Tag Archives: Physical Identity

Guest Post: Stella Padnos-Shea, “You in Our Bed”

Though I am not a frequent a blogger these days, I continue to be amazed at the power of the blogosphere. Some months back, I reconnected with a former colleague, Stella Padnos-Shea, a published poet and licensed social worker, who reached out to me out of the blue–through this blog, of all places. Today, I am happy to announce that she has agreed to a guest blog! (Read on.)

Stella’s theme of motherhood–its impact on a woman’s identity and sexual self-image–is one that I believe resonates for countless women with children of all ages. So, without further ado, here is Stella, in her own words.

You In Our Bed

by Stella Padnos

Tonight, like last night, husband tempted by the couch’s quiet:

that plush other woman, slightly concave in the middle

like my body once was, since expanded, shrunk, starved and fed–

Nothing between us but you in our bed.

 

The most pleasure I’ve felt has been the absence of pain.

I’d cheat on my husband again with an epidural.

Your debut: messy, requiring containment. Parts of my body

bagged and discarded.

Nothing between us but you in our bed.

 

Husband’s afraid of my body’s lower half

and I’m afraid of his fear.

Does a girl have to go back to the hospital to get felt up, pricked?

Nothing between us but you in our bed.

 

And so, sometimes, it is three in the sack:

Not a kinky college stunt or swapper club

But snoring husband, my wet breast, your mouth, your bobbing head–

Nothing between us but you in our bed.

Stella and her little one

Stella and her little one

I wrote this poem about two months after giving birth to my daughter Mirabel; she is the “you in our bed.” The evolution of the marital bed, from pre- to post-children, could doubtlessly become its own blog post/ series of essays/ manifesto, but here it will have to suffice as a poetic theme.

Motherhood is a radical new dimension in a woman’s life. Nearly three years ago, I bore my first, and likely only, child. What a joy, what a gift, and, still, what a deeply ambivalent change. My relationship to my body has undergone some evolutions/ convolutions in these short (yet very long) years.

Initially, those first six or so months, my body was primarily a host, a conduit. A source of food, energy, heat, and deep well of unconscious for the babe. As one of my half-sisters told me early on– It feels like you’re constantly jet-lagged. That was a true psychic and somatic experience, of feeling lagged, constantly weighted, slowed, knowing something urgent needed to be done to care for the baby, but you’re so damn tired and it sure would be nice to brush your teeth.

Then, somewhere, sleep starts to creep in longer stretches. Our baby was incorporating formula, and then solid food, into her diet. I was no longer primarily an udder with legs and unwashed hair. A successive image of my physical identity involved the question– Do I look like a Mom? Simultaneously, I don’t know exactly what that means, yet we all have some idea (forgiving elastic-waisted jeans, scrunchy as couture hair). A Mother is defined by her relationship to her children; can a woman, the same Mother, just be herself, independently? I still want to look like a “woman”: my version is creative, sexual, yet often a loner. How can I begin to reconcile the selves of female-dom? Well, one straightforward way in which I do is that I still wear weird clothes. If anyone sees me tempted by a Lands End flannel big shirt, please talk me down. The way we are perceived by others does, whether we want it to or not, influence our self-perception. Being a Mom in celestial print pants helps me feel more vital. But, of course, looks aren’t everything. I want to continue to fascinate myself.

Some weeks ago, I uncharacteristically got dolled up. Took a shower, put on contacts and make-up, wore a cute little dress. I saw a woman I know who cares for her grandchildren during the day; we know each other from local playgroups where I bring my daughter. She told me– You don’t look like somebody’s Mom, you look like somebody’s girlfriend. That was… something. A huge compliment, yes. And also a reminder that once we become Mothers, that sexy and playful self is assumed to dissipate. The message seemed to be that we are purely caretakers now. What a shame.

Stella Padnos-Shea’s poems can be found in Chest medical journal, The Comstock ReviewLapetitezine.com, and ldyprts.tumblr.com, an online collaboration with jewelry artist Margaux Lange. She has participated in the Breadloaf Writers’ Conference in Vermont and presented at the 4th Annual Creative Writing Festival in Long Island. In an early incarnation, one of her poems was nominated for a Pushcart Prize. Stella has also regularly performed her work at Studio 26 Gallery in Bushwick, Brooklyn. Stella has been employed as a college English instructor, jewelry maker, and therapist, and currently serves as the organizer for the political action committee of the New York City Chapter of the National Association of Social Workers. She is currently embarked, though, on her greatest and most challenging project yet: raising her toddler, Mirabel, while sustaining a marriage. Please find her virtually at Stella.Padnos@gmail.com, or genuinely in Brooklyn.

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Boston’s Journey Back to Itself

images[1] (5)Just over a week after the Boston Marathon bombing, I learned about her.  I’ve been thinking about her ever since: Adrianne Haslet-Davis—the beautiful, young ballroom dancer who lost her foot to one of the blasts.   Her foot.   A dancer’s connection with the earth–the very foundation of her career.  Haslet-Davis may not be unique among Boston’s recent amputees; many were runners, people for whom athleticism and movement were part of their identity.   But she stands out for me.  As a former dancer, I know what the loss of a foot would mean.   According to the articles I’ve read, Haslet-Davis has bouts of sadness and rage in the face of her lost limb, but holds onto hope.  She is determined to some day get back to the dance studio, to make a comeback with the Viennese Waltz.  Haslet-Davis survives, believing in herself and her future, thanks to her faith in advanced medicine, science and technology.  I have no doubt that she will dance again.  But her reality has changed; she must adjust her physical identity accordingly.  She and the other amputees embody the mission faced by Boston itself: a journey back to its post-bombing future.

When disaster strikes—natural or manmade—it shakes up a community.  Things you’ve always trusted—that your neighbors are your neighbors, not hostile strangers; that law enforcement is sufficient to provide safety—gets shaken up.  Home is suddenly not home, not quite the place it once felt like.  The rules are changed; daily life takes more thought, simple movements are now belabored, shrouded in fear and mistrust.  I remember the weeks following nine-eleven, when the world felt different: so unsafe, so newly dark and uncertain.  I remember the days after Hurricane Sandy and—more personally for me—the period right after our house fire.  Our identity as a family had changed.

Just as Boston’s has now.  More than lives were lost in the bombing, more than limbs; something deeper and less tangible was taken.   The nation has mourned along with Boston, but now we must watch and cheer the town on as it clamors to its feet, purging what one Boylston Street business owner called “bad energy.”

I lived in Boston for a year, back in 1989-1990, as a member of Boston Ballet II, and though I was in rehearsal most of the time and made too little money to partake of what the city had to offer, I remember its character.  Old American beauty thrown up against a bare toughness that rivaled the bare toughness in sections of Brooklyn—only with pinker cheeks and flatter vowels.  There were the Public Gardens, evoking memories of history lessons as well as my favorite children’s books, from Make Way for Ducklings to Trumpet of the Swan.  A mere stone’s throw away was the “red light” district, disconcertingly close to where we performed Nutcracker and Romeo and Juliet.  Like New York, it was a great walking town, with ethnicities and neighborhoods on display as you walked, as varied as those in my home town.  Like New York, but unlike it, too.  A little shorter, a little slower, a little less of a chameleon.  I haven’t been back since I left twenty years ago, but still I remember the Boston-ness of the town, how I knew I’d always be an outsider, but appreciated the fact of calling it home for that season.

Things are getting back to normal there, but because of the bombing, they will never quite be the same.  Like those who lost limbs—each of whom must now face different lives and find their own, new versions of “normal,” each day will be marked by the triumph of overcoming unimaginable loss.