All You Can Eat Buffet

Buffets are not the best means of eating for anxious people.

So many choices, so much activity, so many chances for E. Coli and bacteria.

Then the bus loads of people coming in, adding to the tumult. Kids cranky from traveling. Everybody wanting food at the same time. Not unlike the distractions of life, pulling our attentions from our goal: homing in on the buffet line.

The myriad choices are like our choices in life. So many desirable options. Mac n’ cheese. Fried chicken. Tostadas. Sweet and sour pork. Then what we should eat: the salad. Also a lot like life, no? We can choose what we know we need and is usually more cost effective (i.e. veggies) vs. what we want or think we should have (bacon-wrapped filet).

In the world of an anxious person, who cannot prioritize, who perseverates over decision-making, who gets overwhelmed easily, the all-you-can-eat buffet is a microcosm for life on a very bad day.

Unfortunately in real life, we do not have a Reina, the queen of bussing, to clear away our messes – or watch us to decide when that’s needed.

Or an all-you-can-eat ice cream bar. Damn it.

Identity, Poetry

Disconnect

Head vs. heart

Exhaustion vs. anxious energy

Joy vs. misery

Difficult situations rolling like water from a duck’s back; simple acts eliciting freak-outs

Distraction/perseveration

Longing, lacking,

cup overflowing

Confusion, crystalline pain

The grounding grasp of tiny clasp,

The constricting clutch of oh-so-much

Synergy, synthesis, integration – somewhere out in the ether.

I’m dying to meet Her.

motherhood, parenting

You Can’t Catch Me . . .

It’s cool to run.

And, no I don’t mean that as an allusion to Disney’s lighthearted take on the Jamaican bobsled team, though I can see Doug E. Doug’s goofy grin right now.

There is a movement in motherhood right now to run. It seems to be the mode of fitness that’s all the rage. And not only do they run, but they write about it. Blogs on mothering and running are popping up all over the place.

Always one to eschew trend (or at least be snarky enough about it to try), it irritated me at first. Let’s all run and share our times and trials and how we balance that with motherhood. Woo hoo. Jump on the bandwagon.

What’s with all these fit people!? And what the hell does it have to do with mothering?

Then, I met a mother, who for all intents and purposes, was single for the next six months. Her husband was deployed, leaving the task of moving cross-country to her and their three children. I wanted to collapse just thinking about it. She did have some family support and a great sense of humor, but it still was a trying task to say the least.

She told me how one day she asked their eldest to watch the other two so she could go for a run. ‘I just had to get out,’ she said.

Suddenly, I got it.

Mothers run so they won’t run away.

I’ve mentioned before how my favorite scene in The Divine Secrets of the Ya-Ya Sisterhood is Ashley Judd escaping to a motel room. Maybe running – even if only around the block – provides enough of a catharsis to make coming back around the bend possible. Enough of the venom sweats out the pores and steams out the ears to return to stasis. The legs know they can propel us forward if needed, the pistons fire. We can move of our own volition.

Muscles atrophied from marathons of criss-cross applesauce; pelvises pushed out of whack from babies on hips; Lungs exhausted with wasted breath. When it runs, the body remembers another purpose. It remembers its former master and serves her for at least a little while.

I am not a runner.

I am the girl who, upon reaching junior high and meeting the kids from the other feeder elementary schools, was remembered by my performance in the sixth grade Olympics – as in “aren’t you the girl who puked after the 800?” Pacing? What’s that?

I am the woman who hates being reminded of that fact that her butt is not what is used to be by the jiggling that follows her down the hill when she does run.

But I have noticed the feeling of exhilaration when I stretch my legs and pump my arms and fill my lungs. Even if it’s only chasing my toddler down the street to the bus stop, I feel the strength and feel as if it can carry me even further. And not away – but to push my limits, see how much I’m capable of, feel some sort of strength when in all other ways I’m beat down. To shift the pain from my head and heart to the burning in my thighs, the constriction in my lungs, the stitch in my side.

Don’t worry. I’m not going to start sharing my best times and workout routines. It would just depress us all anyway. But let me just say to all the mother-runners out there, I get you. Even if I can’t be you – I get you.

motherhood, parenting

Feedbag on the front, camel on the bak

I’ve stumbled upon perhaps my most brilliant and self-preserving idea yet. Not only will it make and keep my children happy, but it will keep me from losing my patience, temper, and ultimately, mind.

I’ve been increasingly irritated by the constant demands for snack and drink from my cherubs. It’s a never-ending cycle. I’ve tried to institute schedules. Three squares, of course, with one morning and afternoon snack. I’ve taken into account thirst during playtime, allowing a water bottle at any point during the day. However, independent studies in our home have found that true thirst is only satiated by fruit juice or chocolate milk. And that if said thirst is not satiated, desperate whining ensues. And those little bellies just can’t last twenty minutes until a balanced dinner is placed in front of them. Oh, the horror, the agony, the hunger eating away at the tender muscle at their bones.

Dinnertime itself presents a whole new slate of irritations. The heretofore-ravenous hunger is somehow sated within two minutes of meeting those colorful vegetables and proteins; the cup of milk drained dry with t-minus ten seconds before my husband and I sit down. Just as my mouth is about to close around my first forkful of food, the demands come. Can I have more milk? Yes, in a moment, I respond, trying to savor a few bites before I return to the kitchen once more. But I want miiiiiiiilllllllkkkkkk. I said you can have milk. Let Momma have a few bites of food first. But I want MIIIIIIILLLLLLKKK. *$#&@*. I grab the offending cup and stomp to the kitchen. When I return with cup filled and plop into my seat, oh-so-ready to resume my meal, the next little voice says, Can I have more milk? *&$@*#&#&@(! You didn’t know you wanted milk when you heard your sister ask for some? But I wasn’t done with it then.

It was after one such episode that I came up with my brilliant idea. My patience gone and my language and attitude most definitely flip, I announced to my husband – gesticulated actually – that I was going to strap a feedbag to the front and a camelbak hydration system to the back of each child. It would make life so much easier, I raved. Food and drink on demand! Their needs met with nary an act on our part. He laughed and pointed at me: there’s your next blog.

One half of my brilliant idea

Yes, and maybe my million-dollar idea. At the very least, it would make me less irritated. Though my kids would probably be the next three statistics in the childhood obesity epidemic. I guess we can’t have it all – though they’d have food and drink all day if I’d let them 😉

anxiety, Identity, Living, Writing

A Rock to Remember

Last week, I was forced to go to the beach.

I was cranky. I was tired. It was a holiday and all three kids were home, but my husband was working. I still had tons of tedious tasks to do to get settled in the new house.

My parents said, it’s a beautiful day, let’s go for a walk.

I walked from the breach way to the border of this same beach with my parents when I was a girl. It was like coming full-circle treading it this day with my own children a short distance from the place I now call home.

The girls dove straight into rock hunting with my mother. I didn’t even have to chase my three year-old out of the waves, as she plopped down in one spot and proceeded to sift and stack. I sat down, too, and gave myself over to the sound of the rocks chattering against each other in the surf.

My other home was a short walk from a small inlet on Narragansett Bay. It was a lovely spot and we were fortunate to live so close to it (though we didn’t make the trek nearly enough). But it had nothing of the raw power and expansiveness of this beach, the open ocean. I am not used to the mass amounts of rocks, perfectly pounded and rounded by the constant tumbling of the sea. The smooth spheres of granite, mica, and other minerals I should remember from science class and Rhode Island history. Their shapes were so alluring to me, beckoning me to pick them up, roll them in my hands.

And so I did. I sat just apart from my daughter’s sifting and sorting and felt the weight in my hands. The cool heaviness, the sun-soaked pressure. I searched for the one that fit perfectly in the palm of my hand. Then I spun it round and round, the smooth surface soothing me in a way that didn’t seem needed, but became suddenly essential.

I felt my hackles lowering, my blood slowing in my veins, my body decompressing, my soul expanding. I was running, running, running so quickly, so constantly, that I didn’t even know how wound up I was. I didn’t know how much I needed the salve of the sea.

I recalled a stretch of preteen fall days when a friend and I rode our bikes to the sand flats with our notebooks and sketchpads. I was so disappointed that I was caught without a notebook when the muse was so apparently calling to me, when an epiphany was beating me over the head with a smoothly-shaped rock. I hoped beyond hope that I could bottle this feeling and bring it home with me. It’s been diluted over the last week, but I did bring some rocks home with me as reminders. I picked out some beautifully speckled, striated, spotted ones that I stacked into cairns in my garden. I selected two larger ones to use as worry rocks, prayer stones, literal talismans to ground me; I planned to give one to my husband so he could benefit from my lesson, too.

As I kneaded these rocks in my hands, I thought of the many manifestations of humanity’s need for physical reminders of the spiritual side of life, of our souls. Kachina dolls, worry dolls, worry stones, chime balls, stress balls, rocks perched on gravestones, relics . . . there are so many examples. But they all begin at their basest level with a bit of the natural world. There is a reason humans turn to nature to reset their moods, their demeanors, their selves. While I cannot put my finger on it, there is something about it that resonates in our souls. I’ll just have to wrap my hand around those rocks each time I forget.

anxiety, Identity, Living

Eat the Frog

I’ve been doing a lot of that lately.

Suffering through those things I don’t want to do in order to get to the ones I want.

Problem is, by the time I eat said frogs, I’m usually too damn tired to do the things I want, which never really were obligatory anyway. Or, I take so long staring down the frog or pretending I don’t hear him croaking that I have just enough time to gulp him down hurriedly before the sun goes down; it’s time for dinner; time to pick up the girls from the bus stop.

Procrastination and perfectionism are not mutually exclusive.

When, pre-move, I described how I was failing to meet my goal of packing five boxes per day, an acquaintance pointed out how I couldn’t possibly be an overachiever and a procrastinator. Luckily, another such duality came to my defense. She concurred, that, oh yes, it is possible to be so worried about doing something perfectly that it stops you from attempting it at all.

In college, I grabbed a pamphlet from the career center on procrastination. I’ve since thrown it out – though it took me quite some time ; ) – but it laid out similar terms. I didn’t necessarily agree with it. I am not one obsessed with the pursuit of perfection. At least not overtly. I understand the human condition and all its frailty. I like to think I empathize and can forgive our various faults.

But do I refuse to start projects until I have sufficient time to complete the entire task? Yes. Will I stay at that task far into the night or despite my husband’s repeated attempts to beckon me to the dinner table until it is finished? Yes. Will I avoid beginning a task until I know exactly how to execute it? Yes. Do I fail to commit to a task until I know I can fulfill all the obligations that go along with it? Yes. And regardless of all reasons not to start, do I place an unrelenting sense of guilt heavy upon my breastbone until I do start? Yes.

Hmmm . . . maybe I threw out that pamphlet because I was not ready to see myself in its words.

What is it with these freakin’ frogs? And why do they all float on lily pads obscuring what murky depths really cause all this angst: ANXIETY.

Because that’s what it really is, isn’t it? I worry about getting things right because I’m anxious. I put things off because they make me nervous. Or I’m worried about getting it all done. Or I’m worried I’ll run out of time. Or it’s an unpleasant task. Or it’s out of my comfort zone. Whatever hue or size these amphibian friends and foes come in, they’re all from the same frog mother. And what a mother-f*&%$#@ she is.

The more I learn about myself, my reactions, feelings, and disposition, the more I realize how much of my life has been colored by anxiety. I don’t know if I’ve ever known what it is to live without it. There was a time when I didn’t know I was living with it, but looking back, now I can name it unequivocally.

A very talented writer friend of mine just shared a story wherein a character and her mother try to pinpoint the exact origin of the mother’s obsessive-compulsive disorder. They realize that not only is it impossible, but it is a form of obsession in and of itself. What does it matter where it began? One must learn coping mechanisms to take forward with her. I find myself doing this repeatedly with my anxiety. But why? When did it start? How? What purpose does that serve beyond making me more anxious? Why roll back the reels over those years over and done – and with a pretty good measure of success? Why create suffering where there may have been none? Or where there was some, but where I had the wherewithal to function despite it?

Maybe it’s the perfectionist in me, but I feel that the fact that I’ve reached a point in my life where I can’t hack it when I previously could makes me a failure on some level. I know this is my masochistic overachiever unrealistic hair shirt-wearing self, but it is still part of me and I can’t turn it off no matter how hard I try to push with my rational self. And all that croaking just reminds me of it. Why do I get a mental block when I assess my to-do list? Why can I not complete tasks that I know will reap rewards?

Guess the only way around it is to choke the frogs down before they choke me.

anxiety, Living, medication, motherhood, postpartum depression

You Can Call Me Peri?

So I crack open this month’s issue of Family Circle, the latest installment from the gift subscription my mother-in-law gave me for Christmas, and see an article on menopause. Ok, think it’s safe to skip that one. But oddly compelled to read all printed matter that comes across my radar regardless of whether it pertains to or interests me, I scan the first page. In speech bubbles strewn about the page are various questions, worries, and anecdotes from peri- and post-menopausal women. More than half the bubbles could have been direct quotes from me! And I am not very peri at all!

The article invites me to “read on to find out how to outwit, outplay and outlast the next chapter in your life.” Thus begins a decade-by-decade breakdown on how to outwit this personified beast that threatens to overtake all women all over the world. “In [my] 30s,” I can expect my fertility to decline. Yes, knew that and no, that does not bother me in the least. I should become my healthiest self as “what [I] do now impacts how early menopause starts, how intense the symptoms are and how they affect my body.” Right about now, my dander is starting to get up – and it’s not just the lack of the third comma in the lists of three things that is doing it. I need to “bust stress” as “mini-meltdowns will be happening.” I should try tai chi or yoga or a “peaceful play list on [my] iPod” to “help alleviate menopausal related anxiety.”

It’s about now that I realize I’m fucked (and, no, I don’t mean the uncomfortable sex that I can look forward to in my 50s).

Either I’ve been perimenopausal since my prenatal visits for my third bambino or it’s gonna get a whole lot worse. How does one who seems to be suffering from post-partum post-trauma prepare for a whole lot more of the same?

There is a sidebar by my decade entitled, “Get the #1 Test You Need Now.” Apparently a baseline hormone panel (“an easy blood, saliva or urine test that determines [my] optimal hormone levels”) will assist my doctor in prescribing hormones “specific to [my] ideal range instead of the range of an average woman” when the time comes. I actually laughed out loud when I read this, eliciting strange looks from my daughters. My oldest asked what I was laughing at; how would I even begin to explain? That, when it comes to Mommy, there is no such thing as ‘optimal hormone levels’? That if the doctor prescribed me hormones based on the ‘range of an average woman’, the cocktail would be akin to a stiff drink of water?

While discussing “the (formerly) ‘silent passage’ is no longer taboo,” many women are still petrified by the thought of it. Except maybe for my friend – who has such irregular periods, she was almost wishing for it. But when I mentioned this to my mother-in-law, joking about it, she responded very seriously, “No, she doesn’t want it.”

So where does that leave me? No, I don’t have hot flashes. I haven’t gained mysterious pounds regardless of what I do or eat. But mood swings, irritability, anxiety – all de rigueur already – and I’m only in my first decade, according to this handy little guide.

I’m starting to view women’s susceptibility to hormones as this insidious little secret that was only hinted at as my mother described my body’s cycles to me as I sat on the bathroom floor over two decades ago. By no means was my mother light on the details; I understood my body’s workings in what, to a twelve year-old, was a revoltingly clear manner. But I didn’t know how pervasive those pesky little hormones were.

Yes, I knew there’d be a few days of PMS. Yes, I knew I’d be overly emotional during pregnancy. Yes, I knew there’d be a few days of baby blues. Then I noticed extra irritability that seemed to coincide with ovulation. Then those damn hormones ganged up on me with crazy, heart-wrenching situations in my life to send me into a swirling storm of anxiety and depression. Thankfully, my head broke water a while ago, but only with medication and therapy. And I still struggle.

I’d like to say that an awareness helps me prepare for and deal with the effect hormones have on my life – just as the article touts the “18 Things Every Woman Should Know About Menopause.” To a certain point, it does. But when you know the beast is coming no matter what – and you can’t run and hide because life won’t allow it – what do you do? Grin and bear it? Pray to the gods that in your next life you come back with a penis? I love yoga, but unless I take my strap and choke the hell out of the beast, it’s not gonna make it go away. Maybe I can drown it out with the soothing sounds of my peaceful play list while I try to achieve optimal hormone levels. Maybe instead of ‘silent passage’, it should be ‘silent scream’.

UPDATE May 2014: I spoke too soon on the hot flashes! My past three menstrual cycles have been ushered in by a week of night sweats. Good, clammy times!

Living, Recovery

Wine before Beer

Once upon a time, I wore straw hats and strappy tank tops while I tasted wine alfresco. I sampled champagne paired with complementary bites of savory food. I dined with my husband for as long as it took to finish that amazing bottle of wine just shipped from California.

Now I drink beer from the bottle.

The shift started somewhere during my second pregnancy. The mere whiff of a freshly opened bottle of beer would set me to salivating. I thought for sure I was having a boy since beer is not the drink that comes to mind when picturing a ladies’ tea. Plus, I never drank it. I would’ve fit right in with a bunch of teetotalling ladies in college. I didn’t really enjoy the taste of any alcohol.

But, as they say, it’s an acquired taste. A glass of wine with dinner here, some fruity drink there. By the time I came home from my honeymoon in Napa, I was well versed in obnoxious adjectives like full-bodied, oakey, and well-rounded bouquet. Eventually I branched out to ‘heartier’ reds. And by then I was ready for lagers, ales, and now, even the occasional stout.

It only makes sense, really. If someone were to tell me on my wedding day what was coming down the pike in the next three, five, seven years, there would’ve been no way I could’ve handled it. Three babies? Who one by one spirited away a little bit more of my independence? No more travel? No more carefree weekends? No more Monday-night-kill-the-bottle dinners? Agonizing self-doubt? Guilt? Depression?

I started out with the light, fruity stuff; the bright, refreshing tastes of youth. My tastes changed as the years went by, the experiences deepened. Spicy zins for when things got dicey. Bitter hops when the shit hit the fan. Luckily, I never hit the hard stuff.

I’m not a fine bottle of wine, getting better with age. I identify more with the wizened old man sipping his beer at the end of the bar, the lines on his face telling the story of where he’s been. I know my life is not refined as it may have once been. Lately, it’s been hardscrabble more often than not. But I might be okay with that. Now I can handle what life throws at me, more than I may have been able to at the start of this journey. I can enjoy the acidic bite following a sip of ale. And I can more readily appreciate the sweet in its stark contrast.

anxiety, motherhood, parenting, postpartum depression, Recovery

Three Ring Circus

Don’t tell my baby, but my third pregnancy was a huge surprise.

My husband and I cut our wedding cake to the tune of Dean Martin’s “Memories are Made of This” – we envisioned a life with ‘three little kids for the flavor’. But just like the top to the spice jar coming loose unexpectedly and dumping a whole pile of paprika in the pot, we got all that flavor all at the same time.

When Julia, our second, was born, we said, “Oh, yeah, she’ll definitely have to be older than Bella is now when we have a third.” God chuckled at that one. Just after Christmas just under two years later, we found out Number Three was on its way. Angela was born when Julia was four months younger than Bella was at her debut as a big sister.

When we found out I was pregnant, my husband and I were instantly wrapped in a cocoon of haze. Everything seemed blurry and just out of reach. Lost in our own thoughts, we wandered around in shock. We didn’t tell anyone right away because we’d always waited until we knew the baby was well on its way, but also because we were waiting to wrap our heads around it.

Mere days after proof positive, we attended a New Years’ Party. In attendance was a mother of three I’d come to know through the host. I knew wasn’t emotionally or mentally able to tell her I was about to join her club, but I needed some assurance that I could do this. She always seemed such a magnanimous mother, building her children up while laughing enough with them to keep them grounded. If she said it was do-able, I could do it. I asked her what it was like going from two to three children. She said, “I have never been more acutely aware of the fact that I only have two hands.” We laughed, her sense of humor seemingly able to overarch any obstacle in her way. I can still see her standing there, those two hands raised in front of her.

Her words came back to me once we were all home from the hospital. When someone asked me what it was like going from two to three, I said, that yes, there is some truth to the theory that it’s easier than going from one to two because you’re used to keeping all the balls in the air – but what no one tells you is that there’s always. a. ball. in. the. air.

I was a veritable ringmaster with all the balls I kept hurling into the air and trying frantically to catch and hoist again. There was no intermission. No time to catch my breath. And I felt like I’d missed a very important set of lessons at circus school. The fact that this circus took place under the big top of postpartum depression did not lend any sort of solace to the situation. There were times I felt like I was the #1 attraction for the freak show. But even though I was at the mercy of my hormones, I somehow made it through – and thankfully didn’t end up looking like the bearded lady.

Life is still crazy, but I’m feeling less so lately. It’s just the usual brand of crazy, the kind that comes with three little kids and the flavor they bring (aided by the hula hoops the Easter Bunny brought each of them this year). It may have been an acquired taste, but now it’s my favorite flavor.

anxiety, Living, motherhood, parenting

Same $*@#, Different Day

There are times when I wake up in the morning and don’t know what day it is. It takes my mind a minute to focus and remember. I can blame a lot of this on lack of sleep. My body feeling like its packed inside a bag of cotton balls, it’s no wonder my head is foggy. But I think most of it has to do with the repetitive nature of my days.

Don’t get me wrong – I love routines. I actually get a bit batty without them. Anxious people like me do not like the unexpected (except surprise gifts on Mother’s Day – much to my husband’s chagrin). I’m much better at fitting everything in if I have a set list of objectives and time frames within which to do them.

I’m thinking you can wear routines out though. Without variety, you ain’t got no spice, right? And life right now is looking pretty bland. It’s the first week off winter vacation. The weather’s cold, actually wet and snowy for once this year, the kids (and I) struggling to get back into the groove of wake-ups, waffle-making, lunch-packing, teeth-brushing, coat-wrestling, out-the-door running.

This morning, Thursday, I woke up saying, Thank God I don’t have to go anywhere besides drop-off and pick-up. Four days into the week, I’m already so beat-down, I could barely crawl into my sweats.

I suppose I could approach this the way Bill Murray did in Groundhog Day, righting all the wrongs the second, third, fourth time around. I could go to bed earlier tonight so I wake up somewhat refreshed. I could make Bella’s lunch after dinner so I don’t have to scramble in the morning. I could plan something new and different for tomorrow to break the monotony. But in real life, unlike the movies, we don’t always get the moral of the story.

Sometimes we get so worn down in our ruts that we can’t see up over the rim. And we wake up in the morning to the same day, essentially, because we’re dealing with the same shit.

But I’m thinking maybe this is nature’s way of getting us to embrace change. We get so sick of ourselves and the monotony that we’re thrown off the track and forced to forge a new one.

It’s times like this that I find the pages in my cookbooks that aren’t yet dog-eared. I purge all that clothing I’ve been meaning to give to good will. I seek out friends that I’ve been meaning to make plans with. I try some long-forgotten yoga pose. I stretch muscles I’d forgotten I had.

All of life is cyclical. Like the tides and the lunar cycle, today and its attendant shit are bound to come around again. But in between, there will be moments of shock and awe and the sublime. I’ll just have to remember not to get caught out too far when the tide comes back in.

So I’m sure I’ll find something exciting to get me through this low point. Maybe tomorrow I’ll wake up and remember what day it is. Until then, you’ll have to excuse me, I have another load of laundry to do.

Chopping Potatoes

and other metaphors for motherhood

Tag Archives: Survival