold up signs for vehicles passing the capitol building.

Bella’s friend Adri, her baby sister Sara was born at home on 4/25- and I got to be there!