What Miley did.

We gave up cable a year ago when we bought our house. It was expensive, we want our kid to grow up with an actual imagination, and besides, Twitter pretty much obviates the need for it. If I want news, I go to Twitter. If I want someone to ruin the new episode of “Breaking Bad” for me, I go to Twitter. Everything that happens on TV lives there (now with commentary!) for better or for worse.  And, so you know how I experienced the MTV Video Music Awards on Sunday: a blow-by-blow on social media, with 140-characters of insight from a collection of liberal media’s best and brightest feminist icons, plus a smattering of 90s indie rock heroes and a handful of Wichita Falls rednecks.  Reading about it from these viewpoints was kinda like viewing it through a cracked-out kaleidoscope…that suddenly came into sharp, clear focus when Miley arrived on-scene.

I feel like I can be on a first name basis with Miley now that she’s overtaken every piece of media I’ve consumed for the last three days. Plus I saw her booty. But the truth is, I wouldn’t know “Party in the USA” if it appeared in my living room right now and starting twerking (a term that I just looked up on Urban Dictionary, thank you very much).  I do know that Miley was a teen star with her own TV show, has a famous dad, and is now a pop star and tabloid mainstay. These days, she sports an edgy haircut, parties a lot and is involved in a seemingly tempestuous relationship with some Australian dude.

And, oh, people are upset about what Miley did on Sunday. After everybody freaked out about it, I called it up on 4G yesterday morning to watch it…and I have to say, I don’t get the outrage. I’ve read the outrage…everywhere from Jezebel to  People Magazine to the Washington Post to mommy blogs far and wide. It’s plentiful. But here’s the thing: it’s incredibly, incredibly misguided.

A lot of you think that Miley’s a straight-up slut for performing a sexually provocative dance number. You’re lamenting her fall from Disney princess to stripper pole provocateur, and you are appealing to her dad for an explanation of her behavior. You know what I say to that? This is a 20 year old woman. Most likely, she didn’t make her own decisions during her “Hannah Montana” days. She does now. She chooses to assert her sexuality onstage in an industry that celebrates and commoditizes and rewards celebrating sexuality onstage (see Madonna, Britney Spears, et al). You don’t own her body. Her father doesn’t own her body or her sexuality and HE NEVER DID. To suggest that he did or does is creeptastic. You don’t own your daughter’s body or sexuality, either, and if you think you do, you have a big problem. See this piece for some more insight on that issue. We all pay lip service to being true to ourselves and celebrating individuality. And yet, as Miley’s up there, doing what she do, we’re berating her. Because we can’t handle that this former child star is a sexual being. We can’t handle that our own daughters might grow out of pigtails and One Direction and someday, somehow assert their own sexuality. Ergot, Miley = slut.

Futhermore, while Miley’s a twerking skank, what of Beetlejuice’s erstwhile pedophile cousin? Robin Thicke was an active part of that entire production…and where’s the outrage about a 30-something dude grinding behind a 20-year-old girl? Where’s the Facebook assertions that you tucked your beautiful son into bed tonight and just know he’ll never turn out like that? Why is Miley “nasty” while Robin Thicke is just…Robin Thicke? Why aren’t you all sending Tweets to Alan Thicke right freaking now about his son’s behavior on the VMAs? Oh, right.

A lot of you are angry because your kids were exposed to Miley’s tongue thrusts and undulating buttocks. That does not fly unless you fell into a coma the day after MTV kicked off in 1981 and woke up Sunday night expecting Buggles videos. This should not have been a surprise (see Madonna, Britney Spears, et al), period. End of story. And frankly, I’d much rather engage my kiddo in a discussion about Miley Cyrus than try to explain why someone who beat the snot out of their girlfriend on their way to the VMAs a few years ago is still embraced by that institution and rewarded with nominations.

A lot of you think that Miley is a damaged soul who needs to be rescued. At what point did we, as a society, decide that someone gleefully and energetically dancing onstage is a broken person? She stuck out her tongue and shook her butt, and maybe she’s got problems, but maybe she doesn’t. Blatant expressions of sexuality do not automatically equal some level of victimization; that’s an oversimplification if there ever was one. And if you’re worried about someone with a messed up view of sexuality, let’s consider the lyrical offerings of one Robin Thicke:

"Girl, give it to me
I'll put it all on you,
Girl give it to me"

Or:

"Let me put it on your face for you,
please"

Jesus. They’re not even good. But that’s beside the point. Nobody gave a crap what those dudes were saying, what it actually is that kids are listening to over and over and over, what’s influencing their views about the women they encounter every day. Everyone cared about the dancing pop star. Not enough of you are outraged by the commercial, heavily sexualized but generally lame state of popular music. But, heavens! Miley!

This is the part where I tell you that I don’t give a rat’s about Miley. I don’t listen to her, or to Robin Thicke or to Kendrick Lamar. I don’t read tabloids, except for the old US Weekly at my dentist’s office, and I gave up my Perez Hilton page views five years ago. Twitter puts these things in my face, but I acknowledge them as a part of our messed up culture and move on. I work really hard to make sure that my child can appreciate music without all that spectacle and nonsense, and without the monthly payment to Uverse. I also work hard to make sure that she understands, even at a young age, that we don’t ridicule or objectify women; that we don’t assume she’s a victim of her circumstances just because we aren’t fans of her means of expression; and that we question why anyone else does either of those things. And, finally, I hope to make her understand that our media culture is broken, broken, broken when we’re still up in arms about this:

When we should be up in arms about this:

Juggling the Dog.

Yesterday, the Internets became a maelstrom of flying fur and misplaced mommy bashing and DRAMAS when Slate published this nonsense. Twitter wars waged out of control all afternoon, Slate notched up a few zillion site hits, and then someone somewhere posted a diatribe about childhood vaccinations and everyone decamped for a little bit of that action. 

The article stuck with me a little bit, though, because the topic of parental juggling acts has been on my mind a lot lately. If you didn't take the time to read through the mess that is that Slate piece, I'll give you the gist of it: busy mom wishes her 13-year-old dog, Velvel, would just die already. Oh, and she included this little nugget:

 "A friend of mine once told me that before he had a kid, he would have run into a burning building to save his cats. Now that he has a kid, he would happily drown the cats in the bathtub if it would help his son take a longer nap. Here is how I feel about that statement: Velvel, avoid the bathroom." 

Pause for deep breaths. I try really hard in my day-to-day not to judge other moms because you just don't know what goes on behind closed doors. Maybe dad is so hands-off that mom has to fend for herself and she truly is overwhelmed. She has three kids, and I know that's gotta be tough. In fact, a close friend with three small children told me the other night that when her dog passes away, they wouldn't get another. She said everything that the Slate writer said: they didn't have as much time for the dog, he shed too much, etc. She just asserted it was a lot of work. End of story. What she didn't do was actively wish for her dog to die.

I actually do think it's OK to admit you are in over your head with an animal. Sometimes there's a training issue or your circumstances shift dramatically or you just can't make things work with a pet (it does happen, trust me), and there is nothing wrong with making a change that will make you AND your animal happier. That, however, does not mean blaming your animal for your choices and making him or her pay the price. 

There's no disputing that kids suck all the time and energy out of you. But you fight through your day and you give whatever is left over to those who deserve it. Your spouse. Your parents. Your loyal pet. The goldfish who has defied the odds and stuck around long after the others floated to the top of the tank. The PTA. Your friends. The succulents that were heralded as low maintenance but now have a yellow pallor reminiscent of Keith Richards. You make it work. We make it work. Somewhere, between ballet lessons and Spanish lessons and zoo camps plus a full-time job and freelance gigs and a husband whose job keeps him away for 24 hours at a stretch, we make time for this:

This is Ainsley. She's almost 12 years old. I've had her since she was a puppy, back when the only things on my plate included perusing Anthropologie catalogs and scouring Friendster for long-lost high school boyfriends. She was there for broken hearts and bad decisions. She once bit a dude who came up behind me in a parking lot at night and, I'm fairly certain, prevented something bad from happening. She weathered the birth of our first child with grace and so far, has made it through the trials and tribulations of toddler cohabitation with only the occasional defeated look on her face. OK, and she growled once. 

That's not to say that life hasn't changed for Ainsley. Last time I took her to the vet, her toenail length was the subject of a passive-aggressive chirp from the vet tech. And the $70 groomer visits have been largely replaced by bathtub wrestling matches. But she still gets walks when it's cool enough. Our three-year-old daughter feeds and gives her medicine daily. She gets heartworm pills and vet check ups and $1500 surgery for torn ligaments. We are not perfect, but we have time for this. We make time for this. 

There are things I really don't have time for now that I am a parent. I never saw the series finale of "Gossip Girl", and I guess I'll never know if Chuck and Blair ended up together. I still haven't listened to the new Nick Cave album all the way through. The last time I walked into my favorite haunt, I didn't even know the bartender. I looked down at my feet during my daughter's birthday party last weekend and realized that the outer hull of the Titanic probably looks better than my toenail polish. I refuse to waste time anymore on personal dramatics, and have quit trying to salvage relationships that are clearly not worth salvaging. The time that I have is precious. Limited. I divide it up, I savor it, and then I give it to those who need it: my child, my husband, and my family....which includes my dog. 

Ainsley is old. She won't be with me for much longer, I know this. So every time she eats a box of raisins that The Little leaves on the floor and has to be force-fed activated charcoal , I tell myself that this is not a pain in the ass. I tell myself that whatever time--no matter how inconvenient--I have to devote to this dog is but a small price to pay for the warm fur, the soft eyes, the deflated squeaky toys and the unending love she has given to us over the past 12 years. 

I say do get a dog if you've been thinking about it. Get a dog when you are young and single and let them grow with you and see your life change. Take them with you when you move. Let your future spouse learn to love them, too. Introduce them to swaddled babies and, as swaddling becomes a sweet memory, teach your kids to feed them and bathe them and pet them GENTLY, I SAID GENTLY. Comb mushed up Kibble out of Barbie's hair and untangle leashes from your kiddo's legs. Let them teach your children about pure love AND hard work AND commitment. Let them be there for you when tantrums make you weary and teachers send you notes that make you worry. 

It'll be so worth it.