Last week, Sophie (of BooMama fame) wrote a post at the All Access blog about modesty. I did not read the post at first because of the heebie jeebies I get from that word. But then Kimberly (I can’t remember - do you have a blog I should link to?) emailed me and asked for the link to my old modesty post, so that got me interested.

Sophie’s post is an inoffensive musing of the good-night-what-are-some-women-thinking variety. It was the comments that got my heebies all jeebed up again. A few were uniquely insightful, but most took the standard line that women are responsible for preventing the thoughts of men.

So, in honor of Sophie’s commenters, I thought I would congratulate the many similar voices who were so successful in inculcating modesty awareness in me when I was a cute and curvy teenager. Here are the thoughts that went through my modesty-believing head every day of my college career:

I must not lie in the grass, no matter how beautiful the day or how tempting it is to enjoy the spring breeze while reading a book. When I lie down, my curves are more obvious, and guys walking by me might notice.

I must not stretch in public, no matter how stiff or tired I am. When I stretch, men notice me.

I must not dress to stay cool on a hot day, even if it is 100 degrees. When I go inside where it is cool, men will notice the shape of my nipples.

I must hunch my shoulders when I wear a t-shirt. Maybe then men won’t stare at my chest.

I must spend hours searching for padded bras to hide my nipples, even though almost no one makes padded bras in my size. I must spend $50 on such a bra if I find it, even if I don’t have $50.

I must never run. I bounce when I run.

I must never jump. Same reason.

I must not rest my arm on the back of the couch. Raising my arms lifts my breasts, and men notice.

I must always sit with my knees together, even in jeans. I must not stretch my legs out in front of me. It makes my body too noticeable.

I must not choose sitting positions based on what is most comfortable, even if I am only with women. A man might walk in at any time, and I am guilty for that brief instant he saw me before I changed position.

I must never complain to the men around me about the burden of these rules. Talking about the unfairness of these rules is the same as saying, “Look at my body.”

I don’t know what to do on windy days. My clothing clings to me when I walk to class. Sometimes it makes me not want to go outside.

If only I could find the right clothing, I would be safe from unwanted attention.

If only my figure were less extravagant, I would be free of this responsibility. I hate my curves.

If only I were sexless, I would be at peace.

Thank you, thank you, modesty preachers, for your contribution to my mental heath and happiness. If it weren’t for your sermons, I never would have questioned whether I should be allowed outdoors on windy days.

Seriously though, I know I can’t blame other people for what went on in my own head; that’s kinda the point. I certainly had better examples and heard other messages. My mother, more than any woman I have ever known, joyfully brushes off the unreasonable expectations of those around her. She loves freely, forgives easily and remains as unaffected by the eagerly judgmental as anyone I have ever known.

I have never seen her bitter.

She and my father talked to me about “freedom in Christ,” which was a lofty and difficult concept for my legalistic teenage self. As Martin Luther could tell you, our human corruption makes us want to live by rules, even when those rules enslave us. Especially when those rules enslave us. The idea that I had something called “freedom in Christ” and that it included, say, GOING OUTSIDE ON WINDY DAYS was a little beyond my teenage grasp.

I could say a lot more on this subject, but I have been sorting through my archives recently and realizing just how much dreck I have asked you people to read over the last two years. A real discussion of how to raise daughters to value themselves and live with dignity is important, but I’m not sure I’m the best person to begin that discussion at the moment. I need some time to calm down.

(And for those of you tempted to repeat any women-are-responsible-for-the-lusts-of-men arguments in my comments, you are free to do so, but be aware that Az the Devoted Father of Daughters reads these comments and will be glowering fiercely. I cannot promise that your computer will not explode if he stares at the screen long enough.)

Not quite up to a new post today.  I spent the night rushing to the bathroom to relieve sudden nausea.  Today I have eaten ten ice cubes, a handful of dry cereal and two small pieces of chocolate (Hey! I needed the calories!), and I am only grateful that it has all stayed properly in my stomach.

The doc said if I couldn’t keep liquids down by this afternoon, I would need to bring my sorry pregnant body to the hospital (not his words) to check for dehydration, but the crisis seems to have passed.  Now I have only the ennui of knowing that there is a perfectly delicious peach-streusel pie in my fridge, and I cannot even muster up desire for it.  Is this how men with erectile dysfunction feel?

Az the Husband (not to be connected to the previous sentence - just count the babies) called from work to see how I was doing.  He is having a bad day at work, so I told him he could always use his sick wife as an excuse to come home early.

“I think my sick wife might be easier to manage from here, ” he said.  That man is not dumb.

And now baby PoppySeed is napping, and the two older girls are ensconced in front of Cinderella.   I will take the moment for some beauty sleep, where I may possibly dream that food tastes good again.  New post as soon as I can eat a real meal.

You know how there are some things you shouldn’t write about your kids because it will be too damaging to them later in life if their classmates ever discover your blog?  Well, let me just say that today one of my kids WHO WILL NOT BE NAMED discovered how to suck her thumb and pick her nose at the same time.  With the same hand.

I think she must be gifted.

I never would have guessed that of all the potentially controversial opinions I listed in my last post, the most incendiary would be the Oxford comma.  I thought I might get howls from American Idol fans, but they were strangely silent.  I did not expect pained dissatisfaction from the grammatically passionate.  It is good to know that, although we may disagree on the Oxford comma, we at least agree that the issue is not trivial.

We’ll just have to arm wrestle over the rest.

Speaking of punctuation, I have reached the uncomfortable stage of pregnancy where I resemble a pair of parentheses.  I roll when I walk, rumbling along in the duck waddle of the circumferentially challenged.  Strangers look at my belly first when I enter a room.  I don’t blame them; it’s quite unavoidable.

And I still have more than two months to go.

Right now I am barely awake and I must go to bed before my grammar and spelling degenerate into something unrecognizable, much like my figure.

• I don’t believe that the moral crises of our generation are more depraved than the moral crises of previous generations.
• I don’t believe that God or God’s followers belong to only one political party.
• I don’t believe that NASCAR should use both “car” and “auto” in its acronym.
• I don’t believe that parents can guarantee good character in their children by homeschooling, public-schooling, unschooling or just “raising him right.”
• I don’t believe that my flaws can be blamed on my parents.
• I don’t believe that Esperanto will save the world.
• I don’t believe that criminality is caused by low self-esteem.
• I don’t believe that guilt is always bad.
• I don’t believe that Tupac is alive.
• I don’t believe that our government is capable of an elaborate conspiracy to conceal the existence of aliens or anything else.
• I don’t believe in the Oxford comma.
• I don’t believe that crocodiles inhabit my city’s sewer system.
• I don’t believe in fairies, leprechauns or homeopathy.
• I don’t believe that divorces are ever convenient.
• I don’t believe that wool stays warm when wet.
• I don’t believe that American Idol is any better than Star Search.
• I don’t believe that Barbie dolls cause anorexia.
• I don’t believe that white chocolate deserves the name chocolate.
• I don’t believe that cocoa butter prevents stretch marks.
• I don’t believe that manifestoes accomplish anything.