Christmas is awesome.
I have always pined for a tree, a fireplace, perfectly wrapped gifts, carols. It was a Lifetime movie in my head. Everyone was so happy on Christmas. Charlie Brown, Frosty, Meredith Baxter-Birney. Even Schneider from One Day at a Time softened up for the holiday. It's that good.
Chanukah doesn't hold a candle to it. There's no TV special that makes you feel all warm and good inside. Charlie Brown never lit a menorah. So as a jewish kid, I looked forward to Christmas as much as (if not more than) chanukah.
Now as a cynical adult, I see the brilliant marketing behind the holiday. Having never celebrated it, I wonder if it's as awesome as I imagine it. Are the chestnuts roasting on the open fire? Is the family unit sitting in their flannel pajamas listening to music while staring at the fire?
If we did Christmas, I imagine it would look like this:
Tree decorations all over the floor, baby eating pine needles by the handful.
HM opening the corners of every gift to see which one's hers and LOUDLY caroling.
#1 skipping Christmas dinner and eating 8 waffles at midnight.
Christmas Day would be a chaotic morning with revved up hyperactive kids opening gifts they don't need and throwing wrapping paper all over the floor. Baby would then eat wrapping paper by the handful.
Because that's pretty much what our chanukah looked like. Except with more candles.
I watched a Very Smurfy Christmas today with the kids. I saw in their eyes the same glazed look of awe and peace that I had as a kid (and today) watching these shows.
Life can really be warm and good. For one day a year, everyone gets along. Smurf Village was aglow and Gargamel wasn't such a jerk. The music plays. Everyone hugs in the end. Gratitude abounds.
Cynics are quiet.
Christmas is awesome.
Merry Christmas to all my gentile peeps. Happy Festivus to the rest of us.
Monday, December 24, 2012
Sunday, December 16, 2012
Poop
The world is so impossibly sad sometimes.
Ugly, awful things happen.
Things that remind me that shit will happen beyond anyones control. That there are times when there's not one goddamn thing you can do to make it better or to change it. That we are but minuscule specks of dust floating in the ether.
And then, on those same days, as I'm flipping through pictures on my phone- I find a picture of my toilet full of poop.
On Friday, as the news of the massacre came in slowly, I was scrolling through pictures on my iPhone to distract me from the news on TV. Cute baby picture, cute 8 year old picture, awesome dinner picture, toilet full of crap picture, cute baby picture again....
I froze when I saw the poop picture and had to look at it closely to make sure it was in fact my toilet.... It was.
I immediately accused my husband of being a vile idiot. He swore it wasn't him. I then went to his second in command- our 8 year old son; his doppelganger in every way. Denial. And he was kind of bummed he didn't do it. I didn't fully believe him.
I was stumped. Who did the phantom deuce belong to? Who would take a picture with my phone?
Later that evening, walking with HM- (my 5 year old daughter)- I mentioned the poo picture to her to see if she would maybe narc her older brother out. She looked at me and smirked.
Astounded, I asked: "You did NOT take a picture of your doody with my phone, did you?"
HM replied- "yep" *laughing uncontrollably* "isn't that a funny prank?"
Silence.
I have a 5 year old daughter who took my iPhone, went to the bathroom, took a picture of her poop and left it on my phone for days in order for me to find it unexpectedly. To punk me.
She's 5.
So besides being disturbed at the above facts, I admire her comedic timing, her sense of a great prank and that she knows that poop is (almost) always funny.
The weekend went on. The sadness kept rolling in with every flip of the channel.
Sometimes you need some poop to laugh at.
Ugly, awful things happen.
Things that remind me that shit will happen beyond anyones control. That there are times when there's not one goddamn thing you can do to make it better or to change it. That we are but minuscule specks of dust floating in the ether.
And then, on those same days, as I'm flipping through pictures on my phone- I find a picture of my toilet full of poop.
On Friday, as the news of the massacre came in slowly, I was scrolling through pictures on my iPhone to distract me from the news on TV. Cute baby picture, cute 8 year old picture, awesome dinner picture, toilet full of crap picture, cute baby picture again....
I froze when I saw the poop picture and had to look at it closely to make sure it was in fact my toilet.... It was.
I immediately accused my husband of being a vile idiot. He swore it wasn't him. I then went to his second in command- our 8 year old son; his doppelganger in every way. Denial. And he was kind of bummed he didn't do it. I didn't fully believe him.
I was stumped. Who did the phantom deuce belong to? Who would take a picture with my phone?
Later that evening, walking with HM- (my 5 year old daughter)- I mentioned the poo picture to her to see if she would maybe narc her older brother out. She looked at me and smirked.
Astounded, I asked: "You did NOT take a picture of your doody with my phone, did you?"
HM replied- "yep" *laughing uncontrollably* "isn't that a funny prank?"
Silence.
I have a 5 year old daughter who took my iPhone, went to the bathroom, took a picture of her poop and left it on my phone for days in order for me to find it unexpectedly. To punk me.
She's 5.
So besides being disturbed at the above facts, I admire her comedic timing, her sense of a great prank and that she knows that poop is (almost) always funny.
The weekend went on. The sadness kept rolling in with every flip of the channel.
Sometimes you need some poop to laugh at.
Tuesday, December 11, 2012
Sleep Training
Sleep training a 9 month old is about as much fun as a colonoscopy prep.
I'm currently in the kitchen with the timer set for 5 minutes listening to my child wail.
Years ago, I read somewhere that in Guantanamo they would pipe in a recording of a baby screaming for hours on end. The unrelenting sound of a baby screaming is horrid. Its a function of evolution to respond. Quickly and with immediate comfort. To have to listen to a screaming baby for days on end would make me jump into an electrified fence.
That's kind of where I am now.
The problem is that this child does not sleep. For the last month he has been waking up every 2 hours every night. Like a newborn. Except as a newborn, he slept 6 hour stretches.
So for the last 4 weeks, I've been up all night with this overgrown newborn.
Fever, ear infections and enormous adenoids have all been taken care of.
It's time.
So as he screams and my neck muscles are tight and my jaw is set so hard it may crack- I'm letting him cry. It goes against every natural impulse of mine.
But sleep deprivation will make a bitch crazy. And willing to do anything for a 5 hour stretch of sleep.
It's been 10 minutes and there's no sign of him losing steam. If he was ever left alone in a jungle somewhere he would be OK because he would scream long enough for a mama orangutan to come save him. Then she would raise him and he would be fine. And then there'd be a great Phil Collins song at the end of his biopic movie.
Go to sleep Tarzan. Just GO TO SLEEP.
I'm currently in the kitchen with the timer set for 5 minutes listening to my child wail.
Years ago, I read somewhere that in Guantanamo they would pipe in a recording of a baby screaming for hours on end. The unrelenting sound of a baby screaming is horrid. Its a function of evolution to respond. Quickly and with immediate comfort. To have to listen to a screaming baby for days on end would make me jump into an electrified fence.
That's kind of where I am now.
The problem is that this child does not sleep. For the last month he has been waking up every 2 hours every night. Like a newborn. Except as a newborn, he slept 6 hour stretches.
So for the last 4 weeks, I've been up all night with this overgrown newborn.
Fever, ear infections and enormous adenoids have all been taken care of.
It's time.
So as he screams and my neck muscles are tight and my jaw is set so hard it may crack- I'm letting him cry. It goes against every natural impulse of mine.
But sleep deprivation will make a bitch crazy. And willing to do anything for a 5 hour stretch of sleep.
It's been 10 minutes and there's no sign of him losing steam. If he was ever left alone in a jungle somewhere he would be OK because he would scream long enough for a mama orangutan to come save him. Then she would raise him and he would be fine. And then there'd be a great Phil Collins song at the end of his biopic movie.
Go to sleep Tarzan. Just GO TO SLEEP.
Sunday, December 9, 2012
Marriage Diet
The one down side of being happily married is that there goes the single best diet plan ever. The breakup diet. It's hands-down the fastest, least healthy weight to drop some serious poundage.
Having experienced my fair share of getting dumped on my ass, I can say this with certainty: It makes you thin.
0 caloric intake X 3 weeks= 10 lb weight loss
That's break-up math.
Thousands of calories per day + 3 gestational periods x 12 happy years= 30 lb weight gain
That's marriage math.
So, I'm certain I won't be doing the break-up diet ever again. I need to find a new "marriage diet".
One that's doable. Easy. One that doesn't make me more irritable than my baseline irritability.
One that doesn't include advice to eat baby carrots as a snack. Or those tiny cheese circle things. Those are excellent snack options for a small squirrel. If I was the type of person who could eat baby carrots as a snack and be satisfied, would I be dieting in the first place?
I need a food plan for a girl who dreams about breakfast.
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Having experienced my fair share of getting dumped on my ass, I can say this with certainty: It makes you thin.
0 caloric intake X 3 weeks= 10 lb weight loss
That's break-up math.
Thousands of calories per day + 3 gestational periods x 12 happy years= 30 lb weight gain
That's marriage math.
So, I'm certain I won't be doing the break-up diet ever again. I need to find a new "marriage diet".
One that's doable. Easy. One that doesn't make me more irritable than my baseline irritability.
One that doesn't include advice to eat baby carrots as a snack. Or those tiny cheese circle things. Those are excellent snack options for a small squirrel. If I was the type of person who could eat baby carrots as a snack and be satisfied, would I be dieting in the first place?
I need a food plan for a girl who dreams about breakfast.
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Tuesday, December 4, 2012
Dirty Words
I read one of my favoritest bloggers (The Mad Woman from Diary of a Mad Woman) lament that some people don't like her dirty mouth. They think it's bad for her kids. Will sully their pristine minds. Makes her seem less classy.
Got me thinking.....
I remember my soul-friend once telling me that she knew she had sunk to a new low when her then 3 year old daughter asked her, in the sweetest of voices, to please read her this fucking book. (I miss you so, my soul-friend!)
My own HM was complaining about her older brother a few years ago (so she must've been 2) and yelled "He's so fuckannoying". One word. It's become my most favorite adjective.
My kids grow up in a house where real parents have real frustration and use real good, colorful words. They know them all. I admittedly have a wretched potty mouth. I've never been called "classy". Not even once.
However, both my kids have never used those words since the fuckannoying debacle. In fact, the eldest gives me a look when he hears curse words. It's a widening of the eyes, "did-you-also-hear-that", knowing look of disapproval. He has never once swore. When a friend of his dropped the F bomb in my van a few weeks ago and I nearly drove into a tree in a fit of laughter, he was appalled.
So who knows- maybe if you drop F bombs often in your home- your kids will be more sensitive to it?
Either way, who the fuck gives a shit?
Got me thinking.....
I remember my soul-friend once telling me that she knew she had sunk to a new low when her then 3 year old daughter asked her, in the sweetest of voices, to please read her this fucking book. (I miss you so, my soul-friend!)
My own HM was complaining about her older brother a few years ago (so she must've been 2) and yelled "He's so fuckannoying". One word. It's become my most favorite adjective.
My kids grow up in a house where real parents have real frustration and use real good, colorful words. They know them all. I admittedly have a wretched potty mouth. I've never been called "classy". Not even once.
However, both my kids have never used those words since the fuckannoying debacle. In fact, the eldest gives me a look when he hears curse words. It's a widening of the eyes, "did-you-also-hear-that", knowing look of disapproval. He has never once swore. When a friend of his dropped the F bomb in my van a few weeks ago and I nearly drove into a tree in a fit of laughter, he was appalled.
So who knows- maybe if you drop F bombs often in your home- your kids will be more sensitive to it?
Either way, who the fuck gives a shit?
Monday, December 3, 2012
Occupational Hazard
#3 has recurrent ear infections. At 8 months old, he has been on 5 different antibiotics in the last 4 weeks. All to no avail. ENT and tubes are in the immediate future. This ranks pretty low on the worry barometer.
My little guy has had fevers on and off for the last 4 weeks. BFD, he's still cheerful, eating, peeing.
Bit for whatever reason, at the unholy hour of 4am today, when little guy had a scalding forehead (again) and piping hot breath- I went loco.
Here's what happened.
While picking him up and feeling his very hot little head and neck, I dove head first into a spiral of catastrophic thinking. I couldn't be rational and think that clearly this was yet another ear infection/virus and therefore he has fever. Instead, it turned into 4 consecutive weeks of fever, multiple antibiotics for ear infection, then finally diagnosed with leukemia after pediatrician checked his blood counts. A story I've heard countless times in the last decade of doing what I do.
That thought was alternating with: "Jesus, get your shit together, woman, its an ear infection".
This is my occupational hazard.
I've made my pediatrician check for abdominal masses, eye deviations, enlarged lymph nodes...and today I made him rule out leukemia. Needless to day, he was not thrilled with me today. Apparently, some doctors don't like being told how to practice. Who knew?.... Who cares?
I needed to explain that the lens in which I see the world is sometimes twisted (actually probably often) and full of really random, horrifying muck. I find myself wondering "why not me?". There's no good reason why not. And that's terrifying.
So yes, a simple, benign fever in my child will 9 times out of 10 not even make the radar of concern. I have on many occasions given my kid motrin and sent them to school. I've ignored my kids complaints of tummy aches, knee pain, infected nails, mad diaper rash and back pain. I'm currently 5 months overdue on well child visits. Don't even ask me about dental care for my little dirt balls.
But every so often, without any warning, it'll hit me like a steamroller. The knowledge that random shit happens to people. Healthy, unassuming, carefree people. Until they're not anymore.
And the truth is that since theres not a damn thing you can do about it; you might as well eat that piece of cake, go on that expensive trip, let your kids stay home from school and go to the movies.
Meanwhile, I'm going to try to stay sane and go back to ignoring most of my kids ailments.
Until the next time a fever derails me.
My little guy has had fevers on and off for the last 4 weeks. BFD, he's still cheerful, eating, peeing.
Bit for whatever reason, at the unholy hour of 4am today, when little guy had a scalding forehead (again) and piping hot breath- I went loco.
Here's what happened.
While picking him up and feeling his very hot little head and neck, I dove head first into a spiral of catastrophic thinking. I couldn't be rational and think that clearly this was yet another ear infection/virus and therefore he has fever. Instead, it turned into 4 consecutive weeks of fever, multiple antibiotics for ear infection, then finally diagnosed with leukemia after pediatrician checked his blood counts. A story I've heard countless times in the last decade of doing what I do.
That thought was alternating with: "Jesus, get your shit together, woman, its an ear infection".
This is my occupational hazard.
I've made my pediatrician check for abdominal masses, eye deviations, enlarged lymph nodes...and today I made him rule out leukemia. Needless to day, he was not thrilled with me today. Apparently, some doctors don't like being told how to practice. Who knew?.... Who cares?
I needed to explain that the lens in which I see the world is sometimes twisted (actually probably often) and full of really random, horrifying muck. I find myself wondering "why not me?". There's no good reason why not. And that's terrifying.
So yes, a simple, benign fever in my child will 9 times out of 10 not even make the radar of concern. I have on many occasions given my kid motrin and sent them to school. I've ignored my kids complaints of tummy aches, knee pain, infected nails, mad diaper rash and back pain. I'm currently 5 months overdue on well child visits. Don't even ask me about dental care for my little dirt balls.
But every so often, without any warning, it'll hit me like a steamroller. The knowledge that random shit happens to people. Healthy, unassuming, carefree people. Until they're not anymore.
And the truth is that since theres not a damn thing you can do about it; you might as well eat that piece of cake, go on that expensive trip, let your kids stay home from school and go to the movies.
Meanwhile, I'm going to try to stay sane and go back to ignoring most of my kids ailments.
Until the next time a fever derails me.
Tuesday, November 27, 2012
Runners High
Friends of mine who run or exercise regularly like to recite the following mantra:
"I looove to run/zumba/do pilates....it makes me feel so accomplished. I get such a high from it."
I'm calling bullshit on all of that.
At least for me. When I exercise, which is about as frequent as never, the only high I get is the elation I feel when it's over. The accomplishment I feel is knowing I didn't die.
My brother-in-law once asked if I got a "walkers medium"....and No, I don't even get that. I sure as shit never, not once, have gotten a runners high.
But you know what does make me feel accomplished? Like really fulfilled and good deep in my gut?
Finding the source of the foul smell in my fridge and getting rid of it. Same for my car. Finding that cup of curdled milk that rolled right between the metal legs of the back row of seats in the vangina and then extricating it.
Building a high chair.
Peeing on a dry toilet seat with no one knocking on the door or calling my name.
Spraying clorox on any surface.
Filling up bags of clothing for Goodwill.
Birthing a child.
Crossing off things on a to-do list.
Waking up at 6:30 am and realize that all my little people slept through the night.
Grooming my offspring. Combing their hair, bathing them, de-lousing them.
Eating a normal portion of clean food. Not wanting to puke after a meal.
Finishing a kick-ass book.
Running just makes me ache.
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"I looove to run/zumba/do pilates....it makes me feel so accomplished. I get such a high from it."
I'm calling bullshit on all of that.
At least for me. When I exercise, which is about as frequent as never, the only high I get is the elation I feel when it's over. The accomplishment I feel is knowing I didn't die.
My brother-in-law once asked if I got a "walkers medium"....and No, I don't even get that. I sure as shit never, not once, have gotten a runners high.
But you know what does make me feel accomplished? Like really fulfilled and good deep in my gut?
Finding the source of the foul smell in my fridge and getting rid of it. Same for my car. Finding that cup of curdled milk that rolled right between the metal legs of the back row of seats in the vangina and then extricating it.
Building a high chair.
Peeing on a dry toilet seat with no one knocking on the door or calling my name.
Spraying clorox on any surface.
Filling up bags of clothing for Goodwill.
Birthing a child.
Crossing off things on a to-do list.
Waking up at 6:30 am and realize that all my little people slept through the night.
Grooming my offspring. Combing their hair, bathing them, de-lousing them.
Eating a normal portion of clean food. Not wanting to puke after a meal.
Finishing a kick-ass book.
Running just makes me ache.
* Reminder: If you like this blog, go to the top corner and "Join this Site". Thanks*
Thursday, November 22, 2012
Thank you note
I'm thankful for:
1.Having a partner to navigate life with. Single parents have my unwavering admiration. I often wonder if I could do it and truthfully, I don't think I could. I mean I would do it if I had to but man, I would do a piss-poor job. As much as my partner makes me question his sanity sometimes and his sense of style all the time, I know he would lay down on the tracks for me and my children. I need that.
2. Having a few amazing women friends. Real friends. They are very few and far between. They know me and love me anyway. I can say really crazy shit to them and know that they get it. I can be irritable and cranky and hateful sometimes. They get it. If I call and say I want to sleep for 2 days straight, they ask me if my meds need to be tweaked. They know that a pedicure makes everything better. They know exactly the kind of book I would love to read. They know when I need to run away for a little bit. They know the kind of bullshit I hate. Thank you ladies.
3. Medicine. I'm thankful that modern medicine gave me 3 beautiful children. I would never have been able to have a family had I been born 50 years earlier. I'm thankful for psychopharmaceuticals. I would never be able to stay in this family without them. I'm thankful for chemotherapy. We have amazing victories because of the arsenal of chemo available today. I'm thankful for insulin. Marc stays alive because of it. So, brilliant people out there who are developing new and better medicine in their sterile labs- I thank you.
4. Education. The ability to learn and be taught. The ability to read. The fact that I could fill an entire planet with things I don't know but can pick up a book and get a rough idea about it. Then, if I wanted to know more, I can keep reading. That's an amazing thing.
5. Publix. Krogers. Target. They are so full of stuff. And I can go and get shit anytime.
6. Abundance of food. Though I have often complained about how food and I have a long, complicated, dysfunctional relationship- I am thankful that if I want pizza and diet coke, I can have it. If I want to invite 20 people over for lunch on Saturday, we have plenty of food. If we don't have enough food, see #5. Our cups runneth over.
7. A house. A messy, cluttered, out-dated and tacky house. It's ours. When it rains, we stay dry. When it's cold, we stay warm. When it's Africa hot in the summer and I want to murder someone, we stay cool. My bathroom is decorated like a 1940s brothel- but the toilet flushes and we always have running water. My oven is from 1962 and only the bottom one works but it cooks the shit out of a turkey. My kitchen walls have streaks of apple juice and dried up cheerios stuck to them but my children have eaten breakfast. My TV room is straight out of the Brady Bunch with wood paneled walls and tacky built in cabinets- but we have a TV room. I need to keep remembering this.
8. My job. I'm employed. I do what I love. I get paid for it. I learn every day. I've met the best people there. See # 2.
9. My children. They make me buckle my seat belt because I can't die in a car crash and leave them with a single dad. They would wear the most atrocious clothing and never brush their teeth. My kids make me get out of bed every morning and have a purpose. They make me laugh. They make me homicidal. They make me look forward to the future because I want to see their final product. I can't wait to see the kind of kick-ass people they'll become. So kids, save this blog to show to your therapist. It may explain things.
Thank you to the Spirit of the Universe, my Higher Power for giving me all these things. I am truly grateful.
1.Having a partner to navigate life with. Single parents have my unwavering admiration. I often wonder if I could do it and truthfully, I don't think I could. I mean I would do it if I had to but man, I would do a piss-poor job. As much as my partner makes me question his sanity sometimes and his sense of style all the time, I know he would lay down on the tracks for me and my children. I need that.
2. Having a few amazing women friends. Real friends. They are very few and far between. They know me and love me anyway. I can say really crazy shit to them and know that they get it. I can be irritable and cranky and hateful sometimes. They get it. If I call and say I want to sleep for 2 days straight, they ask me if my meds need to be tweaked. They know that a pedicure makes everything better. They know exactly the kind of book I would love to read. They know when I need to run away for a little bit. They know the kind of bullshit I hate. Thank you ladies.
3. Medicine. I'm thankful that modern medicine gave me 3 beautiful children. I would never have been able to have a family had I been born 50 years earlier. I'm thankful for psychopharmaceuticals. I would never be able to stay in this family without them. I'm thankful for chemotherapy. We have amazing victories because of the arsenal of chemo available today. I'm thankful for insulin. Marc stays alive because of it. So, brilliant people out there who are developing new and better medicine in their sterile labs- I thank you.
4. Education. The ability to learn and be taught. The ability to read. The fact that I could fill an entire planet with things I don't know but can pick up a book and get a rough idea about it. Then, if I wanted to know more, I can keep reading. That's an amazing thing.
5. Publix. Krogers. Target. They are so full of stuff. And I can go and get shit anytime.
6. Abundance of food. Though I have often complained about how food and I have a long, complicated, dysfunctional relationship- I am thankful that if I want pizza and diet coke, I can have it. If I want to invite 20 people over for lunch on Saturday, we have plenty of food. If we don't have enough food, see #5. Our cups runneth over.
7. A house. A messy, cluttered, out-dated and tacky house. It's ours. When it rains, we stay dry. When it's cold, we stay warm. When it's Africa hot in the summer and I want to murder someone, we stay cool. My bathroom is decorated like a 1940s brothel- but the toilet flushes and we always have running water. My oven is from 1962 and only the bottom one works but it cooks the shit out of a turkey. My kitchen walls have streaks of apple juice and dried up cheerios stuck to them but my children have eaten breakfast. My TV room is straight out of the Brady Bunch with wood paneled walls and tacky built in cabinets- but we have a TV room. I need to keep remembering this.
8. My job. I'm employed. I do what I love. I get paid for it. I learn every day. I've met the best people there. See # 2.
9. My children. They make me buckle my seat belt because I can't die in a car crash and leave them with a single dad. They would wear the most atrocious clothing and never brush their teeth. My kids make me get out of bed every morning and have a purpose. They make me laugh. They make me homicidal. They make me look forward to the future because I want to see their final product. I can't wait to see the kind of kick-ass people they'll become. So kids, save this blog to show to your therapist. It may explain things.
Thank you to the Spirit of the Universe, my Higher Power for giving me all these things. I am truly grateful.
Tuesday, November 20, 2012
Letter of Resignation
I read a HuffPost article about a female law partner at Clifford Chance handing in her letter of resignation because she couldn't meet the needs of her family while working full time (plus) as a lawyer. Responses were mixed. Some applauded her decision to "put her children first". Some chastised her for giving up her career. The article continued with how the American work environment needs to change for working parents and reflect the realities of the 21st century. We're no longer in the Mad Men era where Dad goes off to work and Mom keeps the house tidy, dinner warm and her lipstick on at all times.
I've never stayed home with my children. As soon as they turned 9 or 10 weeks old, off to daycare they went. I've also never made dinner. Or kept the house tidy. My lipstick, however- I nail that. Don't mess with my makeup. This girl needs her lip gloss and her mascara. Whether I put it on in my bathroom with a kid on the floor and one on the toilet and one bouncing a ball off the wall repeatedly, I am not leaving my house without some cosmetic help. Even if it means putting it on in the poorly lit underground garage at the hospital by the light of my car mirror. My work people call it "garage makeup". Its sort of an adjective to how the morning is going.
If I don't put blush and mascara on, it's the beginning of the end for me. Not to be histrionic- but seriously. It's the same thing if I start wearing elastic waist pants. Or t-shirts with squirrels on it. Or cut my hair really short because it's "so much faster in the mornings". Or buy Naturalizer pumps because they're so much more sensible. Its the beginning of the end, ladies. Beware.
When I read her resignation letter, I had such admiration for her clear vision. ..and for how little sleep she was able to get away with.
She knew what she had to do and I admire her for that. She knew she was being ineffective as a mother, and probably as a lawyer trying to do both with equal focus. Its just not possible to do both very well. I'm sorry to all women who think that they can parent effectively and work full-time. You can't. Something has to give. For me- both my work and my children get short changed at different times.
If it's busy at work and I'm running late- I don't get home until after 6pm. When I get home, there are 3 needy, hungry, smelly, cranky little people waiting for me. My domestic partner is an incredible co-parent. He does everything a parent needs to do....but still they wait for me. Until I get home, they all hang out and play/chill out. Then when I get home, the evening really gets going. Dinner, homework, bath, baby, reading, soccer, listening, dinner #2 for #1 now that the patch is out of his system and he's STARVING at 9pm. So here's the thing- I can do it. It gets done every evening from Monday-Friday. But do I do it well? Does anything else get done that doesn't have to do with fulfilling the immediate physical needs of the family- food, hygiene and sleep? And hygiene is a loose term here. As is food. Dinner at my house would make Martha Stewart cry. (My mother once accused me of feeding my kids gas station food). So, the answer is no. Most nights, it all gets done because it has to get done. The quality is very questionable. Some nights it's blueberry waffles and a quick face wash.
On the nights where my kids eat a hot meal (that dear husband has made) and have all bathed...with soap... and are sleeping by 9pm, I feel so accomplished. There's something primal about feeding and cleaning your offspring. It brings me great peace. And I swear that I am going to do this every night. Then the next night, I'm microwaving fish sticks and hating myself.
Work suffers too. At 4pm I find myself looking at my watch and the anxiety starts to creep up on me. I quickly gauge what absolutely needs to get done in the next hour and what can wait until later in the evening after I'm home. I rush through notes and calls. Any questions from nurses or parents need to be urgent or else they're waiting until tomorrow. The quality of my work suffers. Colleagues who don't have the same expectations to be home can stay and think and do better. They don't have to field the 5:15 phone call from home asking if they're on their way because kids are restless and hungry. Oh, and baby hasn't seen mama since the night before. There are projects and research ideas that can't be done because the only time to do them would be "after hours" and I have about 3 functioning neurons firing "after-hours". Even during the most productive hours, I'm not as sharp as I used to be pre-partum. I forget words, I get distracted, I need to call the child psychologist and make a well child appt for baby and make sure kids wear the right color for anti-bullying week, I lose my train of thought, I forget names, I need to find a babysitter for conferences, I need to refill a bunch of meds, I can't remember if the Monday morning meeting is mandatory or just strongly encouraged, I get distracted, I forget to pack kindergarteners blanket every single Monday, I get distracted.
So, both my work life and my home life often tread water; never really swimming gracefully to the finish line. I often feed my kids soggy nuggets, forget what chemo plan we're following for what patient, lose library books, never remember to pack the god damn blanket on Mondays, show up late to meetings, forgo the agony of 3rd grade homework and miss work related dinners.
I read that resignation letter with admiration.
But as much as I may be treading water, I wouldn't change a thing.
I've never stayed home with my children. As soon as they turned 9 or 10 weeks old, off to daycare they went. I've also never made dinner. Or kept the house tidy. My lipstick, however- I nail that. Don't mess with my makeup. This girl needs her lip gloss and her mascara. Whether I put it on in my bathroom with a kid on the floor and one on the toilet and one bouncing a ball off the wall repeatedly, I am not leaving my house without some cosmetic help. Even if it means putting it on in the poorly lit underground garage at the hospital by the light of my car mirror. My work people call it "garage makeup". Its sort of an adjective to how the morning is going.
If I don't put blush and mascara on, it's the beginning of the end for me. Not to be histrionic- but seriously. It's the same thing if I start wearing elastic waist pants. Or t-shirts with squirrels on it. Or cut my hair really short because it's "so much faster in the mornings". Or buy Naturalizer pumps because they're so much more sensible. Its the beginning of the end, ladies. Beware.
When I read her resignation letter, I had such admiration for her clear vision. ..and for how little sleep she was able to get away with.
She knew what she had to do and I admire her for that. She knew she was being ineffective as a mother, and probably as a lawyer trying to do both with equal focus. Its just not possible to do both very well. I'm sorry to all women who think that they can parent effectively and work full-time. You can't. Something has to give. For me- both my work and my children get short changed at different times.
If it's busy at work and I'm running late- I don't get home until after 6pm. When I get home, there are 3 needy, hungry, smelly, cranky little people waiting for me. My domestic partner is an incredible co-parent. He does everything a parent needs to do....but still they wait for me. Until I get home, they all hang out and play/chill out. Then when I get home, the evening really gets going. Dinner, homework, bath, baby, reading, soccer, listening, dinner #2 for #1 now that the patch is out of his system and he's STARVING at 9pm. So here's the thing- I can do it. It gets done every evening from Monday-Friday. But do I do it well? Does anything else get done that doesn't have to do with fulfilling the immediate physical needs of the family- food, hygiene and sleep? And hygiene is a loose term here. As is food. Dinner at my house would make Martha Stewart cry. (My mother once accused me of feeding my kids gas station food). So, the answer is no. Most nights, it all gets done because it has to get done. The quality is very questionable. Some nights it's blueberry waffles and a quick face wash.
On the nights where my kids eat a hot meal (that dear husband has made) and have all bathed...with soap... and are sleeping by 9pm, I feel so accomplished. There's something primal about feeding and cleaning your offspring. It brings me great peace. And I swear that I am going to do this every night. Then the next night, I'm microwaving fish sticks and hating myself.
Work suffers too. At 4pm I find myself looking at my watch and the anxiety starts to creep up on me. I quickly gauge what absolutely needs to get done in the next hour and what can wait until later in the evening after I'm home. I rush through notes and calls. Any questions from nurses or parents need to be urgent or else they're waiting until tomorrow. The quality of my work suffers. Colleagues who don't have the same expectations to be home can stay and think and do better. They don't have to field the 5:15 phone call from home asking if they're on their way because kids are restless and hungry. Oh, and baby hasn't seen mama since the night before. There are projects and research ideas that can't be done because the only time to do them would be "after hours" and I have about 3 functioning neurons firing "after-hours". Even during the most productive hours, I'm not as sharp as I used to be pre-partum. I forget words, I get distracted, I need to call the child psychologist and make a well child appt for baby and make sure kids wear the right color for anti-bullying week, I lose my train of thought, I forget names, I need to find a babysitter for conferences, I need to refill a bunch of meds, I can't remember if the Monday morning meeting is mandatory or just strongly encouraged, I get distracted, I forget to pack kindergarteners blanket every single Monday, I get distracted.
So, both my work life and my home life often tread water; never really swimming gracefully to the finish line. I often feed my kids soggy nuggets, forget what chemo plan we're following for what patient, lose library books, never remember to pack the god damn blanket on Mondays, show up late to meetings, forgo the agony of 3rd grade homework and miss work related dinners.
I read that resignation letter with admiration.
But as much as I may be treading water, I wouldn't change a thing.
Friday, November 9, 2012
Morning musing
This morning I dropped the kids off at school. The doors of the vangina opened and 5 kids fell out. As the doors slowly closed automatically and I turned the corner, I looked back and saw these little people running into school. So excited. So full of energy. Ready to have a great day. Un-caffeinated, un-alduterated, un-medicated (4/5 of them at least) optimism.
Does anyone remember being that way? Before we were tired and jaded. Before we were heart-broken. Before we became neurotic and fearful. Before our egos developed and we became one big pile of need. Before we saw sad and ugly things in the world.
As I drove home in the blinding sunlight, I felt an urge to smoke a cigarette, open the windows and keep driving to nowhere.
Until I get back to that place of running happily into the morning.
Does anyone remember being that way? Before we were tired and jaded. Before we were heart-broken. Before we became neurotic and fearful. Before our egos developed and we became one big pile of need. Before we saw sad and ugly things in the world.
As I drove home in the blinding sunlight, I felt an urge to smoke a cigarette, open the windows and keep driving to nowhere.
Until I get back to that place of running happily into the morning.
Tuesday, November 6, 2012
Significant Other
Living in casa de los locos is never dull. And never quiet....Ever.
Unless we're all unconscious.
It's not just the kids and the eardrum splitting din they create.
My partner in life, the man I chose to spend forever with, is the progenitor of all this noise.
Let me tell you about this man.
I met Marc when I was a nurse at NYU and living the sweet life of a single twenty something in New York City. Too bad that's not how I saw it then. I lamented being single at 27 (gasp) and didn't take enough advantage of all the amazing things I could've done with all my free time. What the hell did I do with all that free time? I worked night shifts so was probably psychotic most of the daylight hours that I wasn't in a benadryl induced coma. I lived on 85th between Central Park and Columbus. Prime real estate. Brownstone building straight out of the Cosby Show. In theory.
I lived in that one bedroom apartment with a roommate and our bedroom was actually in the basement level of the building. So living room, tiny kitchenette on first floor and then you go down a spiral staircase into a dark, moist bedroom. That I shared with a roommate. And her various significant others. One time we noticed a putrid, sulfuric smell that was getting worse by the day. No matter how long we left the windows open or sprayed air freshener- it lingered. Finally, the super came and diagnosed the problem as "dead rat in wall". He explained that when an animal dies, its body decomposes and smells really bad. I thanked him for the news flash and asked how to remedy dead rat in wall. He sniffed around the walls and found the rat grave. He drilled a hole in the wall, widened it with a superintendent tool and then throw up in my toilet. He was able to remove the dead rat and apologized profusely for the mess he left. He was a bit under the weather, apparently.
Anyway, my roommate invited Marc over for dinner one Friday night. I was dating someone else so was blissfully blasé about any new men in my apartment. This particular guy was noticeable though. Just because he looked pretty unconventional. He came over for shabbat dinner wearing denim overalls (never acceptable unless you're a toddler), timberland boots, a red wool cap backwards and a hoop earring. Think lead singer of "Come on Eileen" video. But the real kicker was when he told me he was at Columbia getting a PhD....in yiddish. My response was quick and insensitive (an overriding life theme) - "why? ... thats dumb". Apparently, thats when he knew he wanted to date me. Message to single women- speak your mind, the right guy will love you for it.
I didn't see Marc again for a few months. We met again on a hot summer evening on Broadway in front of a kosher BBQ place. He was noticeably thinner, with shorter hair. He traded the denim overalls for DIY denim cutoffs. And a white tshirt with the gay pride logo on it. Well, that was a surprise because I totally didn't get any kind of gay vibe from him. Again, I just asked him "whats with the shirt?". He told me his stepfather got it from a thrift shop. "Why?" he asked. I explained that its a gay flag.
Completely non-plussed and confident (an overriding life theme for him)- he just laughed and said "oh. well I'm straight- you?"..... I then invited him to come for lunch the following week with some other friends.
He somehow found my phone number and left a message a few days later confirming that we were still on for lunch. I mentioned that I wanted to go to a Sri Chinmoy concert on Central Park Friday night but nobody wanted to join me. Sri Chinmoy is a Buddhist spiritual man who chants/heals and has a following of mostly women who dance a lot. Marc immediately said he would love to go hear Sri Chinmoy! What an amazing coincidence. So we went. It was super weird and fun and not at all for us. In fact, Marc would never in a million years have gone to something like that. He later told me that he would have gone to a lecture on Japanese astrophysics if I had asked him to. Message to single women- a good man will sometimes do things that he's not interested in if it means being with someone he loves. Because it's not all about him.
So, we had fun. We learned we both have asthma, like Fleetwood Mac, are deeply Jewish, love to read, come from divorced parents, celebrate dysfunction and have only sisters. I never commented on his style- until he got henna tattoos on his neck. That's where I drew the line. He removed them with so much isopropyl alcohol, he had second degree burn. Thats true love. It burns.
So he came for lunch, met friends, we played football in Riverside Park on a perfect fall day. The next day, he called and left a message playing Neil Young on guitar for about 10 minutes on my answering machine. Thats it- nothing but the music. It was nice to come home after a 12 hour shift to that. He then called daily. Message to single women- it's not just stalkers who call every day. Sometimes the one will call you often because he wants to see you and doesn't care about the rules.
He gave me an Ernest Hemingway book "1000 Days of Solitude" and inscribed it and said its his all time favorite book. I read the first few chapters and told him it should be called "1000 Days to Get Through"because it was so fucking boring. He laughed. He showed me his writing. His voluminous amount of short stories, songs, and his pHD thesis. They were amazing. Except for his thesis. That was painful to read and I stopped after the dedication. He introduced me to Mordechai Richler, Paul Auster and Phillip Roth. He introduced me to Blue Rodeo and Lucinda Williams.
It was always so easy with Marc. So calm. ZERO drama. On our 3rd date (2 weeks since we met on Broadway), he told me he had no interest in being friends with me. He had enough friends. He wanted to date me and probably marry me. So if I didn't feel the same, tell him now because he wouldn't waste my time anymore.....Thats Marc. Direct, brutal, no bullshit. We were engaged 10 weeks later.
Because I only knew Marc for 10 months before we got married, I didn't know all of the little things that make him tick. Or should I say "tic". He has this thing that I call his Tourettes. He finds words that "are delightful" to him and repeats them, with different accents throughout the day. Mostly in his head but in the comforts of our home, out loud. My kids parrot this and I have to admit I have found myself doing it too. It's one big asylum.
He wears wool hats indoors all year long. He likes the way it makes him feel. Very safe.
He wore the same pair of brown pants for an entire 16 week semester and then when I threatened to burn them while he was still wearing them, he tossed Brownie down our garbage disposal.
He sleeps with a tshirt covering his eyes because that way Jason from Friday the 13th can't see him.
He is a man of EXTREMES. If he loves you , he will go to the moon and back and kill people along the way for you. If not, you're dead to him.
He can be moody and get quiet and then he gets his bitchface on and I have to field questions of "Is Marc OK?". Yep. He's OK. He just doesn't feel like being loud and extroverted right now. He doesn't hate you. He's not angry. He's in his own head. Leave him alone.
Marc is the most generous man I have ever met. He hates bullies. He cries easily. He loves his family more than himself. More than work. More than God. He has the fashion sense of a homeless man. He wouldn't notice if I shaved my head and tattooed my eyelids. He calls every article of women's clothing "dresses". He makes an obscene amount of noise in my house and adds (creates?) chaos. He forces me to be social. He makes me laugh every single day. He's one crazy dude and his mind can be a dark, tangled mess......
But he's always home.
Unless we're all unconscious.
It's not just the kids and the eardrum splitting din they create.
My partner in life, the man I chose to spend forever with, is the progenitor of all this noise.
Let me tell you about this man.
I met Marc when I was a nurse at NYU and living the sweet life of a single twenty something in New York City. Too bad that's not how I saw it then. I lamented being single at 27 (gasp) and didn't take enough advantage of all the amazing things I could've done with all my free time. What the hell did I do with all that free time? I worked night shifts so was probably psychotic most of the daylight hours that I wasn't in a benadryl induced coma. I lived on 85th between Central Park and Columbus. Prime real estate. Brownstone building straight out of the Cosby Show. In theory.
I lived in that one bedroom apartment with a roommate and our bedroom was actually in the basement level of the building. So living room, tiny kitchenette on first floor and then you go down a spiral staircase into a dark, moist bedroom. That I shared with a roommate. And her various significant others. One time we noticed a putrid, sulfuric smell that was getting worse by the day. No matter how long we left the windows open or sprayed air freshener- it lingered. Finally, the super came and diagnosed the problem as "dead rat in wall". He explained that when an animal dies, its body decomposes and smells really bad. I thanked him for the news flash and asked how to remedy dead rat in wall. He sniffed around the walls and found the rat grave. He drilled a hole in the wall, widened it with a superintendent tool and then throw up in my toilet. He was able to remove the dead rat and apologized profusely for the mess he left. He was a bit under the weather, apparently.
Anyway, my roommate invited Marc over for dinner one Friday night. I was dating someone else so was blissfully blasé about any new men in my apartment. This particular guy was noticeable though. Just because he looked pretty unconventional. He came over for shabbat dinner wearing denim overalls (never acceptable unless you're a toddler), timberland boots, a red wool cap backwards and a hoop earring. Think lead singer of "Come on Eileen" video. But the real kicker was when he told me he was at Columbia getting a PhD....in yiddish. My response was quick and insensitive (an overriding life theme) - "why? ... thats dumb". Apparently, thats when he knew he wanted to date me. Message to single women- speak your mind, the right guy will love you for it.
I didn't see Marc again for a few months. We met again on a hot summer evening on Broadway in front of a kosher BBQ place. He was noticeably thinner, with shorter hair. He traded the denim overalls for DIY denim cutoffs. And a white tshirt with the gay pride logo on it. Well, that was a surprise because I totally didn't get any kind of gay vibe from him. Again, I just asked him "whats with the shirt?". He told me his stepfather got it from a thrift shop. "Why?" he asked. I explained that its a gay flag.
Completely non-plussed and confident (an overriding life theme for him)- he just laughed and said "oh. well I'm straight- you?"..... I then invited him to come for lunch the following week with some other friends.
He somehow found my phone number and left a message a few days later confirming that we were still on for lunch. I mentioned that I wanted to go to a Sri Chinmoy concert on Central Park Friday night but nobody wanted to join me. Sri Chinmoy is a Buddhist spiritual man who chants/heals and has a following of mostly women who dance a lot. Marc immediately said he would love to go hear Sri Chinmoy! What an amazing coincidence. So we went. It was super weird and fun and not at all for us. In fact, Marc would never in a million years have gone to something like that. He later told me that he would have gone to a lecture on Japanese astrophysics if I had asked him to. Message to single women- a good man will sometimes do things that he's not interested in if it means being with someone he loves. Because it's not all about him.
So, we had fun. We learned we both have asthma, like Fleetwood Mac, are deeply Jewish, love to read, come from divorced parents, celebrate dysfunction and have only sisters. I never commented on his style- until he got henna tattoos on his neck. That's where I drew the line. He removed them with so much isopropyl alcohol, he had second degree burn. Thats true love. It burns.
So he came for lunch, met friends, we played football in Riverside Park on a perfect fall day. The next day, he called and left a message playing Neil Young on guitar for about 10 minutes on my answering machine. Thats it- nothing but the music. It was nice to come home after a 12 hour shift to that. He then called daily. Message to single women- it's not just stalkers who call every day. Sometimes the one will call you often because he wants to see you and doesn't care about the rules.
He gave me an Ernest Hemingway book "1000 Days of Solitude" and inscribed it and said its his all time favorite book. I read the first few chapters and told him it should be called "1000 Days to Get Through"because it was so fucking boring. He laughed. He showed me his writing. His voluminous amount of short stories, songs, and his pHD thesis. They were amazing. Except for his thesis. That was painful to read and I stopped after the dedication. He introduced me to Mordechai Richler, Paul Auster and Phillip Roth. He introduced me to Blue Rodeo and Lucinda Williams.
It was always so easy with Marc. So calm. ZERO drama. On our 3rd date (2 weeks since we met on Broadway), he told me he had no interest in being friends with me. He had enough friends. He wanted to date me and probably marry me. So if I didn't feel the same, tell him now because he wouldn't waste my time anymore.....Thats Marc. Direct, brutal, no bullshit. We were engaged 10 weeks later.
Because I only knew Marc for 10 months before we got married, I didn't know all of the little things that make him tick. Or should I say "tic". He has this thing that I call his Tourettes. He finds words that "are delightful" to him and repeats them, with different accents throughout the day. Mostly in his head but in the comforts of our home, out loud. My kids parrot this and I have to admit I have found myself doing it too. It's one big asylum.
He wears wool hats indoors all year long. He likes the way it makes him feel. Very safe.
He wore the same pair of brown pants for an entire 16 week semester and then when I threatened to burn them while he was still wearing them, he tossed Brownie down our garbage disposal.
He sleeps with a tshirt covering his eyes because that way Jason from Friday the 13th can't see him.
He is a man of EXTREMES. If he loves you , he will go to the moon and back and kill people along the way for you. If not, you're dead to him.
He can be moody and get quiet and then he gets his bitchface on and I have to field questions of "Is Marc OK?". Yep. He's OK. He just doesn't feel like being loud and extroverted right now. He doesn't hate you. He's not angry. He's in his own head. Leave him alone.
Marc is the most generous man I have ever met. He hates bullies. He cries easily. He loves his family more than himself. More than work. More than God. He has the fashion sense of a homeless man. He wouldn't notice if I shaved my head and tattooed my eyelids. He calls every article of women's clothing "dresses". He makes an obscene amount of noise in my house and adds (creates?) chaos. He forces me to be social. He makes me laugh every single day. He's one crazy dude and his mind can be a dark, tangled mess......
But he's always home.
Wednesday, October 31, 2012
Swords and Weighty Issues
Real conversation between HM (one and only daughter of mine, lovingly referred to here as "Hot Mess") and myself:
HM: "Mrs. Perry-Johnson isn't Jewish"
Me: "how do you know that?"
HM: "She wears sword earrings."
Me: Pause..."Oh, those are crosses. That's a symbol of her religion. Like a Jewish Star. She's a Christian."
HM: "Yeah...and also- she's skinny. Not like Jewish ladies".
My first thought was- FAIL. On two levels. First, the fact that my daughter doesn't know what a cross is and how the world is divided into Jew and "not Jew" for her. I fancied myself a more open mother, one who teaches her kids about all religions and that we're all just trying to find meaning in a chaotic world. That no matter what ones Higher Power is, the key is to believe in something greater than ourselves. That how you're raised usually dictates how you pray. It's the comfort of childhood memories that make ritual meaningful. That no matter what you wear around your neck or what book you read in your house of worship, we are all searching for the exact same thing.
Instead, my daughter think Christians wear swords and that Jewish women are all fat.
Which brings me to the second FAIL. I have an eating disorder. Period. My relationship with food is jacked up. Since I was HMs age, almost every awesome memory revolves around a meal. I remember lying in bed at 5, thinking about which cereal I was going to have for breakfast. I remember when my mother would get home from Publix and I would unpack the groceries and get super stoked about all the food that we had in the house. Every heart wrenching break-up caused me to shun food entirely. It was hands-down the best diet ever. I couldn't stomach a single bite. Then, when I would crawl out from that dark place, I would rekindle my relationship with food....hard-core.
I've tried every diet- counted carbs, counted points, counted bites. I've belonged and paid dues to Weight Watchers for so long, it's become my charity of choice. I feel that if I still pay to belong, I get some sort of diet credit. I've belonged to many gyms and pledged to exercise at least 3x/week. That just made me feel like shit 3x/week when I didn't go. I did couch to 5K to couch to 5K to couch. I've even tried the "post-dieting" thing. Like, you know what world? I'm over this. I'm just going to eat when I'm hungry and not dedicate so much mind space to this issue. Well, guess what? I don't really know when I'm hungry because it's SO not about the food. It's complicated and has layers of crazy to it but that's for a different night. My point here was that I never want HM to inherit this crazy. I don't want her to have food issues, weight issues, body image issues. I want her to eat when she's hungry and enjoy her bites. I want her to not eat when she's nervous or bored. I want her to eat even if some dick steps all over her heart in college. I want her to look in the mirror and be OK with whatever she sees. Muffin top and all. I don't want her to disconnect and lose herself in food. I want her to exercise because it makes her feel good or because she gets a trophy at the end of it. If she misses a day of exercise, I want her to know that she still kicks ass. I want her to be present for every awesome and not so awesome moment and not look to numb anything with food (or fill in the blank vice). She woke up recently in the middle of the night screaming from a nightmare. With tears streaming down her face, she told me that she didn't get a piece of cake at her friends birthday party last week. I didn't know whether to laugh or cry. I laughed.
Basically, I don't want her to think that all Jewish women are fat or concerned about their size. Or dieting/binging all the time. I get why she thinks that (duh). But it's ugly and makes me realize that I need to model a healthy way to eat for her. And for me.
So, I answered HM as follows:
"Christian women are not all skinny. Jewish women are not all fat"
Without pause, she answered-
" Can we go to Brusters?"
HM: "Mrs. Perry-Johnson isn't Jewish"
Me: "how do you know that?"
HM: "She wears sword earrings."
Me: Pause..."Oh, those are crosses. That's a symbol of her religion. Like a Jewish Star. She's a Christian."
HM: "Yeah...and also- she's skinny. Not like Jewish ladies".
My first thought was- FAIL. On two levels. First, the fact that my daughter doesn't know what a cross is and how the world is divided into Jew and "not Jew" for her. I fancied myself a more open mother, one who teaches her kids about all religions and that we're all just trying to find meaning in a chaotic world. That no matter what ones Higher Power is, the key is to believe in something greater than ourselves. That how you're raised usually dictates how you pray. It's the comfort of childhood memories that make ritual meaningful. That no matter what you wear around your neck or what book you read in your house of worship, we are all searching for the exact same thing.
Instead, my daughter think Christians wear swords and that Jewish women are all fat.
Which brings me to the second FAIL. I have an eating disorder. Period. My relationship with food is jacked up. Since I was HMs age, almost every awesome memory revolves around a meal. I remember lying in bed at 5, thinking about which cereal I was going to have for breakfast. I remember when my mother would get home from Publix and I would unpack the groceries and get super stoked about all the food that we had in the house. Every heart wrenching break-up caused me to shun food entirely. It was hands-down the best diet ever. I couldn't stomach a single bite. Then, when I would crawl out from that dark place, I would rekindle my relationship with food....hard-core.
I've tried every diet- counted carbs, counted points, counted bites. I've belonged and paid dues to Weight Watchers for so long, it's become my charity of choice. I feel that if I still pay to belong, I get some sort of diet credit. I've belonged to many gyms and pledged to exercise at least 3x/week. That just made me feel like shit 3x/week when I didn't go. I did couch to 5K to couch to 5K to couch. I've even tried the "post-dieting" thing. Like, you know what world? I'm over this. I'm just going to eat when I'm hungry and not dedicate so much mind space to this issue. Well, guess what? I don't really know when I'm hungry because it's SO not about the food. It's complicated and has layers of crazy to it but that's for a different night. My point here was that I never want HM to inherit this crazy. I don't want her to have food issues, weight issues, body image issues. I want her to eat when she's hungry and enjoy her bites. I want her to not eat when she's nervous or bored. I want her to eat even if some dick steps all over her heart in college. I want her to look in the mirror and be OK with whatever she sees. Muffin top and all. I don't want her to disconnect and lose herself in food. I want her to exercise because it makes her feel good or because she gets a trophy at the end of it. If she misses a day of exercise, I want her to know that she still kicks ass. I want her to be present for every awesome and not so awesome moment and not look to numb anything with food (or fill in the blank vice). She woke up recently in the middle of the night screaming from a nightmare. With tears streaming down her face, she told me that she didn't get a piece of cake at her friends birthday party last week. I didn't know whether to laugh or cry. I laughed.
Basically, I don't want her to think that all Jewish women are fat or concerned about their size. Or dieting/binging all the time. I get why she thinks that (duh). But it's ugly and makes me realize that I need to model a healthy way to eat for her. And for me.
So, I answered HM as follows:
"Christian women are not all skinny. Jewish women are not all fat"
Without pause, she answered-
" Can we go to Brusters?"
Saturday, October 27, 2012
Writing
I can get into this writing thing. It's been just a few weeks with this blog and I find myself wanting to sit with my laptop and just....write. To the exclusion of all else. I rather write than pack school lunches, finish my clinic notes, do 3rd grade math homework (parallelograms are dumb), convince kindergartener that changing underwear is a good habit to get into, sleep train a 7 month old (so not happening, by the way), make a grocery list, figure out thanksgiving plans, make a heathy dinner menu for the week, .....
It's basically another way to avoid doing the "shoulds" in my life. It's my Pinterest, my Facebook, my Words with Friends. Except I do all those too.
I remember when sister #1 had a few small kids and they were puttering around her apartment, calling for her to look at them or asking for juice or something needy like that. And she was sitting on her couch, reading one of her gazillion books. I couldn't believe she was able to tune out the little people and read like that. I probably thought to myself something judgmental like "I would never be able to ignore my kids like that. She should be listening to them!". A thought only a 20 year old girl with no kids would think. Now, as a 38 year old mother- I still can't do that. I can't tune out and read. But not because I'm paying all this attention to my needy little people. But because I think I have A.D.D so if I'm on the couch reading and child asks me to watch them dance a jig, I'm immediately distracted by the jig and the moment of zen reading is gone. And because my little people are the worlds most needy children, I don't get much reading done unless they're all unconscious. So too with writing. I can only write in a quiet house. My house is quiet for about 2 of my waking hours. And those 2 hours when it's just me and this computer are really special. Yes, I should be doing a dozen other things for the betterment of my little family but Jesus Christ, it's good to not.
I read magazines. Those are easy to read when you have A.D.D and kids. You can pause mid article and not really lose much momentum. I've read enough Oprah, Us, Peoples, Real Simples to fill a dentists waiting room. Sometimes, I start from the end and read it backwards. I've read enough chick mags to know that "doing things for yourself makes you a better wife and mom". Oprah says so even though she's neither. Redbook swears by it. Real Simple agrees. To be a good wife and mom, you need to pay attention to yourself. Even Dr. Oz says so and he's a doctor so he must be right.
How, though, are you supposed to do that and also pay enough attention to the little people and the big person that you live with? What's enough attention? I don't want them to think I'm not interested in their incredibly detailed story about what happened when they went outside and rode their scooter. Then they're at their therapists office telling him/her how their mother never listened to their needs (and blogged all this crap about them). What's too much attention? I don't want to create these narcissistic assholes who are shocked when someone tunes them out or isn't interested in their play-by-play recall of their soccer game. I remember going on a date with one such asshole and by hour 3 of the monologue- I interrupted and said "I'm in nursing school, I have 3 sisters, I grew up in Miami...just thought you may want to know something about me too". There wasn't a second date. But this was the pre-blog days. Now that guy could just blog and get it all out that way. He doesn't have to subject a woman to that torture. I don't want my sons to be that guy.
So, I struggle to find a balance. A balance between over-indulging and creating giant douchebag kids and under-indulging and creating insecure, needy kids.
The truth is, all I really want is an hour to myself. I'd be thrilled with that. The rest of the evenings can be spent watching the jig, listening to soccer details, feeding and bathing children and even measuring the perimeter of a square. If I knew I would have 60 undisturbed minutes to do nothing but write or read (for myself, not for work)...in silence....without any interruption.....I would give up Facebook and Pinterest. I would be a better mom and wife. Touche Dr. Oz. You were right.
It's basically another way to avoid doing the "shoulds" in my life. It's my Pinterest, my Facebook, my Words with Friends. Except I do all those too.
I remember when sister #1 had a few small kids and they were puttering around her apartment, calling for her to look at them or asking for juice or something needy like that. And she was sitting on her couch, reading one of her gazillion books. I couldn't believe she was able to tune out the little people and read like that. I probably thought to myself something judgmental like "I would never be able to ignore my kids like that. She should be listening to them!". A thought only a 20 year old girl with no kids would think. Now, as a 38 year old mother- I still can't do that. I can't tune out and read. But not because I'm paying all this attention to my needy little people. But because I think I have A.D.D so if I'm on the couch reading and child asks me to watch them dance a jig, I'm immediately distracted by the jig and the moment of zen reading is gone. And because my little people are the worlds most needy children, I don't get much reading done unless they're all unconscious. So too with writing. I can only write in a quiet house. My house is quiet for about 2 of my waking hours. And those 2 hours when it's just me and this computer are really special. Yes, I should be doing a dozen other things for the betterment of my little family but Jesus Christ, it's good to not.
I read magazines. Those are easy to read when you have A.D.D and kids. You can pause mid article and not really lose much momentum. I've read enough Oprah, Us, Peoples, Real Simples to fill a dentists waiting room. Sometimes, I start from the end and read it backwards. I've read enough chick mags to know that "doing things for yourself makes you a better wife and mom". Oprah says so even though she's neither. Redbook swears by it. Real Simple agrees. To be a good wife and mom, you need to pay attention to yourself. Even Dr. Oz says so and he's a doctor so he must be right.
How, though, are you supposed to do that and also pay enough attention to the little people and the big person that you live with? What's enough attention? I don't want them to think I'm not interested in their incredibly detailed story about what happened when they went outside and rode their scooter. Then they're at their therapists office telling him/her how their mother never listened to their needs (and blogged all this crap about them). What's too much attention? I don't want to create these narcissistic assholes who are shocked when someone tunes them out or isn't interested in their play-by-play recall of their soccer game. I remember going on a date with one such asshole and by hour 3 of the monologue- I interrupted and said "I'm in nursing school, I have 3 sisters, I grew up in Miami...just thought you may want to know something about me too". There wasn't a second date. But this was the pre-blog days. Now that guy could just blog and get it all out that way. He doesn't have to subject a woman to that torture. I don't want my sons to be that guy.
So, I struggle to find a balance. A balance between over-indulging and creating giant douchebag kids and under-indulging and creating insecure, needy kids.
The truth is, all I really want is an hour to myself. I'd be thrilled with that. The rest of the evenings can be spent watching the jig, listening to soccer details, feeding and bathing children and even measuring the perimeter of a square. If I knew I would have 60 undisturbed minutes to do nothing but write or read (for myself, not for work)...in silence....without any interruption.....I would give up Facebook and Pinterest. I would be a better mom and wife. Touche Dr. Oz. You were right.
Wednesday, October 24, 2012
Fertility Part 1.5
So here are the funny things about embryo-making:
That pretty much covers all thats funny in IVF land.
Here are the un-funny parts of embryo-making:
- The "Production Room" and all that it entails. The fact that the nurse gives my husband a cup and a sharpie marker to write his name on it with so it doesn't get mixed up with the dude in production room #2 s junk.
- The fact that he accidentally put marker in his mouth while trying to figure out how to screw on cap of cup, only to realize his grave mistake and spit the pen across the room. And then bleached the inside of his mouth with hand sanitizer.
- The fact that my husband videotaped me when they woke me up from anesthesia post-retrieval and i was completely stoned and trying to get a saltine in my mouth. We never get tired watching that brilliant cinematography.
- The fact that the ultrasound probe is so obscene. And it comes with its own XXXXL condom. Ouch.
That pretty much covers all thats funny in IVF land.
Here are the un-funny parts of embryo-making:
- When you don't. After all the injections, ultrasounds (with the XXXXL probe), blood tests, retrieval, implantation, weeks of progesterone shots (more on that later)- you waltz in for your beta HCG test and they call you that day, before noon. Calls before noon are bad news. They like to get them out of the way so they call the negatives first. When the lovely nurse practitioner tells you "not this time, i'm so sorry".
- When it does work and you keep doing those dreadful progesterone shots and you graduate from your "Baby Lab" to the land of regular pregnant women and you go in for routine ultrasound at 12 weeks and theres a little nugget in there- quiet and still. No flicker. No heartbeat. The ultrasound tech looks at you and says "the doctor will be in to talk to you".
- When it works and anything goes wrong with that pregnancy you nearly killed yourself for. Or anything goes wrong with the baby that you painstakingly followed every single piece of medical advice for. When all the effort and money and time and raw emotions were for nothing. Willy Wonka yelling "you get NOTHING!" in your ears.
Then you turn on MTV and watch an episode of "Teen Mom" and realize without a doubt that life is exquisitely unfair.
Tuesday, October 23, 2012
Fertility Part 1
Between the hours of 8-5 every day I find myself in a place where tragedy abounds. Kids who are really sick, kids who die, kids who don't die but are just a faint shred of the child they were. The ballerina who's now mute and immobile did me in this week. Heavy, depressing shit. The kind of sadness that you feel in your chest and it radiates to your fingertips and you need to catch your breath because all you selfishly think about is if it was your healthy kid at home. Except when I get home, I still can be irritable and angry and just want these healthy kids to shut the fuck up for one goddamn minute so I can think. You would think that I would live in a constant state of gratitude. That I would come home and let all the "small stuff' fly away because at least my kids aren't paralyzed and mute from a brain tumor. This isn't the case. I do sweat the small stuff- most of the time. Even though I have 101 reasons not to.
Depressing career aside (and yes, if I ever wanted to bring a conversation to a halt, I just have to tell someone what I do for a living which sometimes works to my advantage), I also have another reason to appreciate my kiddos, besides the obvious reason of them being able to breathe, pee, laugh, run, learn on their own. In order for me to have children I had to enter the world of assisted reproduction. In addition to being technologically challenged, I am also reproductively challenged. I have all the right parts but my ovaries don't work. They don't make eggs the way my mama did. They just kind of sit there and collect dust. They try, these special ed ovaries. But all they can do is make these little, useless, space-taking nubs.
So to conceive Kid 1, we entered this ridiculous galaxy of assisted reproduction. By assisted, I mean these docs and technologists basically do it all for you. You just sit there. Or lie there. With your legs in stirrups and a giant probe all up in your business counting follicles. Daily injections and blood tests determine hormone level and readiness for implantation. You look like a heroin addict and feel like a meth head in withdrawal when you're on injections. Estrogen at super high levels is never good. For anyone. Ever. One of the really shitty parts of this stage is that you gain 10 lbs automatically so you look pregnant and feel pregnant from the hormonal surge but you are anything but. Emotionally, its a train wreck with casualties.
The waiting room in my "Baby Lab" is a fascinating cross section of women. The egg donors in their tank tops and sparrow tattoos on their shoulders. The 48 year old women who maybe missed the boat a few years earlier and realizes it's never (?) too late. The young, thin 25 year old who's thinking "how is this happening to me?" The hirsute, chubby woman who just needs her ovaries to crank one out for gods sake.
It's a beautiful waiting room with comfortable sofas and a waterfall built into the wall. Top of the line coffee tables. Mellow music to soothe all the cranky, miserable, bloated women. Its top of the line because this is mostly a cash-only business. Most insurance companies won't touch infertility, so most couples need to pay out of pocket for this good time. My favorite conversation was when I called my insurance company and asked about coverage for IVF. Customer rep informed me that the only think they will cover is any tests I may need to get to the diagnosis of infertility. Anything after the diagnosis (i.e TREATMENT) will not be covered. I told her she was a really good egg who worked for a stellar corporation. Then I hung up and hoped they all died at blue cross/blue shield. And then we gave over our credit and just bent over.
After the injection phase, is the implantation phase. So, you arrive at the point where your ovaries are so full of follicles they may burst. Literally. Some women have upwards of 30 follicles with 30 potential eggs ready to hatch. So you get the call to stop all injections. Pronto. Except for the HCG injection which will let these suckers out of ovaries and to a place where they're ready to be "retrieved. The HCG shot is made from Chinese hamsters, by the way. I imagine these Asian hamsters on their wheels just trying to get some exercise when a sterile lab tech probes them and sucks out their HCG. My kids are actually "Made in China".
Retrieval is a nice way to describe a loooooooooooooong catheter inserted vaginally to poke around there and suck out the eggs. You are knocked out for this procedure. Obviosuly. Propofol is a beautiful drug. When you wake up, they tell you how many eggs you got. You hope for at least 5 or 6. Some women get 30. I never got more than 8, I think. I don't remember the details so clearly anymore. While you're unconscious, getting probed - you partner is retrieving his sperm. In the Production Room. He doesn't get anesthesia. He gets a cup, some magazines and a carton of shame. Except for my husband- who doesn't have any shame. He proudly hands his specimen over and makes a joke each and every time.....I love that man. We laughed through most of these crazy days. Theres a lot of hilarious things that happen when you're making embryos. And then there are lots of very UN-funny things that happen. More later.....This is just Part 1.
Depressing career aside (and yes, if I ever wanted to bring a conversation to a halt, I just have to tell someone what I do for a living which sometimes works to my advantage), I also have another reason to appreciate my kiddos, besides the obvious reason of them being able to breathe, pee, laugh, run, learn on their own. In order for me to have children I had to enter the world of assisted reproduction. In addition to being technologically challenged, I am also reproductively challenged. I have all the right parts but my ovaries don't work. They don't make eggs the way my mama did. They just kind of sit there and collect dust. They try, these special ed ovaries. But all they can do is make these little, useless, space-taking nubs.
So to conceive Kid 1, we entered this ridiculous galaxy of assisted reproduction. By assisted, I mean these docs and technologists basically do it all for you. You just sit there. Or lie there. With your legs in stirrups and a giant probe all up in your business counting follicles. Daily injections and blood tests determine hormone level and readiness for implantation. You look like a heroin addict and feel like a meth head in withdrawal when you're on injections. Estrogen at super high levels is never good. For anyone. Ever. One of the really shitty parts of this stage is that you gain 10 lbs automatically so you look pregnant and feel pregnant from the hormonal surge but you are anything but. Emotionally, its a train wreck with casualties.
The waiting room in my "Baby Lab" is a fascinating cross section of women. The egg donors in their tank tops and sparrow tattoos on their shoulders. The 48 year old women who maybe missed the boat a few years earlier and realizes it's never (?) too late. The young, thin 25 year old who's thinking "how is this happening to me?" The hirsute, chubby woman who just needs her ovaries to crank one out for gods sake.
It's a beautiful waiting room with comfortable sofas and a waterfall built into the wall. Top of the line coffee tables. Mellow music to soothe all the cranky, miserable, bloated women. Its top of the line because this is mostly a cash-only business. Most insurance companies won't touch infertility, so most couples need to pay out of pocket for this good time. My favorite conversation was when I called my insurance company and asked about coverage for IVF. Customer rep informed me that the only think they will cover is any tests I may need to get to the diagnosis of infertility. Anything after the diagnosis (i.e TREATMENT) will not be covered. I told her she was a really good egg who worked for a stellar corporation. Then I hung up and hoped they all died at blue cross/blue shield. And then we gave over our credit and just bent over.
After the injection phase, is the implantation phase. So, you arrive at the point where your ovaries are so full of follicles they may burst. Literally. Some women have upwards of 30 follicles with 30 potential eggs ready to hatch. So you get the call to stop all injections. Pronto. Except for the HCG injection which will let these suckers out of ovaries and to a place where they're ready to be "retrieved. The HCG shot is made from Chinese hamsters, by the way. I imagine these Asian hamsters on their wheels just trying to get some exercise when a sterile lab tech probes them and sucks out their HCG. My kids are actually "Made in China".
Retrieval is a nice way to describe a loooooooooooooong catheter inserted vaginally to poke around there and suck out the eggs. You are knocked out for this procedure. Obviosuly. Propofol is a beautiful drug. When you wake up, they tell you how many eggs you got. You hope for at least 5 or 6. Some women get 30. I never got more than 8, I think. I don't remember the details so clearly anymore. While you're unconscious, getting probed - you partner is retrieving his sperm. In the Production Room. He doesn't get anesthesia. He gets a cup, some magazines and a carton of shame. Except for my husband- who doesn't have any shame. He proudly hands his specimen over and makes a joke each and every time.....I love that man. We laughed through most of these crazy days. Theres a lot of hilarious things that happen when you're making embryos. And then there are lots of very UN-funny things that happen. More later.....This is just Part 1.
Sunday, October 21, 2012
Some Disjointed Evening
I heard from some that maybe I shouldn't write about my children so....honestly. "What if they read it one day?" "What if people judge them poorly because of what you wrote?" "Do you really want people to know how wacky your kids can be?"
So, first of all- let's be real. How many people will ever actually read this? A handful? 3 handfuls?
Those same people probably already know me and my kids. They probably already know how we roll. They know we don't often mince words or fake things. The other few people who don't know us- who the hell cares what they think?
The name of this blog is "Easier Than a Tattoo". I've often wanted to get inked but for really stupid reasons. Not because I love body art. Not because I have this image I just need to get burned into my skin. But because you really shouldn't in the world I was raised in. More than "shouldn't; it's actually forbidden. Hence the desire to get one. Again with the "finger to the man" attitude (or in this case- needle to the Lord). Juvenile rebellion. Silliness. But still.....
So, I decided to write about things that irritate me, bring me immense joy, confuse me, make me laugh, throw me into despair and gloom. It's narcissism at its best. I get it. But guess what, it helps me stay organized in my head and a bit more sane. There's a certain pleasure in writing in a public domain what I really think. Without worrying about criticism or feedback. Being real, even if it elicits disapproval. It's way easier than a tattoo.... and it won't look moronic when I'm a saggy octogenarian.
I have a touch of frontal lobe syndrome (disinhibited) and so often times i will say things that should have probably stayed inside my head. This blog is basically my frontal lobe set free. It may make sense, it may be disjointed, it may just be really dumb, it may be meaningful and touching.
That being said, if you are reading this- please do something technological like "Join" or "Like" or "Follow"....I think i get free shit if you do.
So, first of all- let's be real. How many people will ever actually read this? A handful? 3 handfuls?
Those same people probably already know me and my kids. They probably already know how we roll. They know we don't often mince words or fake things. The other few people who don't know us- who the hell cares what they think?
The name of this blog is "Easier Than a Tattoo". I've often wanted to get inked but for really stupid reasons. Not because I love body art. Not because I have this image I just need to get burned into my skin. But because you really shouldn't in the world I was raised in. More than "shouldn't; it's actually forbidden. Hence the desire to get one. Again with the "finger to the man" attitude (or in this case- needle to the Lord). Juvenile rebellion. Silliness. But still.....
So, I decided to write about things that irritate me, bring me immense joy, confuse me, make me laugh, throw me into despair and gloom. It's narcissism at its best. I get it. But guess what, it helps me stay organized in my head and a bit more sane. There's a certain pleasure in writing in a public domain what I really think. Without worrying about criticism or feedback. Being real, even if it elicits disapproval. It's way easier than a tattoo.... and it won't look moronic when I'm a saggy octogenarian.
I have a touch of frontal lobe syndrome (disinhibited) and so often times i will say things that should have probably stayed inside my head. This blog is basically my frontal lobe set free. It may make sense, it may be disjointed, it may just be really dumb, it may be meaningful and touching.
That being said, if you are reading this- please do something technological like "Join" or "Like" or "Follow"....I think i get free shit if you do.
Tuesday, October 16, 2012
Abused Vocal Cords
HM (Hot Mess) is my 5 year old daughter. We pay an exorbitant amount of money for her to be in a small class in a private school with teachers who are so supernaturally patient, progressive, structured, kind and smart. These teachers "get" my kid with ADHD, impulsivity, sensory seeking behaviors blah blah blah. HM is a kid whose voice is so loud (sensory blah blah) that her speech and language evaluation read "the degree of her loudness could be physically abusive to her vocal cords". For real. That's what it said. I know it's emotionally abusive to her parents but I had no idea about her poor vocal cords. I kind of feel bad for them. Battered vocal cord syndrome?
HM is a kid who doesn't like princesses or dress-up or playing house. I used to think she was transgender but now am fairly sure she's just a lesbian. Her class went to the library and she chose a book called "Backboard Admiral" which is a book published in the 1970s about David Robinson who must be a famous African American basketball player. She's 5. And white. And has played basketball once.
HM is a kid who is so impulsive that she can not wait one fraction of a millisecond to tell you what she's thinking. Even if it's in the middle of your phone call, her soccer game, your 3 minutes on the toilet. She was playing soccer (extremely loose definition of "playing") with her soccer league and in the middle of the game while kicking the ball, she stopped, turned and yelled across the field "Mommy- what do you think the snack is today?" Her coach- who is a godly saint- calls her name many times throughout the game to remind her that they're still playing, to focus, to stop dancing in the middle of the field. HM loves everything about that soccer team.
HM is a nightmare to shop for. She has a closet full of gorgeous clothing and wears the costco dress that was made for a Mexican christening every single weekend. She'll only wear leggings if she can wear one leg rolled up. She will only wear crocs or sneakers. If you even try to get her to wear any kind of decent looking shoe, she will have a full-on, batshit-crazy meltdown. When she insists on wearing her androgynous get-ups, we just call her Chaz Bono.
HM is always in your face. Either verbally (while beating the shit out of her vocal cords) or physically. She doesn't have personal space. It just doesn't exist for her. She doesn't find it problematic to crawl into your lap and talk directly into your mouth. She will put her face right up in yours- just to tell you she's hungry, or she saw a funny thing on TV. This is her way. She needs to dance, hug, move, touch, yell, hum all the time. She loves when you give her "the chills". That stimulation relaxes her. Like a cat, she purrs and gets quiet. It's her tranquilizer.
HM will no doubt follow the footsteps of her brother and wear a patch proudly. It will make it easier for her to have friends, be successful in the environment we chose to put her in, allow others to talk and learn and most importantly make her feel like she can control herself and slow down a bit.
Until then, yell like crazy HM.....We're listening.
HM is a kid who doesn't like princesses or dress-up or playing house. I used to think she was transgender but now am fairly sure she's just a lesbian. Her class went to the library and she chose a book called "Backboard Admiral" which is a book published in the 1970s about David Robinson who must be a famous African American basketball player. She's 5. And white. And has played basketball once.
HM is a kid who is so impulsive that she can not wait one fraction of a millisecond to tell you what she's thinking. Even if it's in the middle of your phone call, her soccer game, your 3 minutes on the toilet. She was playing soccer (extremely loose definition of "playing") with her soccer league and in the middle of the game while kicking the ball, she stopped, turned and yelled across the field "Mommy- what do you think the snack is today?" Her coach- who is a godly saint- calls her name many times throughout the game to remind her that they're still playing, to focus, to stop dancing in the middle of the field. HM loves everything about that soccer team.
HM is a nightmare to shop for. She has a closet full of gorgeous clothing and wears the costco dress that was made for a Mexican christening every single weekend. She'll only wear leggings if she can wear one leg rolled up. She will only wear crocs or sneakers. If you even try to get her to wear any kind of decent looking shoe, she will have a full-on, batshit-crazy meltdown. When she insists on wearing her androgynous get-ups, we just call her Chaz Bono.
HM is always in your face. Either verbally (while beating the shit out of her vocal cords) or physically. She doesn't have personal space. It just doesn't exist for her. She doesn't find it problematic to crawl into your lap and talk directly into your mouth. She will put her face right up in yours- just to tell you she's hungry, or she saw a funny thing on TV. This is her way. She needs to dance, hug, move, touch, yell, hum all the time. She loves when you give her "the chills". That stimulation relaxes her. Like a cat, she purrs and gets quiet. It's her tranquilizer.
HM will no doubt follow the footsteps of her brother and wear a patch proudly. It will make it easier for her to have friends, be successful in the environment we chose to put her in, allow others to talk and learn and most importantly make her feel like she can control herself and slow down a bit.
Until then, yell like crazy HM.....We're listening.
Sunday, October 14, 2012
Sisters
When sister #3 walked in to the room, I turned to her and said "cute acne"....
She responded "I think your new meds are making your tourettes worse".
So it is with my sisters. We know each other. All of each other. The good, the bad, the fat and the ugly. When sister #4 was extremely pregnant and people were telling (lying to) her how great she looked, it was her sisters who told her she was seriously swollen and her face looked bee stung.
When I complain to them how fat I feel, they don't say "come on, you look fine". They say "yep, what are you gonna do about it?".
When sister #1 tells us how she thinks her house is cluttered; we're quick to point out she may be one shit stack away from an episode of hoarders.
It's our way. Some may find it hyper-critical, judgmental and rude. I wouldn't disagree, but it's our way. In fact, I wouldn't really know how to be nice and polite with them. It would feel so....wrong. It would feel distant and dishonest.
Part of being in a sisterhood is that there are always 3 other women who you can call and say- "Do you know who I really love/hate/don't get/want to murder?" You can discuss your GI tract in more detail than you would with a specialist. Ditto for your vajay-jay tract. In fact, there are no bodily functions or fluids that haven't been talked about to death around our dining room tables. And that doesn't even cover the tribulations of unwanted body hair. That's a topic that never gets old in this family.
Part of being in a sisterhood is that there are no children in this vast universe than I love more than my biological three. Except for my sisters kids. They come in awfully close.
Part of being in sisterhood is that you always have 3 other women who know your parents like you do, have the same issues with them as you do, want to kill them sometimes in the same way you do. You have 3 other women who think about what we're going to do when they get demented and need Depends. "Not it" isn't an acceptable answer.
Weird thing with my sisterhood- we find the same things hilarious and devastating. I know exactly what movies will make them ugly cry. I know what email will have them peeing themselves.
I've been asked if I ever missed having a brother. Never. Not once. There wouldn't be room for a brother in this sisterhood. He would have felt like an outsider.
The sisterhood gives me fashion advice ("That outfit needs to be destroyed...today), childrearing advice ("your daughter is a hot mess of a disaster"), weight loss advice ("you're fat because you eat too much and don't exercise; it's not rocket science") and home decor advice ("it smells like pee in your house").
If today was my last day on earth, I know the sisterhood would pick up the pieces and love my kids forever. I know there are 3 other women who have my back.
She responded "I think your new meds are making your tourettes worse".
So it is with my sisters. We know each other. All of each other. The good, the bad, the fat and the ugly. When sister #4 was extremely pregnant and people were telling (lying to) her how great she looked, it was her sisters who told her she was seriously swollen and her face looked bee stung.
When I complain to them how fat I feel, they don't say "come on, you look fine". They say "yep, what are you gonna do about it?".
When sister #1 tells us how she thinks her house is cluttered; we're quick to point out she may be one shit stack away from an episode of hoarders.
It's our way. Some may find it hyper-critical, judgmental and rude. I wouldn't disagree, but it's our way. In fact, I wouldn't really know how to be nice and polite with them. It would feel so....wrong. It would feel distant and dishonest.
Part of being in a sisterhood is that there are always 3 other women who you can call and say- "Do you know who I really love/hate/don't get/want to murder?" You can discuss your GI tract in more detail than you would with a specialist. Ditto for your vajay-jay tract. In fact, there are no bodily functions or fluids that haven't been talked about to death around our dining room tables. And that doesn't even cover the tribulations of unwanted body hair. That's a topic that never gets old in this family.
Part of being in a sisterhood is that there are no children in this vast universe than I love more than my biological three. Except for my sisters kids. They come in awfully close.
Part of being in sisterhood is that you always have 3 other women who know your parents like you do, have the same issues with them as you do, want to kill them sometimes in the same way you do. You have 3 other women who think about what we're going to do when they get demented and need Depends. "Not it" isn't an acceptable answer.
We also come up with our own emoticons:
; / bells palsy
: { cleft palate
: = ) happy hitler
I mean even if you're not our sister, that shit's funny.
Weird thing with my sisterhood- we find the same things hilarious and devastating. I know exactly what movies will make them ugly cry. I know what email will have them peeing themselves.
I've been asked if I ever missed having a brother. Never. Not once. There wouldn't be room for a brother in this sisterhood. He would have felt like an outsider.
The sisterhood gives me fashion advice ("That outfit needs to be destroyed...today), childrearing advice ("your daughter is a hot mess of a disaster"), weight loss advice ("you're fat because you eat too much and don't exercise; it's not rocket science") and home decor advice ("it smells like pee in your house").
If today was my last day on earth, I know the sisterhood would pick up the pieces and love my kids forever. I know there are 3 other women who have my back.
Thursday, October 11, 2012
Disconnected
One of the many goals I have this year is to be present. Really present. Connected to family, friends, patients, the universe. Feel them deeply. Don't rush through the day disconnected. It's hard. I'm very good at disconnected. I've perfected the facade of being highly functional/competent, when all the while I am just robotically checking off things on my to-do list.
Get married. Check.
Get a higher education. Check.
Pop out some kids. Check.
Work. Check.
Have a satisfying social life. Partial check.
Be involved in childrens life - both emotionally and practically. Quasi-check.
What to do to really feel the waves of the universe?
Meditate? Brush up on a belief in a Higher Power? Do yoga? Drop acid?
All of the above?
Some Thursday night thoughts as I try to find anything to do to avoid cooking yet another meal....
Get married. Check.
Get a higher education. Check.
Pop out some kids. Check.
Work. Check.
Have a satisfying social life. Partial check.
Be involved in childrens life - both emotionally and practically. Quasi-check.
What to do to really feel the waves of the universe?
Meditate? Brush up on a belief in a Higher Power? Do yoga? Drop acid?
All of the above?
Some Thursday night thoughts as I try to find anything to do to avoid cooking yet another meal....
Sunday, October 7, 2012
Double life
Life is big, nuanced, complicated....multi-dimensional, you could say.
When I think about a typical shabbat/Saturday for me, it can feel very dichotomous at times. I can be in a synagogue in the morning sitting in a separate women's section with a wooden divide between the genders, then I will be at a lunch with no less than 15 people in a dining room with an obscene amount of food (and children) and no electrical appliances or screens being used. So- for all the mothers out there- imagine 12 boys in your house with no electrical distractions (babysitters). After lunch, I will take my kids to the synagogue afterwards for youth groups that teach my kids more Torah and Zionism.
After sundown, however, is when the shift happens.
Take last night. Shabbat went as planned, as we always do. 24 hours of complete Judaic immersion. After sundown, I headed over to a friend from works 70s themed 40th birthday party. My work people are a group of women (mostly) who I spend more time with than my family, and certainly my jewish community people. These women are awesome. I mean it. Really really kick-ass awesome. Pediatric oncology chicks who work hard and play hard. We bitch and moan, we laugh at sick shit, we cry at work, we drink a lot, we take care of very sick kids who sometimes die despite it all, we drink a lot, we talk about our husbands/boyfriends/lack thereof, we talk about our kids, we talk about our bowel movements, we talk about how underpaid we are, we talk and talk and talk...
The birthday girl last night is a pediatric oncologist who works like a horse, often emailing and writing at 3:30 in the morning. She goes to bat for patients with the energy and determination of a raging bull. She's a machine. And here she was decked out in a gold sequenced tank top and leggings dancing to ABBA and karaoking "Bobby McGhee" at the top of her lungs. I, personally, paid homage to Stevie Nicks and did an extremely loud, drunken version of "Go Your Own Way". At this party, there was no divider between men and women, no mention of religion, no discussing which presidential candidate will be better for the State of Israel, no complaining of how many days we have to take off from work and how much food we have to cook...again.
In a period of 24 hours, I live in 2 separate worlds. I'm comfortable in both. There are irritating things in both. Sometimes, I would like to totally walk away from both.
I can't imagine only living in one of these worlds. I need them both.
When I think about a typical shabbat/Saturday for me, it can feel very dichotomous at times. I can be in a synagogue in the morning sitting in a separate women's section with a wooden divide between the genders, then I will be at a lunch with no less than 15 people in a dining room with an obscene amount of food (and children) and no electrical appliances or screens being used. So- for all the mothers out there- imagine 12 boys in your house with no electrical distractions (babysitters). After lunch, I will take my kids to the synagogue afterwards for youth groups that teach my kids more Torah and Zionism.
After sundown, however, is when the shift happens.
Take last night. Shabbat went as planned, as we always do. 24 hours of complete Judaic immersion. After sundown, I headed over to a friend from works 70s themed 40th birthday party. My work people are a group of women (mostly) who I spend more time with than my family, and certainly my jewish community people. These women are awesome. I mean it. Really really kick-ass awesome. Pediatric oncology chicks who work hard and play hard. We bitch and moan, we laugh at sick shit, we cry at work, we drink a lot, we take care of very sick kids who sometimes die despite it all, we drink a lot, we talk about our husbands/boyfriends/lack thereof, we talk about our kids, we talk about our bowel movements, we talk about how underpaid we are, we talk and talk and talk...
The birthday girl last night is a pediatric oncologist who works like a horse, often emailing and writing at 3:30 in the morning. She goes to bat for patients with the energy and determination of a raging bull. She's a machine. And here she was decked out in a gold sequenced tank top and leggings dancing to ABBA and karaoking "Bobby McGhee" at the top of her lungs. I, personally, paid homage to Stevie Nicks and did an extremely loud, drunken version of "Go Your Own Way". At this party, there was no divider between men and women, no mention of religion, no discussing which presidential candidate will be better for the State of Israel, no complaining of how many days we have to take off from work and how much food we have to cook...again.
In a period of 24 hours, I live in 2 separate worlds. I'm comfortable in both. There are irritating things in both. Sometimes, I would like to totally walk away from both.
I can't imagine only living in one of these worlds. I need them both.
Thursday, October 4, 2012
Enjoy your children
A wise friend of mine was telling me that she recently took her teenage daughter to a drama group and she noticed that the parental units there really enjoyed their children. Peacefully, truly enjoyed being with their children. Wise friend lamented how she feels that in our community, where there is no shortage of children- the parents don't seem to enjoy their children as much and often seem like they're on edge, 5 seconds away from a meltdown. What immediately came to my mind were all sorts of arguments defending the kind of parent who seems to live 5 seconds from a meltdown.
My internal defensive rant went something like this:
"When should I enjoy my children? From the hours of 6-8pm when we're all home together and my house is reminiscent of an 80s rave- glo lights and all?? After 8, when the series of negotiations revolving around bedtime and basic hygiene are U.S attorney worthy? (Enjoy your oreos in bed, hope they go down smoothly with the powerade chaser). After 10, when all are mostly asleep and my mind is just a mess of static electricity? At 3-4am, when baby is up squealing in delight? At 6:45am when I'm waking them up for school and notice the iPad buried under sons blanket so am fairly confident he fell asleep just a few hours before? At 7:15am when I'm trying to find daughters shoes, put some lip gloss on, remind children to brush the oreos off their teeth, make sure I'm wearing matching shoes (to eachother, not the outfit), brushing out matted knots from daughters jewfro and trying to take a piss undisturbed? I enjoy my children at 7:55am - when I drop them off at school. When the doors of my mini-van close in that carpool line and all is silent in my car- that is enjoyment."
And then it hit me. I am doing something very wrong.
I know for certain that when I'm old and decrepit and look back at my life I will want more moments with my children. When they were exactly these ages. With exactly these quirks. I will regret spending so much time being irritable and impatient. I will probably regret letting them eat so many Oreos too. I will probably want nothing more than to be in a house that is so full of ENERGY and LIFE.
So, how do I go about changing this paradigm? Do I work less hours? Do I spend more time with my children? Do I meditate before they wake up to get to a place of zen? Do I take more drugs?
The answer can't be to think how short life is and see people who have lost children and then really appreciate our own. Though that may work for a few days, it's not sustainable. I will fall back to old habits of living a chaotic life with a short fuse.
I don't have the answer....but I know that the question of how to really enjoy your children is too important to leave unanswered.
Oh, and wise friend- I would be lucky to have half your zen and child-love.
My internal defensive rant went something like this:
"When should I enjoy my children? From the hours of 6-8pm when we're all home together and my house is reminiscent of an 80s rave- glo lights and all?? After 8, when the series of negotiations revolving around bedtime and basic hygiene are U.S attorney worthy? (Enjoy your oreos in bed, hope they go down smoothly with the powerade chaser). After 10, when all are mostly asleep and my mind is just a mess of static electricity? At 3-4am, when baby is up squealing in delight? At 6:45am when I'm waking them up for school and notice the iPad buried under sons blanket so am fairly confident he fell asleep just a few hours before? At 7:15am when I'm trying to find daughters shoes, put some lip gloss on, remind children to brush the oreos off their teeth, make sure I'm wearing matching shoes (to eachother, not the outfit), brushing out matted knots from daughters jewfro and trying to take a piss undisturbed? I enjoy my children at 7:55am - when I drop them off at school. When the doors of my mini-van close in that carpool line and all is silent in my car- that is enjoyment."
And then it hit me. I am doing something very wrong.
I know for certain that when I'm old and decrepit and look back at my life I will want more moments with my children. When they were exactly these ages. With exactly these quirks. I will regret spending so much time being irritable and impatient. I will probably regret letting them eat so many Oreos too. I will probably want nothing more than to be in a house that is so full of ENERGY and LIFE.
So, how do I go about changing this paradigm? Do I work less hours? Do I spend more time with my children? Do I meditate before they wake up to get to a place of zen? Do I take more drugs?
The answer can't be to think how short life is and see people who have lost children and then really appreciate our own. Though that may work for a few days, it's not sustainable. I will fall back to old habits of living a chaotic life with a short fuse.
I don't have the answer....but I know that the question of how to really enjoy your children is too important to leave unanswered.
Oh, and wise friend- I would be lucky to have half your zen and child-love.
Friday, September 28, 2012
Religion
This should be nice and light....
I was raised as an Orthodox Jewess. I went to Orthodox synagogue, Orthodox school, Orthodox camp, Orthodox college. I became friends with a gentile for the first time in graduate school. It's been downhill since. ;)
The truth is that sometime in college, I decided that the sense of belonging that my religion afforded me was running out. While I loved and love my core people and have nothing but mad respect for them and their faith, I started to feel rebellion creep up. I felt like I needed to be the contrarian. To point out the injustices of our (crazy) faith. To show them that I won't follow the fold. Once I got that delayed adolescent rebellion out of my system (or at least 50% of it), I just lost interest. It stopped resonating. What used to give me the chills (my barometer for spiritual awakening) just left me hollow.
Well, at least some of the time. I still have a primal, instinctive response to certain very jewish things. When I hear certain songs and prayers, i am home. When I see a jewish patient, I care even more deeply for them. Show me a picture of an Israeli soldier and watch me fold. No matter how hard I try, I can not leave this orthodox community. There is no other place for me. Its a dissonance that is hard to describe. As much as I find wrong with it, I can't find anything else that is as egosyntonic (i KNEW i would get to use that word again!) for me.
Orthodoxy=my mother.
- Posted using BlogPress from my iPad
I was raised as an Orthodox Jewess. I went to Orthodox synagogue, Orthodox school, Orthodox camp, Orthodox college. I became friends with a gentile for the first time in graduate school. It's been downhill since. ;)
The truth is that sometime in college, I decided that the sense of belonging that my religion afforded me was running out. While I loved and love my core people and have nothing but mad respect for them and their faith, I started to feel rebellion creep up. I felt like I needed to be the contrarian. To point out the injustices of our (crazy) faith. To show them that I won't follow the fold. Once I got that delayed adolescent rebellion out of my system (or at least 50% of it), I just lost interest. It stopped resonating. What used to give me the chills (my barometer for spiritual awakening) just left me hollow.
Well, at least some of the time. I still have a primal, instinctive response to certain very jewish things. When I hear certain songs and prayers, i am home. When I see a jewish patient, I care even more deeply for them. Show me a picture of an Israeli soldier and watch me fold. No matter how hard I try, I can not leave this orthodox community. There is no other place for me. Its a dissonance that is hard to describe. As much as I find wrong with it, I can't find anything else that is as egosyntonic (i KNEW i would get to use that word again!) for me.
Orthodoxy=my mother.
- Posted using BlogPress from my iPad
Thursday, September 27, 2012
Take 2
Egosyntonic- behaviors, thoughts, feelings that are in harmony with the ego.
I love that word. I wish I knew what my ego needed/wanted.
I also wish I knew how to change the name of this blog. Its really annoying me.
So, if you're reading this- you committed to continue reading after first post so I will give you a quick background.
Im 38. Married for 12 years. Dated for 10 weeks prior to engagement. Unclear as to how that happened. It just did. No, I wasn't pregnant.
Hubs is 42 and is always able to make me laugh. He's super quirky and a lot crazy.
We have 3 darling children. Well the last one is darling. They first 2 are nutty balls of chaos. Loud, intrusive, hyperactive, funny, good looking messes.
Firstborn is a 3rd grade boy who is seriously handsome and smart. You can trust me when I say that because I am a mother who knows my childrens strengths and their maddenning weaknesses. Firstborn is a member of "Generation Psychopharmacology" and wears his patch proudly. God bless daytrana and all it's sticky magic. Firstborn also inherited his dear ole' dads tics. Endearing, you may think? You would be very wrong. An eye rolling, throat clearing, stomach sucking, sleeve biting, grunting soundtrack has played in my house for many nights over many years. Its slightly better with guanfacine (med # 2) but mostly we have learned that this is who he is and what he needs to do to live in this chaotic universe. That doesn't mean they don't make me homicidal at times. A lot of times.
He's so damn smart and funny and KIND that it lets him get away with almost anything.
Numero dos is my one and only daughter. Some people refer to her as "Honey Boo Boo" (and by some people, I mean her parents). She is a round ball of laughter, confidence and rage. Her impulse control is poor. She may kick you if she walks by you in the hallway. But she loves you and just wants to connect. That may be by connecting your face with her hand sometimes. I definitely see meds in her future too but at 5 years old, we're patiently waiting. She is the most confident girl I know and I want so much to bottle that confidence and re-open it when she's a teenage girl and some dick of a pubertal boy tells her he's just "not so into her". And then I will go and kill that dick of a boy. She dances like Elaine from Seinfeld who just got diagnosed with epilepsy- but she is convinced she will win "Americas Got Talent". She knows she'll be a wizard when she grows up.
And lastly- my baby boy. He is perfect. 6 months old and smiles like it's his job. He's so quiet, I often check my back seat to make sure I haven't left him at Publix/work/school. He lives in casa de los locos here and just observes. Concerned that he was mute, I flicked him once and he yelped. That made me feel better. He's starting to coo- but even his cooing is so....MELLOW. Maybe all the anti-depressants in my placenta did him some good.....
Keep reading. We're just getting started.
I love that word. I wish I knew what my ego needed/wanted.
I also wish I knew how to change the name of this blog. Its really annoying me.
So, if you're reading this- you committed to continue reading after first post so I will give you a quick background.
Im 38. Married for 12 years. Dated for 10 weeks prior to engagement. Unclear as to how that happened. It just did. No, I wasn't pregnant.
Hubs is 42 and is always able to make me laugh. He's super quirky and a lot crazy.
We have 3 darling children. Well the last one is darling. They first 2 are nutty balls of chaos. Loud, intrusive, hyperactive, funny, good looking messes.
Firstborn is a 3rd grade boy who is seriously handsome and smart. You can trust me when I say that because I am a mother who knows my childrens strengths and their maddenning weaknesses. Firstborn is a member of "Generation Psychopharmacology" and wears his patch proudly. God bless daytrana and all it's sticky magic. Firstborn also inherited his dear ole' dads tics. Endearing, you may think? You would be very wrong. An eye rolling, throat clearing, stomach sucking, sleeve biting, grunting soundtrack has played in my house for many nights over many years. Its slightly better with guanfacine (med # 2) but mostly we have learned that this is who he is and what he needs to do to live in this chaotic universe. That doesn't mean they don't make me homicidal at times. A lot of times.
He's so damn smart and funny and KIND that it lets him get away with almost anything.
Numero dos is my one and only daughter. Some people refer to her as "Honey Boo Boo" (and by some people, I mean her parents). She is a round ball of laughter, confidence and rage. Her impulse control is poor. She may kick you if she walks by you in the hallway. But she loves you and just wants to connect. That may be by connecting your face with her hand sometimes. I definitely see meds in her future too but at 5 years old, we're patiently waiting. She is the most confident girl I know and I want so much to bottle that confidence and re-open it when she's a teenage girl and some dick of a pubertal boy tells her he's just "not so into her". And then I will go and kill that dick of a boy. She dances like Elaine from Seinfeld who just got diagnosed with epilepsy- but she is convinced she will win "Americas Got Talent". She knows she'll be a wizard when she grows up.
And lastly- my baby boy. He is perfect. 6 months old and smiles like it's his job. He's so quiet, I often check my back seat to make sure I haven't left him at Publix/work/school. He lives in casa de los locos here and just observes. Concerned that he was mute, I flicked him once and he yelped. That made me feel better. He's starting to coo- but even his cooing is so....MELLOW. Maybe all the anti-depressants in my placenta did him some good.....
Keep reading. We're just getting started.
Tech-tard
So in my attempt to start a new blog- with a brand new title and twist- I seem to only be able to add to this 4 year old pitiful blog I started many moons ago. Back in 2008, when I thought that writing a blog would help me lose weight. Since that time-I've popped out another kid and am 7 lbs heavier than the initial blog weight....But I digress. The POINT i was trying to make is that it took me about an hour to figure out how to start a blog on an ipad and then when i (sort of) figured it out, it won't let me start anew. It forces me to go back and face my past. "It" is the magical creature who lives in all Apple products and who mocks me and my tech-tard ways.
So, when I read my lonely entry from November 2008, it made me realize how certain things are constant. How some things never seem to change. Do I really want this blog to be about weight? No. It's a topic that I'm growing weary of. I want this blog to be about being a mom to 3 absoulte nutball kids, a wife to 1 absolute nutball husband, a full time nurse practitioner, a woman looking for a deeper connection to the spirit of the universe. And a chubby chick who needs to get healthy about food. Not necessarily in that order. To preface, I don't do any of the above particularly well and am in no means an expert. But I do know this: I think I am developing adult ADD and I have a faulty filter- so I will often write what comes into my head. Real. Honest. Crazy. Disjointed at times.
Welcome to my home.
- Posted using BlogPress from my iPad
So, when I read my lonely entry from November 2008, it made me realize how certain things are constant. How some things never seem to change. Do I really want this blog to be about weight? No. It's a topic that I'm growing weary of. I want this blog to be about being a mom to 3 absoulte nutball kids, a wife to 1 absolute nutball husband, a full time nurse practitioner, a woman looking for a deeper connection to the spirit of the universe. And a chubby chick who needs to get healthy about food. Not necessarily in that order. To preface, I don't do any of the above particularly well and am in no means an expert. But I do know this: I think I am developing adult ADD and I have a faulty filter- so I will often write what comes into my head. Real. Honest. Crazy. Disjointed at times.
Welcome to my home.
- Posted using BlogPress from my iPad
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