(Dear readers who do not use American spelling reform - I confess that the American spelling of judgment has always pained me, but I am what I am, and cannot do differently.  Kindly imagine an e between the g and the m if you are feeling queasy.)

Beck just wrote a post at 5 Minutes for Parenting about that great bugbear of mommyblogging: judging others.  In the parenting blogosphere there is a general insistence on sunny optimism and bonhomie about each other’s parenting skills and choices.  We are a community, you see, and we are not supposed to judge.  At least, we are not supposed to judge each other about parenting.  There is plenty of judgment passed out about politics, religion, money, fashion, writing and perceived slights.  A democrat blogger might write about evil republican scum (or vice versa), but when it comes to actual parenting, we are supposed to join hands and sing “Kum Ba Yah, every mother is doing her best and let’s support each other.”

It’s time you knew: I am not doing my best.

I have never done my best.  I am a paralyzed perfectionist, and just about the worst advice anyone could ever give me is “Just do your best.”  This is about as helpful to me as suggesting that if I just tried a little harder, I could painlessly levitate my baby from my womb instead of dealing with all that messy labor.  “Best” is a standard impossible to me, utterly out of reach of my nature.  I will always find a flaw in my efforts somwehere.  Part of my growth as an adult has been to learn to accept a standard of “good enough” instead.

Or as my brother once told me when I freaked out about a college test: “Veronica, if the minimum wasn’t good enough, there wouldn’t be a minimum.”

There is actually a minimum to parenting, and we do not all agree on what that is.  Sure, we agree on a few basics: you must love your children, you must feed and shelter them, you must not beat them.  But there is a world  of standards beyond that, and we will not agree on all of those standards.

I cannot get all worked up, say, about which method of discipline parents choose for their kids, but I damn sure get worked up if they DON”T discipline their kids.  Discipline is not optional.  Nor is teaching your kids some measure of respect for authority.  We all have to live with your kids, and if you raise them to only disrespect rules laid down by authorities, then I do not want to drive on the same road with them.  If your son has learned from you that people will always say yes if he just keeps asking long enough, then I do not want your son dating my daughter.  If you teach your kids by example that stealing from big organizations doesn’t count as stealing, then I do not want your child as my employee or coworker.

In short, if you do those things, then I am judging your parental decisions.  It’s not a harsh or final judgment - as noted above, I know I’m flawed too, and I have plenty of boneheaded mistakes of my own.  But judgment as condemnation is one thing; judgment as discernment is something else.  Community and kindness do not require us to pretend that bad decisions are good ones.  We have all made bad decisions sometime; we cannot form a truly helpful community if we forbid ourselves from saying so.

So perhaps we could pause a little from the “we’re all doing our best” mantra.  We’re not.  I let my kids watch more movies and eat more junk food than they should.  It’s okay to tell me that, as long as you tell me like a friend who has made her own mistakes.  Recognizing that we don’t all make the best decisions all the time should not be the death knell of community; it should be part of building community.  The friend who lovingly tells me I don’t ___________ enough and then comes over to my house to help me out so I can - that friend will always be a more essential part of my community than the Pollyanna who tells me I’m doing my best, and just leaves me to it.

I went to college at a small midwestern Christian liberal arts school.  At the time, it had about 1800 students, and perhaps fewer than fifty of those students were African-American.  The school tried to recruit more minority students, but it was a tough sell for an expensive private school with an overwhelmingly white student body and faculty in the middle of a rural, white area.

One night, the Minority Student Organization held meetings and discussion groups in our dormitory.  Students from the organization came and described the challenges of attending the school and their hopes and suggestions for how things could be improved.  It was a cordial meeting and informative.  At the end there was time for questions and comments.

After a number of people asked intelligent questions, I volunteered that I was always more nervous talking to African-American students than white students, because, being a social bumbler anyways, I was afraid I would do or say something that was accidentally racist.  The student I was speaking to said, “Just talk to us like we’re ordinary people.”

Even at the time, I found that advice unsatisfying, though it took me a while to figure out why.  We are, of course, all ordinary people, but that does not mean that we all communicate the same way.  Different histories inform our conversation.  If, for example, I were with a white male friend, I could affectionately or challengingly call him “Boy” and no one would be the least offended (if he’s old enough, he might even consider it a compliment).  But the history of that word between a white person and a black man carries the ugly baggage of disrespect, hatred and oppression. There aren’t circumstances in which it would be appropriate; it would always be offensive.

What is ordinary to one person is not necessarily ordinary to another.

I was reminded of this today when I read the guest post at Rocks in My Dryer from Jenni of One Thing.  Jenni is mother to twelve children and writes a delightful blog about their life together.  For Rocks in My Dryer she wrote a post about the reactions that mothers of large families get from the people around them.

One of the peculiar diseases of western culture is the insistence that the existence of children must be justified.  Parents of large families receive the brunt of this.  Jenni describes some of the unfair attitudes people have towards her large family.  One of her most poignant statements was her feeling that the difficulties of her pregnancies are denied sympathy from her church folk, because they are her “just desserts” for getting pregnant so many times.

Jenni describes and alludes to several ways that people can be mean-spirited and offensive toward large families.  Given the amount of harassment and hostility large families have to deal with, I can understand how even cluelessness can be upsetting on top of everything else.  But some of the comments she objects to seemed fairly innocent to me, another case of two people having different assumptions about what it means to speak like “ordinary people.”  I have expressed amazement when friends with only two kids have children that look remarkably alike.  It would never occur to me that a family with more children would find that offensive.

For relatively shy people like myself, real life conversation can already feel like walking through a field of land mines.  When it is fraught with possible unwitting offense, I want to avoid conversation altogether.  Jenni’s post on one hand made me feel sympathy and support for moms of large families, but on the other, it made me less likely to engage in the conversations where I could express it.

One of the qualities I admire in Az the Husband is his unconcern with offending people.  While sometimes that presents challenges (and makes him dangerous to quote), it has an important benefit: Az talks to everybody.  He never worries about saying the wrong thing and alienating everyone in the room.  The political correctness that is supposed to teach us all how to talk to one another merely silences me (too many non-intuitive rules to remember).  Az disregards it entirely, speaks freely and makes friends easily.

It’s one of the many ironies of life: being unafraid to offend people may actually make you less offensive.

When I asked Az the Husband what he thought of my last post, he said, “Bitter. Bitter like a good gin and tonic.”

Thank you for contributing such an interesting discussion without merely indulging my bitterness. After reading your comments, I have just a few responses before I put this subject away and never want to talk about it again, or at least for the next decade or so.

1. There is a popular idea that men are inherently lusty creatures who cannot help but be aroused on noticing a beautiful figure (I’m not sure I buy that as a universal, but whatever - it’s not worth arguing about). This is the basis for much of the “modesty” discussion I have heard in churches. By using this lustiness trait as a marker of masculine identity, men (or their advocates) accomplish two things: they remove some of that lusty guilt from themselves, and they protect themselves from the burden of living by the same modesty standards that are expected of women. “Men are very visual” supposes that women are not, so men don’t need to show the same consideration to women in presenting themselves “modestly.”

I find this profoundly hypocritical. It always brings to mind Jesus’ warning to the scribes: “Woe to you, teachers of the law! For you weigh men down with burdens hard to bear, while you yourselves will not even touch the burdens with one of your fingers.” There is something very dangerous in setting strict rules for other people, knowing that you yourself would never live by them.

Even if the above assumption about male sexuality is accurate, there is inconsistency in how churches deal with it. If all men are so vulnerable to their own sexual desire, then that includes men who feel same-sex attraction, a situation that should merit even more compassion since conservative churches generally expect gay men to remain chaste for life. When men’s conferences or men’s Bible studies start including “What Not to Wear” sessions, where Christian men discuss how to choose the proper cut of chinos so that they do not “cause” their homosexual brethren “to stumble,” then maybe I will take their moral authority on modesty a little more seriously.

(Okay, Az just read that and said, “Bitter. Bitter.”)

2. As I mentioned in my first post on this subject from 2006, I think it is desperately important that in teaching our daughters how to make choices about their appearance, we find some other measure of success than what other people think (whether men, or as Mad pointed out, judgmental women (#17)). Karen’s comment (#23) hit the nail on the head.

I want my daughters to dress in ways that express their confidence in their own worth and dignity. I want my daughters to be motivated by positive goals rather than negative fear. Bea’s comment (#9) about girls who dress to show their body’s ability rather than availability was excellent. That’s it exactly. Dress should be motivated by a sense of dignity, but also by our goals. One thing I will stress to my own kids (though they may refuse to listen) is that friendships with decent guys are worth so much more than romances with them. The closest I think I will ever come to the “don’t cause your brother to stumble” nonsense is a frank recognition that my girls will miss out on opportunities for friendships if they wear clothes that make the more-or-less good guys so uncomfortable that they won’t talk to them. That’s about it.

3. I was not surprised, but certainly sympathetic, by how many of you have also had painful experiences with regard to this subject. I am only surprised how rarely that pain gets mentioned in most discussions of modesty. Why do you think that is? Is the judgmentalism too heavy for women to be honest? What does it say about the nature of the modesty movement if so many women are deeply wounded by it, but even thirty years after the fact, do not feel welcome to speak openly about it?

As always, I look forward to reading your comments.

And tomorrow I will find a new subject, I promise.

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.)

Dear Mr Buckley:

You are one of the leading conservatives in this country, but you wear your hair like a way-out liberal hippy. It is nasty looking, unkempt, and subtracts tremendously from your appearance. You would be a fairly good looking man if you would get a haircut — not necessarily crew like your brother [Senator Buckley]. If you really are conservative, why don’t you make yourself look like one?

Fellow Conservative

Dear Fellow Conservative: If I were also good looking, don’t you think it would all be just too much? Cordially, WFB

At the library the other day I picked up a collection of letters to the editor and responses from National Review, the conservative magazine founded and, for forty years, edited by William F. Buckley, Jr.

I had never read much from William Buckley (other than his language advice in the newspaper), but I have read National Review a few times, and the magazine has always made me uneasy. Side by side within its pages might be an informative article full of surprising good sense - a pleasure to read - while the next article might be a political screed listing and attacking the beliefs of unquoted -ists and -isms, full of straw man arguments tendentious enough to make my eyes bleed.

But this little collection of the published letters to the editor of NR is a quick and entertaining read, not least because of Buckley’s verbal swagger. His wit and vocabulary were impressive, but more than that, he had an opinion on almost everything, and was willing to state it with confidence. He suffered from what Alister McGrath calls, in reference to Richard Dawkins, the “delusion of omnicompetence.”

And after reading this book, it occurred to me that pomposity can be a pretty entertaining thing. No one can be well-read and well-informed on every subject, but sometimes arresting, entertaining prose can result from a willingness to make an ass of oneself.

While sometimes I agree with Buckley, and sometimes disagree, or even find him infuriating, I can’t help but envy his style. There is a part of me that wishes I could manage the pomp and swagger, the seeming certainty of every opinion, the delight in summing up his opponents’ shortcomings and blunders.

It would make one hell of a blog, wouldn’t it?

But my pomposity just doesn’t pass muster. It lacks the intensity necessary for entertainment, and subsides instead into a rather dull conceit. I’m smugly certain that I’m smart, but I’m never quite convinced that my side of the argument is the only one possible for rational people.

Worst of all, I feel a little guilty if I’m witty enough to humiliate someone.

Pesky conscience.

Mr. Buckley: You are the mouthpiece of that evil rabble that depends on fraud, perjury, dirty tricks, anything at all that suits their purposes.

I would trust a snake before I would trust you or anybody you support.

A. Ruesthe

Dear Mr. Ruesthe: What would you do if I supported the snake? Cordially, WFB