In my pockets: nothing, wearing sweatshorts. These things were staples during both pregnancies and are taking their place in the rotation once again. My husband is so lucky.
Status of children: all asleep, thank goodness Hallelujah.
Just spent the last hour cleaning the kitchen. Which is annoying because I spent an hour of my "free" time yesterday cleaning the stupid kitchen. It's hard to move on to other super messy parts of the house when the kitchen keeps needing to be cleaned. I tried turning it into a meditation, focusing on the feel of the water rather than the end goal of having a clean kitchen.
Today our family of six drove into San Francisco to attend Sunset Mercantile. I'm not sure if it was a fundraiser or a neighborhood builder or something else but it was a series of tents and food trucks set up in the school yard of Francis Scott Key, an elementary school on 42nd and Kirkham. That was our bus stop growing up. We lived about ten blocks away but went to school at Lakeshore, over by Lake Merced, Lowell High School and Stonestown Galleria. It somehow never occurred to me that that was a result of a decision my parents had made. It never occurred to me that our bus stop could have been our school--it was our neighborhood school after all. My parents chose Lakeshore because someone important (whose name and position I forget) named it as the best example of a racially diverse school in the area. He said that no one race felt like it was their school because there were many different ethnicities and cultures represented. The funny thing is that years later I said to someone that there hadn't really been many black people at my elementary school. And then I looked at a class picture and laughed because there were lots of black students in my class. I think I just didn't notice.
At today's event my mom was telling stories. My friend and her boyfriend traveled up for a quick trip from LA (not for this event but to see me and my family). My dad came up on his scooter from his house several blocks down the hill. My husband and I arrived shaking the wailing and moaning of the hour-long car trip out of our ears. Usually the car is a safe place but today was not a good day for the way back female passenger of our tribe. We drove past the city on the freeway, avoiding the St. Patrick's Day parade and exiting on John Daly. Down the coast with the Pacific on our left. Past the zoo and into the avenues, taking a straight shot down 42nd. Which I'd never done in my life because my dad taught me to drive and I only go the ways he showed me--the ways with the fewest stop signs and the fewest blind intersections. 42nd had a lot of stop signs but no blind intersections and it took us past an alphabet of blocks full of almost-identical houses. Few trees. When I returned from living abroad I thought my neighborhood was so ugly. Bare and uninteresting. Later I appreciated it for it's beachy vibe, it's old-school, family, settled in vibe. It's not beautiful like other parts of the city. There aren't many gardens out front. Mostly cement. Lots of parking spaces, though those are getting taken up more now that it's one of the trendiest neighborhoods in SF. There are boutique coffee shops, great restaurants, lots of young families. Places that serve fancy toast, which is apparently a thing these days?
We parked, walked down the hill. My husband held the hands of our big twins; I blinked and it was my dad holding the hands of me and my sister. I pushed the stroller, laden with bag, Ergos, bananas, layers for the ever changing weather.
The toddlers sat for a tiny bit of storytelling, with Lily climbing up onto Olive the storyteller's lap. The storyteller is her Nana. You could see her trying to take it all in--why were all these kids sitting in front of her Nana, listening to her talk? She listened for a while and then I took her away because she wanted to claim the crystal ball my mom was holding up for one of her stories. We joined her brother and dad at the play structure, where we stayed for the remainder of our visit. No exploring the tents. One quick trip to grab some food but mostly stationary. In that time we saw: the husband of my old best friend; (who also attended Lakeshore), my dad's second cousin who I'd met before (she had heard about us and our two sets of twins from my other best friend--their kids go to the same nursery school in a completely different part of town. Didn't know they knew one another); a woman who runs the very popular Devil's Teeth bakery (whom I'd never met but who also has four young kids and still managed to open and run a bakery and now a new brewery. We exchanged 'holy shit, how do you do its"), a newish mom who was with my brother in the Peace Corps in Ghana several years ago, the head of my old nursery school (who was a parent when I went there but now runs the place), a friend named Andy who runs San Franpsycho (look it up, it's awesome) and a man who asked me if I was Olive's daughter. Meanwhile Cyrus claimed a pink convertible push car and sat in it almost the whole time, Lily went up and down the stairs and slides, and Cleo and Daphne got passed around from arms to arms. It was chaos and comforting.
There were so many children. I remembered my mom doing pull ups on the top bar of a broken chain link fence while we waited for the bus. I remembered gray mornings. The other families we saw there. It was one of the touchstones of the community of my childhood. It felt good to be back.
About Me
- Hands Full
- Learning and trying to be kind and living my life as fully as I can stand it.
Saturday, March 14, 2015
Tuesday, March 10, 2015
A brother
In my pockets: nothing because I'm wearing a one-piece bodysuit. Obviously. With a shirt over it, extra obviously.
My friend Phyllis is hanging with the little girls in their room. She comes every Tuesday. She is the woman who started my old company. A retired CEO. I loved her as a boss and learned so much from her. Never in a million years would I have imagined that we would actually be friends. Life is surprising and wonderful.
There is so much on my mind. Writing this blog is like spinning the wheel at Polly Ann's ice cream store--you never know what flavor it will land on. Depending on when I actually sit down to write you might get reflections on my old barista-turned-friend Brian and all the things he taught me without even trying. Thoughts on cancer and the ways it is touching people in my life these days and what that feels like. Musings about. . . I forget.
I spoke to Damien last night. He is somewhat of an ex-boyfriend, although we never lived in the same place. We mostly talked on the phone, for hours at a time, every night for months. Into that we sprinkled weekend visits, to LA, to San Francisco, to Nashville, to San Francisco. We met on his birthday. I was already in my pajamas, getting ready to go to bed. Fabio, another person who deserves his own entry, called me and invited me out. I said no, I'm already in my pajamas. Who cares, he said. So they came and picked me up and we went to The Page--a bar in San Francisco. I am not sure what year it was but probably around 2003 since I was living in the huge, rambling Victorian on Steiner with four roommates including my sister. It was August 5, I know that. And I think he was turning 25 so it was probably later than 2003. Anyway. We bonded over a shared love of Push It by Salt N Pepa and our relationship grew from there.
His younger brother died about a week ago. I won't write very much about that because it is not my story to tell and I am still figuring out how to do this blog thing where I write about people other than myself. When I read the news on Facebook I felt it in my stomach like a stone. Oh no. Oh no.
That's all. Oh no.
I didn't write that in the comments because I knew that would not be enough, for me or for him. Even though I knew he didn't expect anything from me. I didn't call him then either, because I knew when I did we would talk for at least an hour and I didn't have the time right then. When I tried to call him yesterday the number was disconnected so I messaged him asking for his new number. New? he questioned. It changed three years ago. Which was confusing because I knew we had spoken more recently than that. Or at least I thought we had. But the squinting and trying to remember specifics so clearly paints a picture of my life these days. At best I can see shadowing memories without being able to fill them in with dates or details. It is like waking up from a deep sleep or getting amnesia, though I've never had amnesia so I can't say that for sure. The point is that it could have been three years since we'd spoken, though I was almost certain we had talked since my first children were born.
He sent his number and we exchanged a few texts, trying to land on a good time to talk. We started our call as I drove away from Sausalito, driving through the twilight with lavender and pale blue brushing the sky. And I had nothing to say. I didn't want to say I'm sorry because, even though I was and am so, so, so very sorry that his brother is gone it is the kind of phrase that is nothing and I just couldn't bear to say it.
Did I actually meet his brother or do I just think I did? I asked him. And I explained my shadowy memory. I felt like I knew him. I could bring to mind a relatively clear picture of Garrett. Just as I could conjure up his voice in my head. A drawl. A sleepy, wry, drawn out way of talking. Hilarious but not waiting for you to get it. Tall. A little dangerous--strong and not necessarily looking for a fight but very ready to step into one if the situation presented itself. A little brother and a big brother, though I mostly thought of him as the little brother.
I write about him because I want to honor him. Share him by putting him on a page. The way he was loved and admired and known and needed by my friend. Because I in no way can let myself even for a moment imagine myself in Damien's position because it makes me want to curl into a ball and weep.
We determined that I had actually met him and perhaps talked to him on the phone. So there's that. Mostly I feel like I knew him because I heard so much about him. So many words spoken of him by a man who is an artist with words that I will never forget him. May we all be lucky enough to be loved that much.
My friend Phyllis is hanging with the little girls in their room. She comes every Tuesday. She is the woman who started my old company. A retired CEO. I loved her as a boss and learned so much from her. Never in a million years would I have imagined that we would actually be friends. Life is surprising and wonderful.
There is so much on my mind. Writing this blog is like spinning the wheel at Polly Ann's ice cream store--you never know what flavor it will land on. Depending on when I actually sit down to write you might get reflections on my old barista-turned-friend Brian and all the things he taught me without even trying. Thoughts on cancer and the ways it is touching people in my life these days and what that feels like. Musings about. . . I forget.
I spoke to Damien last night. He is somewhat of an ex-boyfriend, although we never lived in the same place. We mostly talked on the phone, for hours at a time, every night for months. Into that we sprinkled weekend visits, to LA, to San Francisco, to Nashville, to San Francisco. We met on his birthday. I was already in my pajamas, getting ready to go to bed. Fabio, another person who deserves his own entry, called me and invited me out. I said no, I'm already in my pajamas. Who cares, he said. So they came and picked me up and we went to The Page--a bar in San Francisco. I am not sure what year it was but probably around 2003 since I was living in the huge, rambling Victorian on Steiner with four roommates including my sister. It was August 5, I know that. And I think he was turning 25 so it was probably later than 2003. Anyway. We bonded over a shared love of Push It by Salt N Pepa and our relationship grew from there.
His younger brother died about a week ago. I won't write very much about that because it is not my story to tell and I am still figuring out how to do this blog thing where I write about people other than myself. When I read the news on Facebook I felt it in my stomach like a stone. Oh no. Oh no.
That's all. Oh no.
I didn't write that in the comments because I knew that would not be enough, for me or for him. Even though I knew he didn't expect anything from me. I didn't call him then either, because I knew when I did we would talk for at least an hour and I didn't have the time right then. When I tried to call him yesterday the number was disconnected so I messaged him asking for his new number. New? he questioned. It changed three years ago. Which was confusing because I knew we had spoken more recently than that. Or at least I thought we had. But the squinting and trying to remember specifics so clearly paints a picture of my life these days. At best I can see shadowing memories without being able to fill them in with dates or details. It is like waking up from a deep sleep or getting amnesia, though I've never had amnesia so I can't say that for sure. The point is that it could have been three years since we'd spoken, though I was almost certain we had talked since my first children were born.
He sent his number and we exchanged a few texts, trying to land on a good time to talk. We started our call as I drove away from Sausalito, driving through the twilight with lavender and pale blue brushing the sky. And I had nothing to say. I didn't want to say I'm sorry because, even though I was and am so, so, so very sorry that his brother is gone it is the kind of phrase that is nothing and I just couldn't bear to say it.
Did I actually meet his brother or do I just think I did? I asked him. And I explained my shadowy memory. I felt like I knew him. I could bring to mind a relatively clear picture of Garrett. Just as I could conjure up his voice in my head. A drawl. A sleepy, wry, drawn out way of talking. Hilarious but not waiting for you to get it. Tall. A little dangerous--strong and not necessarily looking for a fight but very ready to step into one if the situation presented itself. A little brother and a big brother, though I mostly thought of him as the little brother.
I write about him because I want to honor him. Share him by putting him on a page. The way he was loved and admired and known and needed by my friend. Because I in no way can let myself even for a moment imagine myself in Damien's position because it makes me want to curl into a ball and weep.
We determined that I had actually met him and perhaps talked to him on the phone. So there's that. Mostly I feel like I knew him because I heard so much about him. So many words spoken of him by a man who is an artist with words that I will never forget him. May we all be lucky enough to be loved that much.
Friday, March 6, 2015
Two twin life
In my pockets: house keys rescued from the floor of the minivan, a green and white polka-dot hair bow, stack of paper napkins, orange plastic cap from. . .some type of bottle, red sparkly headband with a big puffy heart on the front, a wooden puzzle piece shaped like a lion.
Drinking a cup of coffee, sitting to blog while the kids are out on a walk with Stephanie. I turned circles at first, trying to decide what to do. My last post I wrote about being aware of how much energy we have to share with other people. The full statement should be--but giving energy to others means we have less for ourselves. Parenthood makes me aware of how many things are finite. Only so much time. Only so much energy. Only so much attention. Of all my worries the biggest one is that my kids won't get enough of what they need from me. Then I remind myself of how much they do have. How much we have. A home, food, a loving community. We will be ok. And then the worry will peek it's head out at me again, usually after someone bites (again) or someone throws a fit (again) and I go straight to "What am I not doing enough of?"
I had no idea how much room to second-guess myself there would be in parenthood.
The snippet of "life with four kids under two" that I didn't write last night would have said something like:
One kid with a temperature of 103.6, assessed rectally. One kid with a new inhaler after spending five hours in the ER to get an albuterol breathing treatment and a steroid to help with the newly diagnoses restrictive airway disease--inflammation of the lungs caused by the virus of two weeks ago. Steroid cream to rub into the chest rash on the boy who never stops drooling. But the other two are great! And so it goes. . .
This week as been an unwinding, a coming back into place after our weekend away. My husband and I were both taken aback by just how hard this trip was. We had fun! The kids did great. They were curious. They slept through the night in their pack-n-plays, despite the wrestling match going on in the one the little girls shared. They played, alone and together. They had great family time. They explored the beach. The slid down huge slides. They ran down wooden ramps and climbed wooden steps. They marched with sticks. They ate sand.
They also opened the front door and ran away before anyone noticed (they didn't get far). They opened all the cabinets in the kitchen. They opened the oven. They climbed every chair in the place. They lost their ever-loving minds after everyone else left and the overwhelm, excitement, exhaustion of the experience took over and exploded them into absurdity. Screaming, running, flinging. My husband and I looked at each other and slogged through it. Because what else can you do?
Everywhere we go people exclaim over us. "You sure have your hands full!" I want to find a way to add a counter on this site where I can keep track of how many times we hear that. People love seeing the four little kids. They love the quad stroller. They wrinkle their brows as they try to figure it out. "Are all these yours?"
No, I just thought bringing my own twins grocery shopping wasn't challenge enough so I borrowed my friends' kids just for fun.
That's snarky but really I mostly like it. It's fun. It's wild. It's a moment of recognition of "Holy shit how do you do this?!"
You hear it enough and you become used to it. Yes, it's hard. But it's fun. We feel lucky. Yes, we're tired.
All true. And then a weekend like this past one happens, where most things go incredibly well and we have lots of extra hands helping out and it's hard. But then everyone leaves and the kids relax into us and it's REALLY hard. It's constant. And a lot. A big bunch of a lot.
When I worked in organ allocation there would be busy shifts where you would push everything out of your mind and focus on the outcome, several hours in front of you. You felt mostly calm because you were just doing, just working, just making it happen. Almost a Zen experience. Though afterwards it was like forgetting how to speak English because your brain was slowly shedding hours and minutes of checklists and phone calls and problem-solving. That is what this parenting is like. It is one minute to the next, forgetting what day it is. It is loading and unloading, making bottles, changing diapers, bathing, picking up, comforting, losing my cool, reading the same book over and over, unfolding and folding strollers, unfolding and folding tiny pants, trying to think of what to make for lunch, cleaning up most of that lunch from the floor. It is sitting down in a moment of quiet and choosing to write it all down.
And then choosing to go clear off a surface or two in the moments I have left.
Drinking a cup of coffee, sitting to blog while the kids are out on a walk with Stephanie. I turned circles at first, trying to decide what to do. My last post I wrote about being aware of how much energy we have to share with other people. The full statement should be--but giving energy to others means we have less for ourselves. Parenthood makes me aware of how many things are finite. Only so much time. Only so much energy. Only so much attention. Of all my worries the biggest one is that my kids won't get enough of what they need from me. Then I remind myself of how much they do have. How much we have. A home, food, a loving community. We will be ok. And then the worry will peek it's head out at me again, usually after someone bites (again) or someone throws a fit (again) and I go straight to "What am I not doing enough of?"
I had no idea how much room to second-guess myself there would be in parenthood.
The snippet of "life with four kids under two" that I didn't write last night would have said something like:
One kid with a temperature of 103.6, assessed rectally. One kid with a new inhaler after spending five hours in the ER to get an albuterol breathing treatment and a steroid to help with the newly diagnoses restrictive airway disease--inflammation of the lungs caused by the virus of two weeks ago. Steroid cream to rub into the chest rash on the boy who never stops drooling. But the other two are great! And so it goes. . .
This week as been an unwinding, a coming back into place after our weekend away. My husband and I were both taken aback by just how hard this trip was. We had fun! The kids did great. They were curious. They slept through the night in their pack-n-plays, despite the wrestling match going on in the one the little girls shared. They played, alone and together. They had great family time. They explored the beach. The slid down huge slides. They ran down wooden ramps and climbed wooden steps. They marched with sticks. They ate sand.
They also opened the front door and ran away before anyone noticed (they didn't get far). They opened all the cabinets in the kitchen. They opened the oven. They climbed every chair in the place. They lost their ever-loving minds after everyone else left and the overwhelm, excitement, exhaustion of the experience took over and exploded them into absurdity. Screaming, running, flinging. My husband and I looked at each other and slogged through it. Because what else can you do?
Everywhere we go people exclaim over us. "You sure have your hands full!" I want to find a way to add a counter on this site where I can keep track of how many times we hear that. People love seeing the four little kids. They love the quad stroller. They wrinkle their brows as they try to figure it out. "Are all these yours?"
No, I just thought bringing my own twins grocery shopping wasn't challenge enough so I borrowed my friends' kids just for fun.
That's snarky but really I mostly like it. It's fun. It's wild. It's a moment of recognition of "Holy shit how do you do this?!"
You hear it enough and you become used to it. Yes, it's hard. But it's fun. We feel lucky. Yes, we're tired.
All true. And then a weekend like this past one happens, where most things go incredibly well and we have lots of extra hands helping out and it's hard. But then everyone leaves and the kids relax into us and it's REALLY hard. It's constant. And a lot. A big bunch of a lot.
When I worked in organ allocation there would be busy shifts where you would push everything out of your mind and focus on the outcome, several hours in front of you. You felt mostly calm because you were just doing, just working, just making it happen. Almost a Zen experience. Though afterwards it was like forgetting how to speak English because your brain was slowly shedding hours and minutes of checklists and phone calls and problem-solving. That is what this parenting is like. It is one minute to the next, forgetting what day it is. It is loading and unloading, making bottles, changing diapers, bathing, picking up, comforting, losing my cool, reading the same book over and over, unfolding and folding strollers, unfolding and folding tiny pants, trying to think of what to make for lunch, cleaning up most of that lunch from the floor. It is sitting down in a moment of quiet and choosing to write it all down.
And then choosing to go clear off a surface or two in the moments I have left.
Tuesday, March 3, 2015
Tuesday musings
Good grief. Parenting four small children is ridiculously tiring. Fun. Eye-opening. Tender. And so, so tiring.
We went down to Watsonville this weekend in celebration of my 38th birthday. The last time we were down there was for my 36th birthday and I was pregnant with Lily and Cyrus, though we didn't know they were Lily and Cyrus yet. We didn't know their genders and we certainly didn't know their personalities--we just knew that Baby A (Lily) was squashing Baby B (Cyrus) up under my rib cage on the right side. Several of our friends were with us and many were pregnant. We had a great time and once or twice looked around the group, already full of little kids, and marveled that were we to return in a year it would be with five more children. Fast forward two years and we brought six children under two, just between me and my sister. Yowza.
True to form, despite the many thoughts that run roughshod through my mind all the times I am not able to sit down at a computer, now that I have a moment I can't come up with anything.
So, on to bullets.
-I think I've got internet privacy backwards. I post pictures of myself and our kids on Facebook but I feel strange putting them here. It is so hard to imagine a life where your baby pictures can be found by strangers on the internet. What is a respectful way to handle this? Please advise.
-I will get back to the food topic. My last two posts made me feel so self-conscious. Surprisingly slow, actually. Rather than push through that feeling I took a step back and took a break. Then life took over and weeks passed and life kicked writing right in the chin.
-Anne Lamott is so right about the hardest part about writing is getting your butt in the chair.
-I wonder what it is like to be my kids. They get so much attention when we're out in the world. They seem to take it in stride but it must be strange to sit in a stroller and have people ogle you and exclaim about your existence.
-We shaved my son's head. Not bald but a buzz cut, soft and prickly to the touch. He looks so much older. His eyes are luscious and deep and chocolate. He drank a bottle while his dad used the clippers. Then I stripped us down and took him into the shower to wash the hair off his body. In a moment I was back almost two years ago, holding his tiny, tiny body in my arms under the shower spray. He hated baths for a while. Screamed when we put him in the water. He has always been a sensitive guy, turning at every little sound in the NICU. We thought a shower might be less overwhelming than a bath. He was into it and he turned into a slippery little seal pup in my new mama arms. This time he was big and heavy and long-legged, still resting against me, still turning his head to check out the spray of water. Watching children grow is just. . .the fastest slow motion experience of my life.
-Several people in my life are dealing with very hard things right now. Sickness and new babies or the hopes of new babies. I am holding space for them and it reminds me of how much energy we have to share with others. I feel them in my heart and in my shoulders.
-Motherhood is the one thing in my life that I knew for certain I really, really wanted to do. I longed for it, I chose or unchose people based on it, it affected my career decisions. Now it is here and it is so much more in reality than it was in theory. It is ass-kicking and also rich and delicious. There are so many things I thought I would do, so many ways I thought I would be as a mother that I do not, am not.
* I thought I would breastfeed for a long time and that it would be the most amazing connection to myself and to my babies. I did not and it was not.
* I thought I would wear my babies and go on walks with them snuggled into slings. I rarely wear any of them and when we walk it is always with a stroller.
* I can't think of or remember any of examples at the moment. Because my brain is a big ball of mush.
More later, at some point. Off to the doctor. All babies sleeping and Stephanie the magical babysitter is here. Deep breath. Ahhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh.
We went down to Watsonville this weekend in celebration of my 38th birthday. The last time we were down there was for my 36th birthday and I was pregnant with Lily and Cyrus, though we didn't know they were Lily and Cyrus yet. We didn't know their genders and we certainly didn't know their personalities--we just knew that Baby A (Lily) was squashing Baby B (Cyrus) up under my rib cage on the right side. Several of our friends were with us and many were pregnant. We had a great time and once or twice looked around the group, already full of little kids, and marveled that were we to return in a year it would be with five more children. Fast forward two years and we brought six children under two, just between me and my sister. Yowza.
True to form, despite the many thoughts that run roughshod through my mind all the times I am not able to sit down at a computer, now that I have a moment I can't come up with anything.
So, on to bullets.
-I think I've got internet privacy backwards. I post pictures of myself and our kids on Facebook but I feel strange putting them here. It is so hard to imagine a life where your baby pictures can be found by strangers on the internet. What is a respectful way to handle this? Please advise.
-I will get back to the food topic. My last two posts made me feel so self-conscious. Surprisingly slow, actually. Rather than push through that feeling I took a step back and took a break. Then life took over and weeks passed and life kicked writing right in the chin.
-Anne Lamott is so right about the hardest part about writing is getting your butt in the chair.
-I wonder what it is like to be my kids. They get so much attention when we're out in the world. They seem to take it in stride but it must be strange to sit in a stroller and have people ogle you and exclaim about your existence.
-We shaved my son's head. Not bald but a buzz cut, soft and prickly to the touch. He looks so much older. His eyes are luscious and deep and chocolate. He drank a bottle while his dad used the clippers. Then I stripped us down and took him into the shower to wash the hair off his body. In a moment I was back almost two years ago, holding his tiny, tiny body in my arms under the shower spray. He hated baths for a while. Screamed when we put him in the water. He has always been a sensitive guy, turning at every little sound in the NICU. We thought a shower might be less overwhelming than a bath. He was into it and he turned into a slippery little seal pup in my new mama arms. This time he was big and heavy and long-legged, still resting against me, still turning his head to check out the spray of water. Watching children grow is just. . .the fastest slow motion experience of my life.
-Several people in my life are dealing with very hard things right now. Sickness and new babies or the hopes of new babies. I am holding space for them and it reminds me of how much energy we have to share with others. I feel them in my heart and in my shoulders.
-Motherhood is the one thing in my life that I knew for certain I really, really wanted to do. I longed for it, I chose or unchose people based on it, it affected my career decisions. Now it is here and it is so much more in reality than it was in theory. It is ass-kicking and also rich and delicious. There are so many things I thought I would do, so many ways I thought I would be as a mother that I do not, am not.
* I thought I would breastfeed for a long time and that it would be the most amazing connection to myself and to my babies. I did not and it was not.
* I thought I would wear my babies and go on walks with them snuggled into slings. I rarely wear any of them and when we walk it is always with a stroller.
* I can't think of or remember any of examples at the moment. Because my brain is a big ball of mush.
More later, at some point. Off to the doctor. All babies sleeping and Stephanie the magical babysitter is here. Deep breath. Ahhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh.
Tuesday, February 10, 2015
A dress
Last Monday I gave a seventeen-year-old friend of mine an evening gown. It is dark purple and floor-length and has never been worn. I remembered that I had it when I took her to pick up her prom dress which had just finished being altered. We picked her dress up, then came to my house where she tried mine on. It fit perfectly and she liked it. It's gorgeous and looks great on her. She asked when I bought it, trying to figure out why I had it or how long I'd been holding on to it. "A few years ago," I said. I think she expected a different answer.
A little over four years ago to be exact, though I had to think about it. It was down in LA, at Divine Design, an annual shopping trip extravaganza I used to go to with my friend Maria. We went three years in a row and the third year, four years ago, I was extremely fit and thin and bought an evening gown. For no real reason other than:
-It was way, way on sale.
-All the money went to charity (Project Angel Food--a program that provides meals for home-bound patients with AIDS or cancer)
-I wanted a reason to wear a gown, so buying a gown seemed like a good start.
Four years ago I had just met and started dating my now-husband. I was doing Weight Watchers, which I'm almost positive I started before I met him but I can't for the life of me remember because my brain has completely turned to mush with the arrival of my four children. I hope it returns someday--there are a lot of good memories in there somewhere. The important point is I definitely didn't do Weight Watchers for him. I can say that with certainty because that is not something I would do, then or now.
He and I met and lived about an hour away from one another. We went on lots of fun, funny dates--like a one-woman play called Phone Whore (our second date) and a roller rink, an hour away from each of us. We also started going to bikram yoga together. I love yoga although I do not love bikram yoga. I did like seeing how strong and lithe I got though. I liked being able to push each pose a bit farther every class. I did not like the carpet or the heat or the smell or the total lack of mindfulness that I love so much about other styles of yoga. Though as I write that it occurs to me that the point of mindfulness is that one can work towards it anywhere. I digress.
All of this is to say that four years ago I bought a gown and last week I gave that dress to someone who is twenty-years younger than I am. I don't feel sad about this. I do feel. . .curious about what my body wants to be like now. I didn't bother trying that dress on because I knew it wouldn't fit and I was pretty sure it will never fit again. It fits her now and she has a reason to wear it--good enough for me. I want to be fit and healthy. I want to feed myself good, tasty food that gives me energy and fills me up, body and soul. I want to taste different flavors, textures, parts of the world and conversations that flow in the wake of certain meals. I do not want to waste my time wanting my body to look different--it's too important to me that I appreciate my physical self now, today. That has always mattered to me, no matter how much I weighed. All that said, it's nice to know what clothes to wear. Clothes that are comfortable and well-fitting and sometimes sexy. It won't be that gown. What will I put on?
A little over four years ago to be exact, though I had to think about it. It was down in LA, at Divine Design, an annual shopping trip extravaganza I used to go to with my friend Maria. We went three years in a row and the third year, four years ago, I was extremely fit and thin and bought an evening gown. For no real reason other than:
-It was way, way on sale.
-All the money went to charity (Project Angel Food--a program that provides meals for home-bound patients with AIDS or cancer)
-I wanted a reason to wear a gown, so buying a gown seemed like a good start.
Four years ago I had just met and started dating my now-husband. I was doing Weight Watchers, which I'm almost positive I started before I met him but I can't for the life of me remember because my brain has completely turned to mush with the arrival of my four children. I hope it returns someday--there are a lot of good memories in there somewhere. The important point is I definitely didn't do Weight Watchers for him. I can say that with certainty because that is not something I would do, then or now.
He and I met and lived about an hour away from one another. We went on lots of fun, funny dates--like a one-woman play called Phone Whore (our second date) and a roller rink, an hour away from each of us. We also started going to bikram yoga together. I love yoga although I do not love bikram yoga. I did like seeing how strong and lithe I got though. I liked being able to push each pose a bit farther every class. I did not like the carpet or the heat or the smell or the total lack of mindfulness that I love so much about other styles of yoga. Though as I write that it occurs to me that the point of mindfulness is that one can work towards it anywhere. I digress.
All of this is to say that four years ago I bought a gown and last week I gave that dress to someone who is twenty-years younger than I am. I don't feel sad about this. I do feel. . .curious about what my body wants to be like now. I didn't bother trying that dress on because I knew it wouldn't fit and I was pretty sure it will never fit again. It fits her now and she has a reason to wear it--good enough for me. I want to be fit and healthy. I want to feed myself good, tasty food that gives me energy and fills me up, body and soul. I want to taste different flavors, textures, parts of the world and conversations that flow in the wake of certain meals. I do not want to waste my time wanting my body to look different--it's too important to me that I appreciate my physical self now, today. That has always mattered to me, no matter how much I weighed. All that said, it's nice to know what clothes to wear. Clothes that are comfortable and well-fitting and sometimes sexy. It won't be that gown. What will I put on?
Thursday, February 5, 2015
Food, a history
I'll start in the middle. Or more like close to now, which is not the end. My colitis was back in my life like a raging volcano of pain and disaster a few years ago--2011. Though I got diagnosed when I was eleven, it had been mostly quiescent since then. It wasn't something that I managed and it wasn't something I thought about much--the liver transplant and the infertility were the big health experiences in my life. Colitis was mostly forgotten. I went to El Salvador the summer of 2011 and came back with what I thought was an inhospitable gut bacteria. It stuck around though and turned out to be a huge colitis flare. Which comes with abdominal pain, to the point of doubling over or lying on the floor of the bathroom weeping and begging for anything else to happen. Vomiting as though I had food poisoning. Blood in places you don't want or expect blood to be.
I made an appointment with my lovely and amazing friend Christine. We had met at my favorite coffee shop, Piccino. Introduced by Brian, the barista. A word that does not even begin to describe the role he played in my life. Both of these people deserve posts of their own. Anyway, Christine was my morning coffee gift and she was also an acupuncturist. Still is. She specializes in fertility and we'd talked about my coming to see her some day. When I went it was with the goal of calming down the inflammation in my body, getting the colitis under control with a longer term goal of preparing me to get pregnant. Among other things she put me on what we called my inner circle diet. It consisted of broth, chicken, avocado, bananas, rice and lamb. Maybe one or two more things but I've blocked some of it out. The idea was to calm everything down inside of me and then slowly start introducing things to see what my body reacted to.
I went into a rage. A grief, rage tornado. Not at the thought of doing it--this was my dear, trusted friend who was trying to help me take care of myself. At the actuality of doing it. One day I had to walk out of the office and walk around downtown Oakland, trying to get myself together because the hunger and emptiness and overall rawness of emotion I was feeling made me want to tear my skin off. All from the act of feeding myself a banana chip--which was probably pushing it anyway because I'm not sure that type of processed banana counted as inner circle. Putting my diet under such tight control seriously pushed me over the edge.
Being hungry made me feel panicky. It made me feel out of control. I also felt like Christine was doing this to me. When I'd eat something I shouldn't, I felt like I was messing up. That I should hide it from Christine. Because I was also at a time in my life when I was working to be as authentic and honest as possible, I recognized that desire to hide as a cue to actually tell on myself.
Do you see the language there? None of it is about me feeling like I was taking care of myself. None of it felt good or loving towards my one precious body that had been through so much. I was doing it because someone told me to and because I didn't want to get in trouble. For the record, neither Christine the friend nor Christine the acupuncturist would ever tell me or treat me like I was in trouble. This was all me.
Tuesday, February 3, 2015
Counting points
We didn't get movers. For the past few days I've thought about writing that sentence as a segue from the last post to the this one. Except now that I'm here with a few minutes to write, I'm thinking of other things. Namely food and feeding myself. Feeding my children. Feeding my family. Not as in "how will I find the money to feed myself and my family?" We are very lucky in not having to worry about that at the moment. Hopefully ever. More in the "How do I choose/buy/prepare healthy, yummy food in the limited free time I have and how do I introduce these young babies to eating well?" sense of things.
Today I started Weightwatchers for the fourth time in the last several weeks. So far, so good. Today. Before yesterday, after starting and only making it a few days before going on yet another cereal binge, I was this close to saying forget it. Now is not the time. It felt good to have reached that decision, even as I bemoaned my pants not fitting and my mom belly and sides reaching out between shirt bottom and waistband every time I sit on the floor. I've been grabbing food and stuffing it in, a second bowl of cereal for a snack even as I already feel full. Another slice of pizza. Nachos. Carbs and cheese and comfort and quickness and more and more and more. I haven't felt good about it; I've felt shame. And yet also relief to put yummy, rich food in my mouth when I've had the chance.
The lay-off and the change from having full-time Stephanie to part-time Stephanie has resulted in very emotional kiddos. Clingy. Needy. Fighting over my lap. And I have felt good and clear about the job ending, glad and strong to be home with my kids taking care of them, and totally burnt by the end of the day as the house collapses around me with piles of dishes, food, dirty clothes, diapers, crumbs and blah. So much. I couldn't make myself and feed myself healthful food at the same time. It was just too hard. And the hormones, gah. Gah! They are just. . .a lot.
Writing about food. There is a lot of material here, which in some way surprises me. I never saw myself as someone with food issues or someone with body issues. But when it comes down to it, I find it very extremely challenging to care for and feed my body in a way that feels good to me, physically and emotionally. And tastefully. Mouthfully.
I'm about to go to bed. I started this post this afternoon, just before the kids woke up. Now it is several hours later. I have kept within my allotted 36 daily points. I walked almost three miles. I can tell you that one tiny inch-square Snickers bar is worth 1 point in the WW world.
More later on why I decided to try again. On all or at least some of the many thoughts I have about food.
Today I started Weightwatchers for the fourth time in the last several weeks. So far, so good. Today. Before yesterday, after starting and only making it a few days before going on yet another cereal binge, I was this close to saying forget it. Now is not the time. It felt good to have reached that decision, even as I bemoaned my pants not fitting and my mom belly and sides reaching out between shirt bottom and waistband every time I sit on the floor. I've been grabbing food and stuffing it in, a second bowl of cereal for a snack even as I already feel full. Another slice of pizza. Nachos. Carbs and cheese and comfort and quickness and more and more and more. I haven't felt good about it; I've felt shame. And yet also relief to put yummy, rich food in my mouth when I've had the chance.
The lay-off and the change from having full-time Stephanie to part-time Stephanie has resulted in very emotional kiddos. Clingy. Needy. Fighting over my lap. And I have felt good and clear about the job ending, glad and strong to be home with my kids taking care of them, and totally burnt by the end of the day as the house collapses around me with piles of dishes, food, dirty clothes, diapers, crumbs and blah. So much. I couldn't make myself and feed myself healthful food at the same time. It was just too hard. And the hormones, gah. Gah! They are just. . .a lot.
Writing about food. There is a lot of material here, which in some way surprises me. I never saw myself as someone with food issues or someone with body issues. But when it comes down to it, I find it very extremely challenging to care for and feed my body in a way that feels good to me, physically and emotionally. And tastefully. Mouthfully.
I'm about to go to bed. I started this post this afternoon, just before the kids woke up. Now it is several hours later. I have kept within my allotted 36 daily points. I walked almost three miles. I can tell you that one tiny inch-square Snickers bar is worth 1 point in the WW world.
More later on why I decided to try again. On all or at least some of the many thoughts I have about food.
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