Does gnawing on that cow's butt make you feel better?
Peek-a-boo doesn't work with plastic wrap.
Are you brushing my hair with the phone?
Stirring your tea with a dog bone, good plan.
We're going to leave the tilty banana naked.
Mr. Ghost Foot is calling. Would you like to speak to him?
We need a key ring for all your q-tips.
Does this cake belong on your head?
That discount card must be telling some really good jokes.
Whoa, there's a body with a sock, that's so weird... PEEKABOO!
It feels rough, right, like the tiger's tongue?
Oh, so you're eating your jammies because I wouldn't give you more cheese.
Hello. Who's calling? Oh, hey, Bernadette! Lemme see if you're available - Hey, Bernadette, it's you calling. Would you like to speak to yourself?
Tuesday, April 30, 2013
Tuesday, April 23, 2013
Dusty Mirror
When my daughter knocked a battered old book off the nightstand and I was gathering its unbound pages, I happened upon a couple loose leaves of journal written many years ago. It was everything I could fit on two legal pad pages during an extended train ride from Chicago to Ann Arbor immediately following a blizzard. I didn't have a notebook on me at the time, or perhaps I'd filled the one I'd packed for that New Year's journey, for I hadn't expected to be stranded at my friend's aunt's house for two days. Anyway, it was an illuminating read.
Unbeknownst to me at the time, I was steadily descending into an era I now consider the absolute nadir of my so-called adulthood. I was in college, barely supporting myself on part-time work and student loans with zero clue about juggling money, classes, my job, leisure time or relationships, nor had I concocted anything nearing a realistic plan for my future. I was drifting toward some very regrettable choices, but again, I didn't know that then.
Upon glancing the date at the top of page one, I cringed. But once started, I couldn't stop reading. It's funny, I've harbored certain vivid memories of that train ride - shivering in my seat, the broken door at the front of our car that would latch only when forcefully shut and the way the snow infiltrated those breezy connectors between cars and gathered in thick ridges along the walls. But in that journal entry, there were memories I'd forgotten - how grateful I was for the hospitality I'd received in Chicago (the primary emotion I recalled prior to reading was sullen impatience), a funny toddler who begged his mother to let him visit a cute eight year old girl at the back of the train, drinking a warm Heineken and being glad it wasn't warm Budweiser. Most surprising was the frank rendering of my feelings toward my new boyfriend. When I recollect the advent of a doomed relationship, I always assume I must have been fooling myself. Turns out, I knew exactly what I was getting into, incompatibilities and all. And when I talked about him being funny and secretly sweet, I remembered why our courtship seemed like a better than bad idea at the time.
I've kept journals on and off (mostly on), for the last twenty years. Save the one lost to a returned rental car during my pregnancy, I believe I've kept them all. I don't document my daily life for posterity. I'm rather frightened of the finished product, especially as it gathers dust and age. Keeping a diary suits me because the process itself is therapeutic. But then I'm left with all these inked up notebooks full of memories I don't remember, packed in boxes, stacked in closets, moved from apartments to houses and across the country. I think of them the same way I consider my childbirth photos - "Ick... I mean, sure, I'll look at those.... someday." Perhaps my densest, most deep-seated fear is that I'll die suddenly, my grieving loved ones will read those tomes and then they'll learn what a grody jerk I really am. A couple months ago, I thought, "I know! I'll organize all my old journals, which will be super fun for me, for real. And then I'll read them chronologically and then I'll burn every one I wrote before Bernadette was born!" It isn't a terrible plan, but maybe the bonfire finale isn't really necessary. We shall see.
Unbeknownst to me at the time, I was steadily descending into an era I now consider the absolute nadir of my so-called adulthood. I was in college, barely supporting myself on part-time work and student loans with zero clue about juggling money, classes, my job, leisure time or relationships, nor had I concocted anything nearing a realistic plan for my future. I was drifting toward some very regrettable choices, but again, I didn't know that then.
Upon glancing the date at the top of page one, I cringed. But once started, I couldn't stop reading. It's funny, I've harbored certain vivid memories of that train ride - shivering in my seat, the broken door at the front of our car that would latch only when forcefully shut and the way the snow infiltrated those breezy connectors between cars and gathered in thick ridges along the walls. But in that journal entry, there were memories I'd forgotten - how grateful I was for the hospitality I'd received in Chicago (the primary emotion I recalled prior to reading was sullen impatience), a funny toddler who begged his mother to let him visit a cute eight year old girl at the back of the train, drinking a warm Heineken and being glad it wasn't warm Budweiser. Most surprising was the frank rendering of my feelings toward my new boyfriend. When I recollect the advent of a doomed relationship, I always assume I must have been fooling myself. Turns out, I knew exactly what I was getting into, incompatibilities and all. And when I talked about him being funny and secretly sweet, I remembered why our courtship seemed like a better than bad idea at the time.
I've kept journals on and off (mostly on), for the last twenty years. Save the one lost to a returned rental car during my pregnancy, I believe I've kept them all. I don't document my daily life for posterity. I'm rather frightened of the finished product, especially as it gathers dust and age. Keeping a diary suits me because the process itself is therapeutic. But then I'm left with all these inked up notebooks full of memories I don't remember, packed in boxes, stacked in closets, moved from apartments to houses and across the country. I think of them the same way I consider my childbirth photos - "Ick... I mean, sure, I'll look at those.... someday." Perhaps my densest, most deep-seated fear is that I'll die suddenly, my grieving loved ones will read those tomes and then they'll learn what a grody jerk I really am. A couple months ago, I thought, "I know! I'll organize all my old journals, which will be super fun for me, for real. And then I'll read them chronologically and then I'll burn every one I wrote before Bernadette was born!" It isn't a terrible plan, but maybe the bonfire finale isn't really necessary. We shall see.
Monday, April 8, 2013
Walking in New Orleans
I distinctly recall a moment from the first time I visited my friend S in New York. We'd just exited a subway station in Greenwich Village. As soon as we were able to slow our stride to a chatting pace, I said, "Dude, when we got on that escalator, I totally cut off an 80 year old man. I feel like such an asshole."
S shrugged. "That's just what you gotta do sometimes."
That memory haunted me as I wandered through the French Quarter with a 23 pound baby strapped to my chest. It was Easter weekend, the human throng was thick and I was that 80 year old man - a sluggish, hunkering, non-entity on the losing end of the kill-or-be-killed battle for limited sidewalk space. I often had to step into the street, if I didn't choose to power through with an overstuffed diaper bag hanging at my side. And when I did that, I felt like an asshole but that's just what you gotta do sometimes.
When I first visited New Orleans in 2011, we stayed at a bed and breakfast in the Marigny. In the first twenty four hours, we visited the neighboring dog-friendly gay bar twice. The bears fawned over our beagle and the bartender concocted exquisite virgin Bloody Marys for four months pregnant me. Our five minute walk to the Quarter traversed quiet residential blocks and took us past low-key taverns where the locals would hang. We did our share of the touristy stuff - Decatur Street to Jackson Square and the Cathedral, Cafe Du Monde at 1am. But mainly, we wandered along "our" side of that district. We ventured uptown and to the Bywater by car, as well, packing a great deal into a mere day and a half.
I'm glad that was the nature of my first meeting with the city, because if it resembled our second visit I may have been turned off. Don't get me wrong, I had a blast this time, too. But being stationed on the Central Business District side of the Quarter, steps away from Canal Street, exposed me to the Vegas-y part of New Orleans - the crowds, the cheesy gift shops selling polyester blend short shorts with the words "Who Dat?" emblazoned on the ass, the block long line at Cafe Du Monde at 11am. And this time, the baby was out of my belly, much bigger, and full of opinions.
Generally, her opinion was positive. She didn't appreciate my breakneck speed when I was just trying to get through the human mass. I naturally gravitated as far from the intersection of Canal and Bourbon as my tired legs could reach. By day two, I was weighed down by food exhaustion. I'd eaten like it was Christmas, and was paying for it as I do every Boxing Day. That was a tough walk. The highlight for both of us was day three, Holy Saturday. We left the hotel at 10am. It was perfect spring morning weather. She was well rested and mellow. I made my way up Canal to Burgundy. One quick glance told me what I wanted to see - it was dead. The businesses along that avenue are of a practical, non-touristy nature - hospitality services, an accountant's office, a self-storage place. As we moved further into the Quarter, the scene became more residential. The vibe I got was youthful, uncaring, like Ann Arbor's student ghetto. - pretty but dilapidated houses with ratty couches on the porches. I didn't mind the smell of piss and alcohol. When it occasionally blended with weed smoke odor, I had pleasant memories of Amsterdam.
But it was time to find a little more action. When we rounded the corner of St. Peter, I saw a familiar business district in the distance. The day prior, I'd asked a smart looking Frenchman for directions to a highly touted cafe. "I think it's just around the corner," he said. "But do you want a really good coffee? The best coffee is just down the block." He pointed to a tiny storefront with a line out the door. Bernadette was getting fussy, so I didn't bother. But on this gloriously quiet Saturday morning, when most of the good people seemed to be working off their hangovers elsewhere, I decided to take my chances. We sauntered beneath balconies teeming with freshly watered flowers. The wet street glistened in the pre-noon sunlight and she snuggled against my chest. Our timing was perfect. When we arrived the line was short. I immediately noted and admired the no-frills atmosphere - just a counter, just one chatty barista, just slinging coffee. In another town, I'd have pegged him as a sullen hipster but he seemed rather gregarious. As he foamed the milk for my cappuccino, he said, "I feel so confident today. I'm wearing my bright blue shirt, and check this out." He lifted his ankle above the counter to reveal a matching aquamarine sock. "Now I know why you people feel so good wearing your peasant skirts."
I cracked up. "Yeah, a little bright color in the springtime is very refreshing."
So was that beverage. It was exquisite. B must have absorbed my rush by osmosis. She was perky again. We wandered through an alley and landed in front of the Cathedral, which was also surprisingly quiet. I let her loose in Jackson Square, where she wandered in circles to the soundtrack of a Decatur Street brass band, waving at everyone we encountered. It's really satisfying to see even the most down-on-his-luck looking dude grin and wave back at her. She makes so many people happy. A biker couple were particularly enchanted. The lady said, in regard to Bernadette's army green peacoat, "Wow, I love her jacket!" I thanked her and hustled as my little one picked up speed. Behind me, the biker lady mimicked, "Don't worry, ma! I'm okay. I'm packin' twelve." I googled that and still don't know what it means. I like it, anyway.
As we meandered back to the hotel, I boldly embraced the growing crowd as I knew it would be the last time we'd meet, at least for this visit. It was early still and the mood was bright. Occasionally, gentlemen on the street would smile at me or say, "Hi, Mom!" Some of these men were very attractive. It was one of the first things Dan and I discussed on day one, the general hotness of people in New Orleans. We decided that looking three times constituted "ogling" and occasional ogling was totally acceptable. The funny thing is that most of these people aren't fashion model pretty, the way so many New Yorkers are (nor do they look as if they spent thousands of dollars or thousands of hours at the gym, perfecting that look). It's just a certain sexual confidence that seems inherent to the region. I credit a combination of warm weather, rich food, stunning architecture, dance-y music, a laid back attitude and, yes, trashy fun, "Who Dat?" shorts and all. New Orleans is like a Prince song in the shape of a city. Who wouldn't feel hot there?
We met Dan at our room, right after his last conference session. We partook of the hotel restaurant's breakfast buffet, where I feasted upon a highly civilized combination of matzo bread with lox and greasy bacon. I kept forgetting where I was in relation to home. Could I really be just a seven hour drive away? Is that the short distance between my everyday life and this mecca of sensual pleasure? We left town mid-day, exhausted again, yet somehow refreshed for that mundane, everyday life.
S shrugged. "That's just what you gotta do sometimes."
That memory haunted me as I wandered through the French Quarter with a 23 pound baby strapped to my chest. It was Easter weekend, the human throng was thick and I was that 80 year old man - a sluggish, hunkering, non-entity on the losing end of the kill-or-be-killed battle for limited sidewalk space. I often had to step into the street, if I didn't choose to power through with an overstuffed diaper bag hanging at my side. And when I did that, I felt like an asshole but that's just what you gotta do sometimes.
When I first visited New Orleans in 2011, we stayed at a bed and breakfast in the Marigny. In the first twenty four hours, we visited the neighboring dog-friendly gay bar twice. The bears fawned over our beagle and the bartender concocted exquisite virgin Bloody Marys for four months pregnant me. Our five minute walk to the Quarter traversed quiet residential blocks and took us past low-key taverns where the locals would hang. We did our share of the touristy stuff - Decatur Street to Jackson Square and the Cathedral, Cafe Du Monde at 1am. But mainly, we wandered along "our" side of that district. We ventured uptown and to the Bywater by car, as well, packing a great deal into a mere day and a half.
I'm glad that was the nature of my first meeting with the city, because if it resembled our second visit I may have been turned off. Don't get me wrong, I had a blast this time, too. But being stationed on the Central Business District side of the Quarter, steps away from Canal Street, exposed me to the Vegas-y part of New Orleans - the crowds, the cheesy gift shops selling polyester blend short shorts with the words "Who Dat?" emblazoned on the ass, the block long line at Cafe Du Monde at 11am. And this time, the baby was out of my belly, much bigger, and full of opinions.
Generally, her opinion was positive. She didn't appreciate my breakneck speed when I was just trying to get through the human mass. I naturally gravitated as far from the intersection of Canal and Bourbon as my tired legs could reach. By day two, I was weighed down by food exhaustion. I'd eaten like it was Christmas, and was paying for it as I do every Boxing Day. That was a tough walk. The highlight for both of us was day three, Holy Saturday. We left the hotel at 10am. It was perfect spring morning weather. She was well rested and mellow. I made my way up Canal to Burgundy. One quick glance told me what I wanted to see - it was dead. The businesses along that avenue are of a practical, non-touristy nature - hospitality services, an accountant's office, a self-storage place. As we moved further into the Quarter, the scene became more residential. The vibe I got was youthful, uncaring, like Ann Arbor's student ghetto. - pretty but dilapidated houses with ratty couches on the porches. I didn't mind the smell of piss and alcohol. When it occasionally blended with weed smoke odor, I had pleasant memories of Amsterdam.
But it was time to find a little more action. When we rounded the corner of St. Peter, I saw a familiar business district in the distance. The day prior, I'd asked a smart looking Frenchman for directions to a highly touted cafe. "I think it's just around the corner," he said. "But do you want a really good coffee? The best coffee is just down the block." He pointed to a tiny storefront with a line out the door. Bernadette was getting fussy, so I didn't bother. But on this gloriously quiet Saturday morning, when most of the good people seemed to be working off their hangovers elsewhere, I decided to take my chances. We sauntered beneath balconies teeming with freshly watered flowers. The wet street glistened in the pre-noon sunlight and she snuggled against my chest. Our timing was perfect. When we arrived the line was short. I immediately noted and admired the no-frills atmosphere - just a counter, just one chatty barista, just slinging coffee. In another town, I'd have pegged him as a sullen hipster but he seemed rather gregarious. As he foamed the milk for my cappuccino, he said, "I feel so confident today. I'm wearing my bright blue shirt, and check this out." He lifted his ankle above the counter to reveal a matching aquamarine sock. "Now I know why you people feel so good wearing your peasant skirts."
I cracked up. "Yeah, a little bright color in the springtime is very refreshing."
So was that beverage. It was exquisite. B must have absorbed my rush by osmosis. She was perky again. We wandered through an alley and landed in front of the Cathedral, which was also surprisingly quiet. I let her loose in Jackson Square, where she wandered in circles to the soundtrack of a Decatur Street brass band, waving at everyone we encountered. It's really satisfying to see even the most down-on-his-luck looking dude grin and wave back at her. She makes so many people happy. A biker couple were particularly enchanted. The lady said, in regard to Bernadette's army green peacoat, "Wow, I love her jacket!" I thanked her and hustled as my little one picked up speed. Behind me, the biker lady mimicked, "Don't worry, ma! I'm okay. I'm packin' twelve." I googled that and still don't know what it means. I like it, anyway.
As we meandered back to the hotel, I boldly embraced the growing crowd as I knew it would be the last time we'd meet, at least for this visit. It was early still and the mood was bright. Occasionally, gentlemen on the street would smile at me or say, "Hi, Mom!" Some of these men were very attractive. It was one of the first things Dan and I discussed on day one, the general hotness of people in New Orleans. We decided that looking three times constituted "ogling" and occasional ogling was totally acceptable. The funny thing is that most of these people aren't fashion model pretty, the way so many New Yorkers are (nor do they look as if they spent thousands of dollars or thousands of hours at the gym, perfecting that look). It's just a certain sexual confidence that seems inherent to the region. I credit a combination of warm weather, rich food, stunning architecture, dance-y music, a laid back attitude and, yes, trashy fun, "Who Dat?" shorts and all. New Orleans is like a Prince song in the shape of a city. Who wouldn't feel hot there?
We met Dan at our room, right after his last conference session. We partook of the hotel restaurant's breakfast buffet, where I feasted upon a highly civilized combination of matzo bread with lox and greasy bacon. I kept forgetting where I was in relation to home. Could I really be just a seven hour drive away? Is that the short distance between my everyday life and this mecca of sensual pleasure? We left town mid-day, exhausted again, yet somehow refreshed for that mundane, everyday life.
Tuesday, March 19, 2013
Waxing, Weaning
As I sipped my morning coffee, my sixteen month old daughter nudged my leg and handed me the instructional manual for my breast pump. I don't know how she ever got her hands on it, but like so many innocuous household objects it's become one of her cherished "found" toys. And she wasn't content to have me say, "Thank you," before promptly handing it back. She actually wanted me to read it to her. "Okay," I said as I pulled her to my lap, "here goes-"
"Congratulations on your new Swing breastpump! Swing is small and lightweight, and easy to carry anywhere. Swing is a single electric pump ideal for..."
I paused, expecting her to demand some other form of amusement. She remained still, her eyes fixed upon the page. I continued, describing the various pump features, as well as the scientific basis behind their patented two phase expression technology. Her attention was steady.
Then we got to the diagram - motor unit, body, breast shield, tubing, valve, membrane, etc. That was when she began to lose interest, just as I was overtaken by bittersweet nostalgia. I remembered the first time I assembled the pump, when that diagram overwhelmed my sleep-deprived brain. Everything is new when your only child is seven weeks old because their growth outpaces the establishment of standards. All that change, all at once... it's terrifying. I distinctly recall sitting in the wicker chair across from the Christmas tree, stunned to see the three ounces of milk I'd just expressed, then realizing I hadn't sterilized the equipment as I should have. In other words, I had to dump it. Considering the many pints I've pumped since then it seems silly that I cried, but I felt so incredibly frustrated. Why didn't I read the entire manual first? Or had I? I couldn't remember.
And here I am now, missing that moment. Okay, not exactly. That moment was bad. If there was one constant in her little life, one touchstone to organize those wild, unscheduled days, it was her breastfeeding patterns. When she called, I responded, and my body was always ready. Suddenly, there was this other element. What about those three wasted ounces? Would my breasts be ready the next time? What if they weren't and what if she kept crying and then what??
Turns out, I was ready. She was fine. I learned how to manage the pump and it quickly became my reliable sidekick. Through it, I fully embraced my role as a milk machine. I was good at making baby food! I even researched wet nursing, wondering if I'd missed my calling by a couple hundred years. When I think back on the early months of 2012, it's mostly a nursing blur - feedings punctuated by circular walks around the house and Beatles karaoke, pumping during episodes of "Anthony Bourdain: No Reservations" as she napped in her vibrating chair, eating, drinking water, feeding some more. My life centered around lactation. I don't remember many of the details. Why should I? It was such a simple existence.
It is now a year later. She feeds once in the morning and sometimes in the afternoon, too. Approaching the end feels weird, though I'm honestly surprised weaning is even mildly mournful. I never understood when other moms talked about missing it, especially in the beginning when I was feeding her twelve times a day. "This sucks," I thought. "Ha ha. No, really. I'm glad I'm nourishing her and that I have the opportunity to make this the center of my life for six months, but why would anyone long for this? I can't leave her for more than a couple hours. I leak. I have to wear a bra and nursing pads 24/7. There's this mini person appendage stuck to my chest half the day. It's just plain bizarre." Of course it got easier, less demanding. But even now, I wonder if I experience the loss the same way other women do. I agree that the sense of intimacy is like no other human relationship and I'll always cherish that memory. But I enjoy physical autonomy and a quick morning session to her occasional hour long jamborees. It isn't the cuddliness I miss so much, I get that in other ways. And geez, it isn't the hormonal shifts, either. Pregnancy and breastfeeding are like puberty with perspective. It's disturbing enough going through all those emotions without having the rational wherewithal to know such feelings have nothing to do with the external events of your existence.
I suppose I miss nursing for the noble endeavor it was. I've never operated with such a clear purpose or felt more needed. I'm not an especially altruistic person. I enjoy being helpful in little ways, but I don't do much to better the lot of humanity. Given that, it's still crazy to me that for her first half year, my daughter's entire sustenance came from my mammary. I don't intend to have that experience again, but I'm so grateful I had it once. Motherhood seems to be making me a better person. Perhaps that utter submission to her need was part of my improvement.
"Congratulations on your new Swing breastpump! Swing is small and lightweight, and easy to carry anywhere. Swing is a single electric pump ideal for..."
I paused, expecting her to demand some other form of amusement. She remained still, her eyes fixed upon the page. I continued, describing the various pump features, as well as the scientific basis behind their patented two phase expression technology. Her attention was steady.
Then we got to the diagram - motor unit, body, breast shield, tubing, valve, membrane, etc. That was when she began to lose interest, just as I was overtaken by bittersweet nostalgia. I remembered the first time I assembled the pump, when that diagram overwhelmed my sleep-deprived brain. Everything is new when your only child is seven weeks old because their growth outpaces the establishment of standards. All that change, all at once... it's terrifying. I distinctly recall sitting in the wicker chair across from the Christmas tree, stunned to see the three ounces of milk I'd just expressed, then realizing I hadn't sterilized the equipment as I should have. In other words, I had to dump it. Considering the many pints I've pumped since then it seems silly that I cried, but I felt so incredibly frustrated. Why didn't I read the entire manual first? Or had I? I couldn't remember.
And here I am now, missing that moment. Okay, not exactly. That moment was bad. If there was one constant in her little life, one touchstone to organize those wild, unscheduled days, it was her breastfeeding patterns. When she called, I responded, and my body was always ready. Suddenly, there was this other element. What about those three wasted ounces? Would my breasts be ready the next time? What if they weren't and what if she kept crying and then what??
Turns out, I was ready. She was fine. I learned how to manage the pump and it quickly became my reliable sidekick. Through it, I fully embraced my role as a milk machine. I was good at making baby food! I even researched wet nursing, wondering if I'd missed my calling by a couple hundred years. When I think back on the early months of 2012, it's mostly a nursing blur - feedings punctuated by circular walks around the house and Beatles karaoke, pumping during episodes of "Anthony Bourdain: No Reservations" as she napped in her vibrating chair, eating, drinking water, feeding some more. My life centered around lactation. I don't remember many of the details. Why should I? It was such a simple existence.
It is now a year later. She feeds once in the morning and sometimes in the afternoon, too. Approaching the end feels weird, though I'm honestly surprised weaning is even mildly mournful. I never understood when other moms talked about missing it, especially in the beginning when I was feeding her twelve times a day. "This sucks," I thought. "Ha ha. No, really. I'm glad I'm nourishing her and that I have the opportunity to make this the center of my life for six months, but why would anyone long for this? I can't leave her for more than a couple hours. I leak. I have to wear a bra and nursing pads 24/7. There's this mini person appendage stuck to my chest half the day. It's just plain bizarre." Of course it got easier, less demanding. But even now, I wonder if I experience the loss the same way other women do. I agree that the sense of intimacy is like no other human relationship and I'll always cherish that memory. But I enjoy physical autonomy and a quick morning session to her occasional hour long jamborees. It isn't the cuddliness I miss so much, I get that in other ways. And geez, it isn't the hormonal shifts, either. Pregnancy and breastfeeding are like puberty with perspective. It's disturbing enough going through all those emotions without having the rational wherewithal to know such feelings have nothing to do with the external events of your existence.
I suppose I miss nursing for the noble endeavor it was. I've never operated with such a clear purpose or felt more needed. I'm not an especially altruistic person. I enjoy being helpful in little ways, but I don't do much to better the lot of humanity. Given that, it's still crazy to me that for her first half year, my daughter's entire sustenance came from my mammary. I don't intend to have that experience again, but I'm so grateful I had it once. Motherhood seems to be making me a better person. Perhaps that utter submission to her need was part of my improvement.
Thursday, March 7, 2013
My P90Xistence
In a recent blog post about being an introvert, I mentioned a three-day-a-week P90X fitness class I was attending at the time. I wrote about sticking out in that mostly housewife crowd but still managing to find a pleasant bubble of solitude in the far back corner of the gym. I persevered despite my general discomfort with big group dynamics.
But now that my February class is over, I can't deny that the group experience itself benefitted me in my winding road toward a state of better health. Being a reformed gym class loser, the kid who never tried and was always picked last for team sports, I never imagined myself willingly partaking in a communal fitness endeavor. Had I inexhaustible funds at my disposal, I would certainly prefer to hire a personal trainer and have them run me ragged every day instead. Alas, that is not my situation. I have, however, worked with trainers on a very occasional basis, the first of whom was Mr. T (not the one from the A-Team, though I'm sure he'd appreciate the reference). He easily convinced me that taking this course would be a good idea. When I think of him, I'm reminded of Liz Lemon's response to a question about her religion - "I pretty much do whatever Oprah tells me to." T is my fitness Oprah. I trust whatever he says is right and follow his lead. He works his students very hard but he's also a positive, funny, precise communicator who has never once told me how I should eat. He's the best.
I attended his first P90X session in the fall, which was just two days a week at 6am. It was an undeniable ass-kicker, especially because it required a 4:45am alarm. But the February session was much tougher. There were more people, with a dozen regular attendees instead of just two or three. Some of these ladies were mega fit, so naturally T was going to push past their ability. Also, everyone was more awake at 9am. I could immediately see that the bar was set much higher.
This is beside the fact that the P90X system is quite rigorous and always painful by design. It's an ever changing mix of cardio, core and weight training, which prevents you from developing muscle memory. The worst thing about it was that I always felt sore. The best thing about it was that I felt ten times more agile after the first two weeks and I never know what to expect. It would definitely be torture, but there's much to be said for the element of surprise. I didn't know what to dread.
Another weird perk is that it humbles nearly everyone. No matter how fit you are, you probably suck at some aspect of this system. I don't even mean that out of spite. I truly admire the rare individual who can approach every exercise with grace and ease. There's one woman in the class who was such a goddamn powerhouse, I overheard her describe it to a non-attendee as "fun" and not fun like, "Oh my god we just went skydiving and it was so fun!" more like, "Yeah, I ate some cotton candy at the carnival. It was fun." I don't think anything was too tough for her, but that just made her an ideal model. She usually stood in front of me and I always looked to her for some notion of proper form.
But for everyone else, there was some degree of struggle and for most of us it was intense. There's something comforting in hearing five other people grunt "Ugh!" just as you feel your body collapse. We were like war buddies, our bonds forged in battle against our own decrepitude. And BONUS - sometimes, I wasn't even the worst at some exercise. I can't tell you how exciting that was for me. I don't mean that as a dis to the person who struggled more than I did. I'm seriously okay with being the worst all the time, it was just exciting to be in that unexpected place of relative superiority because it has NEVER HAPPENED BEFORE.
The only activities I passionately hated were sprinting and monkey drills, which are weird, sideways, squatty, jumpy things we would do across the gymnasium floor. While one half of the group did wall sits, the other half did drills. When it was my turn for the latter, I was always last. The wall sitters couldn't quit until I got to the finish line, which made me self conscious and gave me awful flashbacks to elementary school. But there's a big difference between then and now. I actually try now. I don't mind looking like a jackass and I don't think anyone resents my inability. It was a good opportunity to face a neurotic fear.
I've been extremely pleased with the results, though they're difficult to communicate in metrics. I don't pay much attention to my weight. It's somewhat irrelevant when I'm building muscles. I can say my belt is looser. My limbs are stronger. My belly is flatter and I have more energy. My body feels like a tighter, more efficient operation and I love it. This sense of vitality is something I want to feel more, and all the time. But it only comes with hard work.
So that was my February. I'm skipping the March session as my upcoming travel plans make it impractical. Returning to the April class will be the perfect 36th birthday gift to myself. In the meantime, I've implemented a strict five-day-a-week schedule that combines a weight and cardio workout at the gym with core workouts at home. I have to exercise that often to make up for the relative ease of my regimen. With T at the helm, the group environment is inevitably more challenging. I don't yet have the knowledge and discipline to push myself that hard all on my own, but I'm trying to get to that point. I'm excited for this month of solitude because it's good for me. Embracing the benefits of group support was a crucial step in this fitness journey. Taking responsibility for my education and diligence is the next step.
But now that my February class is over, I can't deny that the group experience itself benefitted me in my winding road toward a state of better health. Being a reformed gym class loser, the kid who never tried and was always picked last for team sports, I never imagined myself willingly partaking in a communal fitness endeavor. Had I inexhaustible funds at my disposal, I would certainly prefer to hire a personal trainer and have them run me ragged every day instead. Alas, that is not my situation. I have, however, worked with trainers on a very occasional basis, the first of whom was Mr. T (not the one from the A-Team, though I'm sure he'd appreciate the reference). He easily convinced me that taking this course would be a good idea. When I think of him, I'm reminded of Liz Lemon's response to a question about her religion - "I pretty much do whatever Oprah tells me to." T is my fitness Oprah. I trust whatever he says is right and follow his lead. He works his students very hard but he's also a positive, funny, precise communicator who has never once told me how I should eat. He's the best.
I attended his first P90X session in the fall, which was just two days a week at 6am. It was an undeniable ass-kicker, especially because it required a 4:45am alarm. But the February session was much tougher. There were more people, with a dozen regular attendees instead of just two or three. Some of these ladies were mega fit, so naturally T was going to push past their ability. Also, everyone was more awake at 9am. I could immediately see that the bar was set much higher.
This is beside the fact that the P90X system is quite rigorous and always painful by design. It's an ever changing mix of cardio, core and weight training, which prevents you from developing muscle memory. The worst thing about it was that I always felt sore. The best thing about it was that I felt ten times more agile after the first two weeks and I never know what to expect. It would definitely be torture, but there's much to be said for the element of surprise. I didn't know what to dread.
Another weird perk is that it humbles nearly everyone. No matter how fit you are, you probably suck at some aspect of this system. I don't even mean that out of spite. I truly admire the rare individual who can approach every exercise with grace and ease. There's one woman in the class who was such a goddamn powerhouse, I overheard her describe it to a non-attendee as "fun" and not fun like, "Oh my god we just went skydiving and it was so fun!" more like, "Yeah, I ate some cotton candy at the carnival. It was fun." I don't think anything was too tough for her, but that just made her an ideal model. She usually stood in front of me and I always looked to her for some notion of proper form.
But for everyone else, there was some degree of struggle and for most of us it was intense. There's something comforting in hearing five other people grunt "Ugh!" just as you feel your body collapse. We were like war buddies, our bonds forged in battle against our own decrepitude. And BONUS - sometimes, I wasn't even the worst at some exercise. I can't tell you how exciting that was for me. I don't mean that as a dis to the person who struggled more than I did. I'm seriously okay with being the worst all the time, it was just exciting to be in that unexpected place of relative superiority because it has NEVER HAPPENED BEFORE.
The only activities I passionately hated were sprinting and monkey drills, which are weird, sideways, squatty, jumpy things we would do across the gymnasium floor. While one half of the group did wall sits, the other half did drills. When it was my turn for the latter, I was always last. The wall sitters couldn't quit until I got to the finish line, which made me self conscious and gave me awful flashbacks to elementary school. But there's a big difference between then and now. I actually try now. I don't mind looking like a jackass and I don't think anyone resents my inability. It was a good opportunity to face a neurotic fear.
I've been extremely pleased with the results, though they're difficult to communicate in metrics. I don't pay much attention to my weight. It's somewhat irrelevant when I'm building muscles. I can say my belt is looser. My limbs are stronger. My belly is flatter and I have more energy. My body feels like a tighter, more efficient operation and I love it. This sense of vitality is something I want to feel more, and all the time. But it only comes with hard work.
So that was my February. I'm skipping the March session as my upcoming travel plans make it impractical. Returning to the April class will be the perfect 36th birthday gift to myself. In the meantime, I've implemented a strict five-day-a-week schedule that combines a weight and cardio workout at the gym with core workouts at home. I have to exercise that often to make up for the relative ease of my regimen. With T at the helm, the group environment is inevitably more challenging. I don't yet have the knowledge and discipline to push myself that hard all on my own, but I'm trying to get to that point. I'm excited for this month of solitude because it's good for me. Embracing the benefits of group support was a crucial step in this fitness journey. Taking responsibility for my education and diligence is the next step.
Thursday, February 28, 2013
"Fighting vainly the old ennui"
Have you ever had one of those terrible stomach flus that knocks you down for the better part of a week and at first you're all like, "Sweet Jeebus, why oh why have you forsaken me? I've been dry heaving for half a day and there's no diarrhea left for my ass to spray, JUST MAKE THIS END!" And then, when the worst is over you practically weep joyful tears over that first glass of water and bit of dry toast you're able to hold down, and then oh, look there's a "Beverly Hills 90210" marathon for the next few hours - life is good, life is great! Then later, when there's no more "90210", no more stuff you can think to look up on the internet and real food just isn't appealing yet, you think, "Damn, I'm bored," but you know you're nowhere near ready to face the world because just getting up to go to the bathroom makes you feel dizzy and weak - you ever have one of those stomach flus?
Extend that experience over several months and that's life with a baby. Granted, the details are different. The initial misery probably doesn't involve much diarrhea or vomiting. Instead it's just a constant panic and confusion plus sleep deprivation. Then, after a few months, you start to get the hang of things and maybe you even sleep for extended periods of time. Shit, when we graduated to just three middle-of-the-night feedings I thought I had it made, so thankful was I for that sense of relief. But then the tedium set in. My daughter is sixteen months old. I've spent most days of the week with her since she was born. This is a mostly ideal arrangement and I feel very fortunate to have this time with her as she grows and flowers so fast but OH MY WORD do I get bored.
Maybe it's our circumstances. We're a one car family so she and I are often at home. We make the most of it. I take her for long walks when it's warm outside. That'll kill a couple hours. I love reading to her, but she's only into that if she's sleepy. Otherwise she plays. I'm pretty bad at pretending to be interested in her toys. Lucky for me, she's very good at amusing herself. She has her barn and her blocks and her scooter. I have my iPad. Now that she's walking and so geeked to explore everything, I'll let her wander around the usually closed off, non-childproof parts of the house. She has so much fun. My only job during that time is keeping her from killing herself, so I follow her, closing doors and presenting distractions as needed. It isn't a taxing task but it's dull, and dullness can take a lot out of me. Sometimes in the afternoon, when my energy is shot, I turn on the TV to mesmerize her while I get chores done, but sometimes I'll just zone out, too. Her favorite shows are "Dragnet" and "The Partridge Family". That's cool. I'd let her watch annoying, "educational" kids' shows if those stations came in on our antenna, but I'm secretly glad they don't. She's a good kid, so I don't need to do much policing. I probably spend 30 minutes average out of every day telling her to not throw her food on the floor, or scream in my face, or try to climb up the bookshelf from the arm of the couch. Nevertheless, by the time Dan gets home I feel so desperate to be alone and away from her, I'll hole myself up in the bedroom for a half hour. I usually emerge in fairly good spirits. That's pretty much my every weekday. It's not bad. It could certainly be way worse. But when friends ask, "What have you been up to?" I simply don't have much to say.
I'm not asking for your sympathy, nor am I asking for your suggestions, either. I accept boredom as an inevitable part of this phase. The most important thing is that she's healthy, developmentally on target and quite sweet and cheerful, so I don't worry about our lifestyle having a negative impact on her. Eventually, I'd like to put her in daycare because I think she'd thrive in that environment. Likewise, I think I'd benefit by returning to some sort of full time paid labor, but for various logistical reasons we're not there yet. I'm doing my best to enjoy our temporal lot, but it's as imperfect as anything. Also, I've never experienced this sort of life before, which might be the reason I feel compelled to describe it. Or maybe it's just to prep you for the next time you see me. If my eyes are glazed over and I don't have much to say for myself, you'll know why.
Extend that experience over several months and that's life with a baby. Granted, the details are different. The initial misery probably doesn't involve much diarrhea or vomiting. Instead it's just a constant panic and confusion plus sleep deprivation. Then, after a few months, you start to get the hang of things and maybe you even sleep for extended periods of time. Shit, when we graduated to just three middle-of-the-night feedings I thought I had it made, so thankful was I for that sense of relief. But then the tedium set in. My daughter is sixteen months old. I've spent most days of the week with her since she was born. This is a mostly ideal arrangement and I feel very fortunate to have this time with her as she grows and flowers so fast but OH MY WORD do I get bored.
Maybe it's our circumstances. We're a one car family so she and I are often at home. We make the most of it. I take her for long walks when it's warm outside. That'll kill a couple hours. I love reading to her, but she's only into that if she's sleepy. Otherwise she plays. I'm pretty bad at pretending to be interested in her toys. Lucky for me, she's very good at amusing herself. She has her barn and her blocks and her scooter. I have my iPad. Now that she's walking and so geeked to explore everything, I'll let her wander around the usually closed off, non-childproof parts of the house. She has so much fun. My only job during that time is keeping her from killing herself, so I follow her, closing doors and presenting distractions as needed. It isn't a taxing task but it's dull, and dullness can take a lot out of me. Sometimes in the afternoon, when my energy is shot, I turn on the TV to mesmerize her while I get chores done, but sometimes I'll just zone out, too. Her favorite shows are "Dragnet" and "The Partridge Family". That's cool. I'd let her watch annoying, "educational" kids' shows if those stations came in on our antenna, but I'm secretly glad they don't. She's a good kid, so I don't need to do much policing. I probably spend 30 minutes average out of every day telling her to not throw her food on the floor, or scream in my face, or try to climb up the bookshelf from the arm of the couch. Nevertheless, by the time Dan gets home I feel so desperate to be alone and away from her, I'll hole myself up in the bedroom for a half hour. I usually emerge in fairly good spirits. That's pretty much my every weekday. It's not bad. It could certainly be way worse. But when friends ask, "What have you been up to?" I simply don't have much to say.
I'm not asking for your sympathy, nor am I asking for your suggestions, either. I accept boredom as an inevitable part of this phase. The most important thing is that she's healthy, developmentally on target and quite sweet and cheerful, so I don't worry about our lifestyle having a negative impact on her. Eventually, I'd like to put her in daycare because I think she'd thrive in that environment. Likewise, I think I'd benefit by returning to some sort of full time paid labor, but for various logistical reasons we're not there yet. I'm doing my best to enjoy our temporal lot, but it's as imperfect as anything. Also, I've never experienced this sort of life before, which might be the reason I feel compelled to describe it. Or maybe it's just to prep you for the next time you see me. If my eyes are glazed over and I don't have much to say for myself, you'll know why.
Thursday, February 21, 2013
Feeling a Fraud
Sometimes I feel really unqualified for this mom job. Like, how did I talk my way into this gig? What idiot thought it was a good idea to hire me? Then I remember that I'm self-employed and I can't quit.
I tell myself the same thing that most of my friends would probably say - just look at that kid, she's awesome! And she's so happy. Yesterday, I turned to her and said, "Bernadette, when I see what a fantastic person you are, so beautiful and strong, I feel like I must be doing something right, that I must not be too much of a fuck-up." At that moment, she happened to give me the most disapproving sideways glance and I quickly backtracked, "I mean, that I must not make too many boo boos!"
Note to self - add "stop swearing" to the list of all the things you'll do better tomorrow. For today you are too sleepy, and the basic feeding/diapering/putting to bed/don't let her maim herself upkeep is about all you can manage.
I tell myself the same thing that most of my friends would probably say - just look at that kid, she's awesome! And she's so happy. Yesterday, I turned to her and said, "Bernadette, when I see what a fantastic person you are, so beautiful and strong, I feel like I must be doing something right, that I must not be too much of a fuck-up." At that moment, she happened to give me the most disapproving sideways glance and I quickly backtracked, "I mean, that I must not make too many boo boos!"
Note to self - add "stop swearing" to the list of all the things you'll do better tomorrow. For today you are too sleepy, and the basic feeding/diapering/putting to bed/don't let her maim herself upkeep is about all you can manage.
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