When I saw the woman to my right clearly in a state of anxiety, I took an almost selfish solace in her discomfort. I knew I wasn’t the only passenger on board afraid of flying. “You’re not alone,” I told her with a half-smile. “Flying makes me very anxious, too.” The woman’s response was not one that I was expecting. “Oh, no, dear. It’s not flying that I’m afraid of. I just hate being out of touch with my family and friends down below.”
Like clockwork, the woman two seats over chimed in. “I know, right? Thank god for the free in-flight Wi-Fi.” I turned my head toward the window and stared blankly at the world below, just before 20 minutes of severe turbulence nearly stole my lunch. Ironically, the weather front deprived the passengers on Flight 630 of further Internet access. “We apologize for the inconvenience,” the flight attendant said in a rehearsed manner. Everyone on board knew that a Malaysian Airlines flight had been missing, and all were presumed dead in the Indian Ocean. The ladies beside me were clutching their iPhones in what appeared to be death grips.
Contemporary society has gifted us with a phobia potentially as strong as acrophobia or the fear of flying: smartphone anxiety. We have come to depend on our technology for emotional sustenance.
“Some of the people I interviewed for my book used phrases like ‘my smartphone is like my blankie, I feel anxious without it,’” Catherine Steiner-Adair Ed.D and author of The Big Disconnect: Protecting Childhood and Family Relationships in the Digital Age tells The Daily Beast. “These are signs of a psychological dependency,” she says. And if you, too, “can’t leave home without your phone when you don’t need it, feel anxious, experience withdrawal agitation, can’t go to the bathroom without bringing your phone,” you very well might be psychologically dependent on your phone as well, she explains.
What’s funny is that one of the very few things I enjoy about flying is the freedom: the physical and psychological distance between you and the rest of the world; the inability to refresh your email 10 times per minute or see if you have any new Facebook notifications; the simple fact that you can’t place the phone calls that punctuate our days; and perhaps, most importantly, the ability to be in the present moment.
In many ways, as a member of my technologically advanced, media-obsessed generation, and as a citizen of the world, I understood what the woman to my right (whose named turned out to be Meredith) meant. It’s a scary thing not being able to be in constant contact with loved ones. It’s natural to worry and wonder whether or not they are OK. Not being in control is something many people have a hard time coming to terms with. Moreover, smartphones can be spectacularly helpful and entertaining, and they most certainly have advanced our lives in significant ways. Without them, we very well might be lost, and I don’t just mean without the Google Maps app.
The ubiquitous smartphone has become our most indispensable accessory. The ability to communicate with friends and family across the world immediately andfor free is irrefutably incredible. Even more impressive is the extent to which smartphones have become instruments of emotion. They facilitate a broad spectrum of feelings that have amplified our emotional lives just as surely as they’ve brought the world to each of our fingertips and doorsteps.
Every time you step onto an airplane, into a restaurant, into a classroom, or into a social gathering, you have a choice. You can turn your phone completely off, which might make your life easier. (If you have protective parents like mine, that might evoke the same kind of fear in people as the fear Meredith experiences when she flies.) You can turn your phone to silent or set it to “Do Not Disturb”—yes, that means the vibrator setting is turned off, too—so that you will be less distracted. You can leave your phone on and pay little to no attention to it. You can.
But you probably won’t.
At our best, we’re in control of most of our circumstances. It’s almost comical to think how much the little smartphone has changed all that. We are much more likely to leave our phones on the table as we eat—or, if we’re feeling super generous, we hide it between our folded legs or underneath our napkins. We get distracted when our phones light up, so much so that we actually lose all sense of what’s going on around us and focus only on what’s going on inside our little 2½-by-5-inch boxes, which—if only even for a brief moment—we consider to be unquestionably more important than anything and everything else. We spend our nights perfectly filtering Instagrams so we can “remember” the moment and yet, ironically, we are usually doing the exact opposite. Our phones have become the masters of our time.
Kathleen McCartney, president of Smith College, reflects on this idea. “More and more, people are using smartphones even while participating in face-to-face social events. For example, you are at a party and texting people who aren’t there to connect with them, you are at a concert and posting photos on Facebook,” she says. “I think we feel a connection to others when they ‘like’ what we text or post.”
She continues, “I think smartphones can be somewhat addictive. I have one guess about why: We are rewarded randomly by them. We get great news via email, Facebook, Twitter, and so on. This keeps us coming back for more.”
Everybody wants to speculate on the portentous meaning of such technological change, and it’s hard to deny its inevitability. Common sense suggests now is a time to hold onto what’s best about the old, to protect those things about life that might be compromised as technologies and opportunities evolve. In the face of this technology juggernaut, we have to recognize the enormousness of anything that can so easily control the way we feel.
As the plane’s wheels began to touch the tarmac in New York City, Meredith let out a huge sigh of relief and proceeded to turn on her cellphone. When I looked around, I noticed that practically everyone on board did the same. The sounds of text message and voicemail notifications were a clear indictor that we were back to reality.
“Hi, honey, it’s Meredith.” Silence. “Oh, nothing,” she chuckled. “Just wanted to say hello.”
Article originally published on The Daily Beast: http://thebea.st/1iGWxlo.
Maybe I’m biased. But three years at an all-girl’s secondary school and four years at an all-women’s college have certainly made me appreciate the value of a single sex education. Any thoughtful examination of our society would recognize that there are many roads to a meaningful future. As fellow New Englander Robert Frost proclaimed in verse almost a century ago, “I took the one less traveled by, and that has made all the difference.”
Let there be no doubt that single-sex education has its down side. There have been times when being surrounded almost exclusively by women has made me feel as though I am in the wrong setting: I feel like everyone is getting under my skin, even though perhaps it is I who may be the irritant; at times, everyone seems to be unswervingly—and unnervingly—in sync.
I am sure that many of the women who have chosen to receive an all women’s education would agree with these occasional grumbles. But they would also agree that these are small annoyances in the grand scheme of things—truly a fair trade. That trade includes finding your voice.
A couple of months ago, sometime during the season of college visits and interviews, I was asked by the prospective family for directions to the admissions office, and they asked me how I liked Smith College. My response was earnest and unrehearsed: “It’s not for everyone,” I said. “But I wouldn’t be anywhere else.” Although this might not have been the answer they were looking for, it was the honest truth.
An all women’s education has taught me about who I am and who I am to become. I’ve learned how to maintain a balanced life, how to sustain healthy relationships and support groups, how to embrace failure and take risks with good reasons, and so much more.
The classes I’ve taken, the places I’ve traveled, the friends, mentors, and professors that I have met along the way have inspired me to express my ideas and communicate my beliefs: I’ve created my own blog, Womankind; been a student advisor for the Smith College Center for Work and Life; even spoken about discrimination issues at the United Nations during a semester in Geneva. I feel greatly enriched by my experiences, and I know that this is only the beginning.
As I move onto graduate school, I will be attending a coeducational school. This is because I have found what I needed and more in all my experiences. I will graduate from Smith knowing that these several years of single-sex education have had everything to do with self-realization and transformation for me.
During those fleeting moments—and admittedly, some last longer than others—it’s really no problem to keep reminding myself that this isn’t for everyone. But I wouldn’t be anywhere else.
Article originally published in The Key Reporter (http://www.keyreporter.org/PbkNews/PbkNews/Details/920.html).
Those of us who have returned to campus once again recognize what it means to be back: the gates and gables, brick and stone, paths and ponds—all signs we have come to call Smith home, with all the comforts of familiar places, traditions, and people we love. But the start of each school year brings a tremendous amount of change, too.
This year in particular, the Smith College community embraces quite a bit of the new, even as many of us step back into what we already know. There are so many new faces to greet, including the class of 2017, new Ada Comstock scholars, transfer students, new professors and administrators, and a new school president, Kathleen McCartney. We are excited by the new class offerings, and we are relieved by Morrow/Wilson’s new and improved dining hours. About that new mailbox system though…
Although change can be spectacularly strange, unfamiliar, and even terrifying at first, it’s the force that drives us forward. Upperclasswomen will typically remember how young they felt when they got here, how new everything was, and some of us felt distinctly out of place. Most of us make the adjustment, of course, weaving ourselves into the fabric of this place as we set the patterns of our Smithie lives. So for those of you—old and new—who are wondering, here’s the story on those oh-so-wonderful first-years.
First and foremost, it’s pretty clear that our school is a fairly selective institution. An applicant pool of almost 4,500 students produced 652 brilliant, beautiful, and/or bold first-years enrollees. That is to say, 652 brilliant, beautiful, and bold first-years chose to make Smith their new home.
Smith has long prided itself on the diversity of its students, both ethnically and geographically, and this year’s class is no different, as the college welcomes 108 first-year students who identify as Asian American. There are also 57 Latinas, 37 African Americans, and 4 Native Americans. We welcome students from 41 states, topped by Massachusetts, California, New Jersey, New York, Connecticut, Virginia, Texas, Maine, and Pennsylvania.
In this global age, diversity easily transcends the country’s borders and spans the globe. We welcome 114 first-year international students: 52 from the People’s Republic of China, 8 from South Korea, 4 from India, 4 o from Malaysia, 3 from Pakistan, and 3 from the Republic of Singapore.
The class of 2017 is also filled with legacies. 18 Smithies from the class of 2017 also have a sister who attends—or graduated from—Smith College. 36 have mothers who did the same, and 23 have grandmothers or great-grandmothers who are proud Smithies as well. Smith has always been a place many call home, a testament to the love and satisfaction women have gotten from this special, irreplaceable place.
Admissions data suggests that maybe the Smithies of 2017 reflect the uncertainty of this generation as to where life might take them. A number of potential fields were easily identified by entrants. 66 out of the 652 first-years have indicated that they think they might want to pursue their studies interest in biological fields, a significant trend toward an underrepresented career for young women. Other career aspirations of note: 47 in psychology, 31 in English language and literature, 26 in engineering, and 23 in government.
This summer, President McCartney published an article in The Daily Beast (http://www.thedailybeast.com/witw/articles/2013/08/26/smith-president-s-advice-to-college-freshmen-don-t-lean-back.html), giving advice to college freshmen not to lean back. She rightfully notes, “Our culture, our schools, our own inner voices still seek to restrict women’s ability to take chances, make bold decisions and define their own lives. Don’t listen. See clearly. Take risks. Make college the moment you begin living out loud.”
Welcome Class of 2017. May you live well and live out loud, too.
Children who witness domestic violence in the home often believe that they are to blame, live in a constant state of fear, and are 15 times more likely to be victims of child abuse. In the following stories, readers remember witnessing violence in their childhood homes.
I heard my parents fight. I heard screaming and yelling, usually about money, or some imagined offense by my mother. Then eventually I started hearing slapping noises. And one night when I was at a sleepover, my dad lost it and almost shot my mother in front of my 3-year-old sister. She’s what stopped him … she hugged him and said, “I love you.’ My mom left him after that, but the abuse continued.
When I was about 8 years old I remember seeing my father try to strangle my mother with her purse straps as she left the house. It was a fight about money and she was taking the checkbook with her, which he didn’t want her to do.
My parents were both well educated and taught at a well-known college. We were solidly middle class, my mother earning more than my father throughout their careers, which I always thought was part of the problem.
The violence was not generally predictable. Like many people who live with abusers, we tip-toed around the house trying not to “set him off.” He was verbally and physically abusive of all of us, though never sexually, thank goodness. As children my sister and I were called fat, lazy, and stupid on a fairly regular basis. We were actually both thin, well-behaved honors students. When my father lost his temper it could be over something as small as you forgetting to put your glass in the dishwasher. The last time he hit me I was home from college for the summer, getting ready to go to my summer internship. I was eating dry cereal (we were low on milk) and when he said, “Good morning,” I did not answer quickly or clearly enough because of my full mouth. He slapped me across the face.
Over the years he gave my mother fat lips and bruises. He generally hit with his open hand but sometimes used his fists or kicked us. He once broke a wooden spoon on me.
When I was 13, after a fight with my father (and another fat lip) my mother found her way to a battered women’s shelter. When she came home, she sat us all down and told my father that if he ever laid a hand on one of us again she could and would have him arrested for assault and battery and attempted murder. After that day he never touched her in anger again (that we know of) but he continued to take it out on my sister and me. My mother must have suspected but she never called him on it, and we didn’t tell her for fear of him and the possible repercussions.
Today they are still married (51 years) and they still have a contentious relationship. My sister and I have good relationships with them. I have never really discussed the abuse with my father, though I have with my mother. Her response was, “It wasn’t that bad, was it?” I am sure that this is her way of dealing with her decision to stay with him. Against all odds, I am blessed to be married to a loving, supportive man who has never laid a finger on me or spoken to me in a verbally abusive way. I have had some therapy. I have two children who I am very careful never to touch in anger and I do my best to improvise a healthy parenting style. There are more of us out there than anyone knows.
When I was a young child, my mother was shot by my father during a domestic dispute. After hiding me to save my life from him she died in front of me.
My new caregivers, a woman and a man, psychologically abused and tortured me and used me as their servant for years.
Later, as a teenaged runaway, a couple I lived with argued often and the husband began to beat his wife. I stood between them with a kitchen knife to protect her and he told me I’d better kill him with the first thrust or else he would pull it out and kill us both.
As a young adult I became infatuated with a person who liked to waste their mind and body on narcotics and alcohol every day. They soon started to hit me and then to regularly beat me. After two years, I left and have not looked back. Now 11 years violence-free.
My mother was bound up and “hog tied” by my father, who said she was out of control. She had just had her third child, who was five months old at the time. My father sent us all away then he took control. I never saw her again, and he got away with killing her. I miss her so much. I was five and only found out the truth when I sought out city records in my early twenties. I confronted him and he denied responsibility, insists that she “suddenly died” while bound up and he was asleep. Even if it was an accident, who does that to his wife and mother of his children? I fight for women’s rights as a way to honor her memory, but it brings me no satisfaction, because even though he killed my mom, I still share events from my life with him. After all, he is my father.
3.6 million cases of child abuse are reported every year in the U.S. The number of children involved in these reports is 6 million. In the following two stories, readers reflect on their personal experiences of being abused as a child by a parent.
I grew up in an abusive home. I never realized how abusive my father was until I grew older. He would beat my mother for any reason. When my siblings and I got older he started doing the same to us.
I remember getting beaten for going to a funeral. My best friend’s dad died, he gave me permission to go to the funeral. When I came back he beat me because according to him, someone said they saw me on the road. One time he beat me with a wire, he cut my cheek, a scar that though it has faded over the years I still have.
Growing up in an abusive home made me distrust men so I swore I would never get married. Also witnessing the abuse that my mother put up with I knew I’d never have kids. I know that the only reason my mother stayed in an abusive home was because she had us and she could not afford to take care of 7 children on her own.
I did end up meeting a man who is nothing like my father. He made it his mission to show me that not all men are monsters. That was ten years ago, we’ve now been married for six years and they have been very wonderful. However, I do know that I am never going to have children. My parents made that impossible for me.
I don’t remember when it started. Eventually, my dad told me I was 2 or 3. My mom was mercurial. When I was younger (my earliest memories are from age 4), it was mostly fists– to the head, to the back, to the stomach. It eventually escalated. Kitchen utensils, pipes, hockey sticks. As she delivered blows, she told me why I deserved them. My dad never intervened. Afterward, she’d tell me that I’d made her hit me, or sometimes, she’d pretend it never happened. It went on until I was 16, when she hit me in the face. My glasses fell to the ground and she stepped on them. She spit on me, screamed “faggot,” and I snapped. I hit her back. For better or for worse, my violence stopped hers …
1 in 4 women aged 18 and older in the U.S. report intimate partner violence. In the following six stories, women share their personal experiences with an abusive partner. All of the women below left their partner after they experienced the abuse.
My ex-husband was 6’4″ and 260 lbs. While we were married he frequently erupted in anger. He tackled me to the floor and put a knife to my neck. He said over and over he was going to kill me and dump my body in an abandoned mine near our home. He punched holes in the wall and smashed doors. He spit on me and shoved me against the wall. He called me every name in the book in front of our three young girls. His anger was never far away, coming to the surface when I bought a kitchen table or when I had a late library book. It was 11 years of hell. After we divorced I went to law school and became a prosecutor. I was able to stand up for myself and others against tyrants.
Like Nigella Lawson, I’m smart, pretty, educated, and accomplished—i.e., not the “profile” of a typical abused wife, but I spent 17 years married to an abuser. None of our friends and colleagues knew how it crushed my spirit. It happened so gradually that I didn’t even realize that my confidence, self-esteem, and joy were eroding; I felt withered inside. I made myself smaller in every way, and more and more isolated, so as not to threaten him or set him off. I hung in there for so long for the few good qualities he had, and the “crumbs” of affection he gave me. When I saw those news photos, I KNEW with every cell in my body what I was seeing, because it was so familiar …
A couple of weeks after I got married, my husband & I had a disagreement about something small and he hit me with what I’d call an upper cut to the jaw, knocking me to the floor. We’d only been married a few weeks and I was as shocked as I was hurt. He’d never shown any indication of violent behavior before we were married. We were crazy about each other and had what I thought was a great relationship. Three weeks after the first incident he hit me again, but this time I was much more hurt. Devastated and bruised, I quit a wonderful job I had in San Francisco and packed up and left him the next day. Everyone—particularly my in-laws—were horrified and begged me to give him another chance. I refused, knowing that the abuse, which came out of nowhere, wasn’t going to stop. After I left him, his best friend told me that he had thrown a large rock at the head of a previous girlfriend and would have killed her if he’d had better aim. This happened years ago, but I’ll bet he married again, although I didn’t. I no longer trusted my “take” on men.
I am an educated, confident, 27-year-old woman. I never anticipated I would be a victim of domestic violence and probably would have scoffed at the thought if I had been given a glimpse into my future. But victim I became; steadily my ex-fiancé conditioned me to the abuse. First, it was mental and emotional. Eventually, he would use physical intimidation to force me to abide by his will. Finally, he crossed the line into bona fide physical violence by strangling me and trying to drag me out of my apartment by my hair. Once he hit me, it became clear that I needed to get out. With help, I was able to do so. I have been out of the relationship for nine months and have never been happier. I’m able to be who I was before three years of manipulation and abuse took its toll, except now I’m grateful.
For four years I was in an emotionally and mentally abusive relationship. I realize that some may feel there is a big difference between physical and mental abuse, but I can attest that being consistently demoralized and devalued, told that you are not interesting enough or as attractive as others, and that your resulting emotional problems are petty, takes its toll on overall physical health and even the ability to function in day-to-day life. I went from being a strong and able female who was in control of her life to becoming the sort of woman I could never understand before: one who stayed in a relationship that was toxic, fully aware of the detriment and danger, yet unable or unwilling to leave. It was not until I broke a mirror with my fist that I found the courage to walk away.
I was verbally and emotionally abused by my ex throughout our 20-year relationship. Today a dozen years after the divorce I am still traumatized by the memories. I have bad dreams, cry when I see or hear someone yell at a domestic partner and cannot make a good relationship even with a good person. During my marriage, I did not think I was abused, but now I have severe depression and posttraumatic stress disorder and many “issues.” This all came from 20 years of stress. This is a serious matter and many people minimize it. I do not; I call 911 on neighbors who fight (especially those with small children) and also for abusive parents in stores, etc. The only way to stop this is for people to SPEAK UP and for the criminals to learn what they are doing is wrong.
Contrary to popular belief, more than 40 percent of domestic-violence victims are male. In the following two stories, these men share the experiences they had with domestically violent women.
At 100 lbs., she was half my size. Her pet names for me were “jerk,” “creep,” and “son of a bitch.” I can still feel her kicking me as I cringed on the floor in fetal position.
Please offer time to men who have been victimized by women who exploit the current zero-tolerance law-enforcement policies. My ex-wife disposed of me by coming home drunk one night (I was asleep), picking up the phone, and accusing me of assaulting her. I learned later that she had disposed of her previous husband in the same manner. Although the charges were thrown out of court, and it was revealed that she had “disposed” of her previous husband in exactly the same manner, it didn’t prevent the local paper from printing the arrest record. My life, and the lives of my children, have never been the same.
Domestic violence often begins with emotional abuse, including verbal abuse.The two readers below rightfully note that domestic violence can be (and is oftentimes) verbal, too.
I’m not sure what is worse, the physical or emotional abuse that you can be subjected to. I have found that the emotional scars have affected me much longer than the physical. I was young and naive and so didn’t know it was meant to be any different. I didn’t see the slow process of becoming dependent on your abuser, because you feel like a disappointment, not worthy, inadequate or you have the ‘grin and bear it for the greater good’ attitude. It wasn’t until he head-butted me, in front of our 2-year-old daughter, breaking my nose that I decided enough was enough. That one blow was the physical manifestation of years of emotional toil that I needed to think clearly. We walked out and have never seen him since. That was 10 years ago and I can’t say I’ve had a regret since.
I have been in a relationship where I was physically pushed around and threatened (and I ended it once things escalated). I have also been in relationships where the abuse was far more insidious—comments every day that undermined my self-esteem; complaints about what I looked like; criticism of pretty much everything I thought, said, or did. All while the rest of the world thought we were a loving, well-matched couple. I know which type of abuse was more hurtful (because in the latter case I thought the negative comments must have had some foundation in fact since they came from more than one boyfriend over the years) and I know, many years later, which has had the more lasting effect on my psyche. I am not attempting to diminish the very real distress caused by physical domestic abuse, but I think it is important to recognize that there is more than one way to pull someone apart and leave them diminished and crushed. Words harm too.
Thirteen percent of teenage girls who said they have been in a relationship report being physically hurt or hit. The following story puts this unsettling statistic into perspective.
I was in college and living with my boyfriend of three years. Everyone thought he was wonderful and funny, but he was also explosive when he drank. He would hit and kick me and threaten to kill me while I slept. He also was with other women because I wasn’t “pretty enough.” All of this wounded my self-esteem and made me desperate to stay with him. I was sure no one else would want me. I am smart and attractive. I look back on that part of my life with embarrassment and I can’t figure out how I let that happen.
Three out of four (74 percent) of people in the U.S. personally know someone who is or has been a victim of domestic violence. Here is one of the many examples of someone who knew of someone who was a victim of domestic violence.
When I was in the seventh grade, we had to do a report on a social issue and domestic violence was my topic. I met with a woman who was an advocate on domestic-violence issues who told me about all my area did for the victims. She then described some of the things they were running away from, a PG-13 version for her audience but it still affected me. She began to describe her own experience with her ex-husband, that left her son and her so emotionally scarred she slept with a gun in her nightstand even to that day. Her son was a year older than me and I had never comprehended people my age we’re also victims not just the women. I’ve since lost touch with the woman but her story and other stories similar have stayed with me into my mid 20s. Though I’ve never been a victim I am an ally.
With Nigella Lawson’s run-in with domestic abuse in the news this week, The Daily Beast seeks your voice. Submit a short story of how you’ve encountered domestic abuse.
You read about it in the news, you see the reports on television, but rarely do you share your side of domestic abuse. For a new project, editors of The Daily Beast want to hear your story about domestic abuse in your life. We’ll then publish the most compelling submissions on the website at a later date. (Note: these will be anonymous—unless you tell us otherwise.)
Victimization by violence induces shame, trauma, and unhappiness. These are often the most private and internalized of feelings. The very personal nature of domestic abuse only amplifies this truth. Sharing the horror of such nightmares takes enormous courage and can help destigmatize these awful experiences and change lives for the better.
We encourage those of you who would like to tell your own story to please do so using the anonymous form below. If you leave your email or phone, we may contact you as you request to hear more about your story—this contact information won’t be made public or shared in any way (we promise). If you want to submit video, audio, or photos in addition to words, you can email files or links to firstname.lastname@example.org. If you need guidance, follow these how-tos on uploading to YouTube, Vimeo, and SoundCloud.
Who wouldn’t want America’s favorite pensioner on their arm for a night on the town? If you head over to eBay by June 24, you can bid your way to dinner at the Morris Animal Foundation Gala of Hope with the fabulous Betty White on October 19. The actress has been a trustee of the foundation for four decades, and all proceeds from the auction will help make advances in veterinary medicine. The lucky winner will get two round-trip tickets to LA and one night at the Ritz Carlton Marina del Rey. Best of all, they’ll have the pleasure of giggling at White’s jokes all through dinner. The highest offer is currently $8,600—get bidding if you think you can top it!
Article originally published on Women in the World website: http://www.thedailybeast.com/witw/cheats/2013/06/20/win-a-date-with-betty-white.html
We’ve all heard the expression “everything in moderation,” and now it seems pregnant women can get in on the compromise. A study from the University of Bristol shows that the development of children is not harmed socially, behaviorally, or cognitively when expectant mothers practice light to moderate drinking—three to seven drinks per week. Of course, this is not to promote the consumption of alcohol during pregnancy, it is simply to say that enjoying the occasional drink while pregnant ain’t the end of the world. Cheers!
Article originally published on Women in the World website: http://www.thedailybeast.com/witw/cheats/2013/06/19/what-to-drink-when-you-re-expecting.html