This past Saturday, H and I were partaking in one of our favorite evening activities - drinking wine while making fun of the Williams Sonoma catalogue. Did you know they sell chicken coops now? While imagining rooftops in Park Slope surrounded in the green cloud of rotting stench associated with raising poultry, we chuckled warmly together, and I had the realization H and I hadn't had a really big argument in a while. OK, that sounds weird. Yes, we still bicker about someone's inability to actually put the garbage in the cage under the deck, allowing raccoons to have a catered rave in our driveway, and someone els'e incessant need to vacuum "right now or all this dog hair will drive me insane", but otherwise, it has been pretty smooth sailing as of late.
Had we had some kind of interpersonal growth spurt? We were more highly evolved emotionally? Should we write some kind of self-help book for couples? What was our magic formula?
Our kids got older.
Let me be the one to tell you what no one ever bothered to tell H and me. YOUR VERY YOUNG CHILDREN ARE TRYING TO KILL YOU AND RUIN YOUR MARRIAGE BY DEPRIVING YOU OF THE BASIC MEANS OF SURVIVAL.
Don't believe me? Take food, for example. The obvious is that babies are literally taking nutrients from their mother's body. Due to my complete inability to remember to take a calcium supplement with any regularity, my skeleton probably looks like it's made of swiss cheese. But let's not neglect poor fathers in this equation. They also suffer from the side effect of having little kids which is never having time to prepare any decent food or actually sit down to consume a meal. While parenting small children you are either half-starved, with no memory of the last time you had sustenance, or over-full from just having stuffed handful after handful of Goldfish in your mouth in a low-blood-sugar frenzy.
And what about sleep? After food and water, sleep is one of the basic necessities for proper human function. Sleep becomes to parents of young children what sex was when you first got together. You fantasize about it all the time, and when you get it, it's never enough. Studies show lack of sleep increases the risk of heart disease, stroke and high blood pressure. Experts say driving while exhausted is as dangerous as driving drunk (so is driving with a van full of screaming children). Sleep deprivation increases the chance of weight gain and decreases memory skills. Even if you survive this gauntlet that is raising little ones, waddling around in your too-tight jeans looking for your car keys, a heart attack waiting to happen, will your marriage survive? It's not that there is anything inherently wrong with your choice of partner, but is the scarcity of these resources that has you at each other's throats.
At dinner time, one of you gets to shove strained peas into the baby's maw, while one of you gets to eat. Or you wait until the baby has eaten to have your dinner and then one of you still has to have one on the kid and one eye on their plate. Family parties take this scenario to a whole new level. In addition to getting to chase your toddler around for an hour to ensure he or she doesn't break any of Aunt Millie's Hummel figurines, once the party food is served, one of you has to stay on duty while the other gets to chow down. Never have I wanted to take H's life with my own two hands, than early in our parenting years, when he would fix himself a plate in these situations and start tucking in. Those few times I was usually trapped in the other room nursing a baby, since a baby's need to eat right now is directly proportional to how hot the mother's food is, but that is a very thin defense and we still engaged in more than one heated whisper fight in a coat-filled bedroom. Babies turn us into cavemen, beating our chests and (quietly) fighting over food in public.
When it came to sleep during our baby days, I wished I had a time clock for H and I to punch in and out so he would have hard evidence of how many hours I had spent awake, nursing, compared to those he spent asleep. Exhaustion turned me into a miserly, minute-counting sleep Scrooge. Back before our body clocks had permanently changed to those of dairy farmers, we took turns sleeping in on Saturday and Sunday. I let H go first on Saturday, not out of any generosity of spirit, but so I could keep track of how late he slept and make sure I got my fair share on Sunday. If H dared ask to take a nap, I laughed the laugh of the righteous in his face, telling him if anyone in this house was napping, it was going to be me. Yeah, I was a good time back then. We were both losers in everybody's favorite game "Who's More Exhausted?"
I guess, to be kinder and more accurate, no one tells you, while your kids are little, there is nothing wrong with your marriage, and neither one of you has permanently turned into a bitch/asshole. Your kids have just done this to you temporarily with their relentless needing and you will return to your normal, loving selves around the time your youngest is potty-trained (I forgot to mention, playing hot potato with a shitty baby is also another fun power struggle).
Think about early parenting like being a contestant on the game show Survivor. The contestants are terrible to each other when they are starving and exhausted on the island, but they all love each other on the reunion special once it's all over. At least your kids will eventually become less annoying. You can't say that for Jeff Probst.
Tuesday, January 21, 2014
Thursday, January 16, 2014
Gettin' busy
"That doesn't look so good."
I'm bent over the bathroom sink while H looks at my left ass cheek, sadly, not in that way. It's December 23rd, and while running about, mainlining peppermint mocha lattes, and putting the finishing touches on Christmas, I have developed a horrible, burning rash on my one buttock. I can't wear real pants, as the idea of sliding anything but soft, cottony yoga pants over my skin makes me break out in a cold sweat. Being a back sleeper, I haven't had a solid night of shut-eye in days, so between the exhaustion and wearing nothing but stretchy pants, I feel like I have a newborn again. I have also now realized how often H slaps me playfully on the rear, which has been putting him in mortal danger in my current state.
Of course I had attempted treating it. First I thought it was a reaction to new detergent and tried cortisone cream. Nothing. Then H thought it looked like some funky stuff that used to grow on him during his hockey days (quite the recommendation for that sport, no?). At which point I realized I had left my barre class sweaty on several occasions during the busy holiday season to run to some store of another - apologies to the customers in line behind me each time - I'm sure I smelled dee-licious. So I tried anti-fungal cream and it only got worse.
It was time to go to the doctor or I would spend the Christmas I had put in so many man hours preparing sleep-deprived and scratching my ass in sweatpants.
"Nope, that's not contact dermatitis or tinea (not-foot athlete's foot) ", says Dr. B, as I stand in front of him, naked from the waist down, in the middle of the exam room. Sidebar: It is INCREDIBLE how little modesty you have after squeezing, not just one human, but three, out of your lady parts in front of a small audience. All my previously "naughty bits", are now completely functional bits and I feel as embarrassed about showing them to someone as I do showing off unshaven legs. Not ideal, but it won't keep me up all night cringing with shame.
"That's shingles." Whaaat? Didn't I just see a pharmaceutical commercial for some drug related to that malady featuring a Baby Boomer? I, technically, wasn't even forty yet! I had four days left!
It seems shingles can be brought on be stress at a younger age. Stress? What stress? Sure, it was the holiday season with all that entails and, pre-shingles, I was only sleeping five, maybe six hours a night, with to-do lists constantly running through my head, but was that enough stress to cause my immune system to allow a dormant virus to rear it's ugly head and have a drunken holiday party complete with making photo copies of its ass on my dermis? Apparently, yes.
So I left with a prescription for what is actually herpes medication, and was thrust back into the Christmas whirlwind. And, no, getting that prescription filled at the local pharmacy in my small town was not awkward at all.
Within three days, I was completely cured, but I was left with an uneasy feeling about the whole incident. My mother had died, when she was only three years older than I was, from complications of a stress-related immune disorder. Was I following in her footsteps?
Things needed to change. Now.
It seems, over the last eleven years, my life has picked up velocity, until each day it feels like I start it being shot out of a cannon. If I had to choose one word to describe the way I have felt most days recently, the word that pops into my head is "pushing". Like Sisyphus, I am behind a boulder that returns to its starting position at the dawn of each day. Yes, there are things that absolutely have to get done to keep this family functioning - grocery shopping, errands, laundry and cooking - but when I really looked at my days, I was spending a lot of time doing stuff in pursuit of that wily temptress...Perfection. I have in my head an image of what the home and life of a successful, forty year-old, stay-at-home-mother should be and, true to my type-A personality, that's what my home and life were going to be like. Living this way, the to-do list is never completed, it only ever gets longer. There is always one more thing to do.
Adding to my self-induced mania, is the insidious message from the world at-large that running on all cylinders, all the time, is normal. Being stressed has become the status quo for the American adult. The constant motion, the incessant checking of our texts, our emails, our Facebook is de rigueur . We are always doing, doing, doing, running, running, running on Dunkin', or Starbucks or Red Bull, but where are we getting? How much of it is really necessary and how much of it is conditioned learning?
As David Thoreau wrote, "It is not enough to be busy. So are the ants. The question is: What are we busy about?"
On the eve of my 40th birthday I asked myself what is was I was busy about. Some of it was wonderful, such as interacting meaningfully with my kids - reading to them, doing crafts, and taking trips. I feel most myself when coaching Girls on the Run, leading Girl Scouts, and volunteering at the school. And, of course, there are my two loves, running and writing. But sadly, those pastimes were not taking up most of my waking hours. Instead my hours were filled with, housework, such as cleaning out the bathroom vanity (is H actually clipping his toenails in there?), bullshit errands, like buying a sink liner and organizing, for example, our shithole of a garage after it had been trashed, yet again, by children too busy to properly put away their bikes, scooters and rollerblades. I asked myself, "How many years do you have left?" If I were my mother? Three. While premature death may not be in my future, did I want to spend the next 40 years living this way?
So my 40th birthday gift to myself has been to spend more time doing what I love and only the time required to do what I have to do. This may seem like a "duh" conclusion, but it has required the Herculean task of silencing my inner critic. She's quite a demanding bitch, that one, and she's been reigning on my head for forty years. It has also required that I stop (OK, try to stop) caring about what other people think, which, when I am brutally honest with myself I care about...a little too much. To help in this endeavor, I borrow, from my friend S, a term she was introduced to not so long ago. The "Fuck You" Forties. Meaning, this is the decade I will finally start doing whatever the hell it is I want and anyone who doesn't like it can go fuck themselves. This doesn't mean I can let the house turn into a pig sty or never do another load of laundry, but it does mean there can be eggs for dinner because I spent the afternoon having lunch with a friend and I'll go to the grocery store tomorrow. I used to marvel at the women I knew who did that, had lunch with friends, or saw a movie during the day or found time to read books when not on vacation. I have realized, it happens because they make it happen.
You have to be an active participant in your own happiness on a daily basis. I was the only one sentencing myself to a life of drudgery and my new "FUF" mindset has given me the key to setting myself free.
I know I am in a unique, and privileged, position, being able to shape my days as I see fit, but we all have at least a little time which we get to spend however we want. Unless you have an infant. In that case, Godspeed, and I'll see you in twelve months. I urge you to take a hard look at how you are spending your time and ask the question, "What am I busy about?".
Then get busy about something you love.
I'm bent over the bathroom sink while H looks at my left ass cheek, sadly, not in that way. It's December 23rd, and while running about, mainlining peppermint mocha lattes, and putting the finishing touches on Christmas, I have developed a horrible, burning rash on my one buttock. I can't wear real pants, as the idea of sliding anything but soft, cottony yoga pants over my skin makes me break out in a cold sweat. Being a back sleeper, I haven't had a solid night of shut-eye in days, so between the exhaustion and wearing nothing but stretchy pants, I feel like I have a newborn again. I have also now realized how often H slaps me playfully on the rear, which has been putting him in mortal danger in my current state.
Of course I had attempted treating it. First I thought it was a reaction to new detergent and tried cortisone cream. Nothing. Then H thought it looked like some funky stuff that used to grow on him during his hockey days (quite the recommendation for that sport, no?). At which point I realized I had left my barre class sweaty on several occasions during the busy holiday season to run to some store of another - apologies to the customers in line behind me each time - I'm sure I smelled dee-licious. So I tried anti-fungal cream and it only got worse.
It was time to go to the doctor or I would spend the Christmas I had put in so many man hours preparing sleep-deprived and scratching my ass in sweatpants.
"Nope, that's not contact dermatitis or tinea (not-foot athlete's foot) ", says Dr. B, as I stand in front of him, naked from the waist down, in the middle of the exam room. Sidebar: It is INCREDIBLE how little modesty you have after squeezing, not just one human, but three, out of your lady parts in front of a small audience. All my previously "naughty bits", are now completely functional bits and I feel as embarrassed about showing them to someone as I do showing off unshaven legs. Not ideal, but it won't keep me up all night cringing with shame.
"That's shingles." Whaaat? Didn't I just see a pharmaceutical commercial for some drug related to that malady featuring a Baby Boomer? I, technically, wasn't even forty yet! I had four days left!
It seems shingles can be brought on be stress at a younger age. Stress? What stress? Sure, it was the holiday season with all that entails and, pre-shingles, I was only sleeping five, maybe six hours a night, with to-do lists constantly running through my head, but was that enough stress to cause my immune system to allow a dormant virus to rear it's ugly head and have a drunken holiday party complete with making photo copies of its ass on my dermis? Apparently, yes.
So I left with a prescription for what is actually herpes medication, and was thrust back into the Christmas whirlwind. And, no, getting that prescription filled at the local pharmacy in my small town was not awkward at all.
Within three days, I was completely cured, but I was left with an uneasy feeling about the whole incident. My mother had died, when she was only three years older than I was, from complications of a stress-related immune disorder. Was I following in her footsteps?
Things needed to change. Now.
It seems, over the last eleven years, my life has picked up velocity, until each day it feels like I start it being shot out of a cannon. If I had to choose one word to describe the way I have felt most days recently, the word that pops into my head is "pushing". Like Sisyphus, I am behind a boulder that returns to its starting position at the dawn of each day. Yes, there are things that absolutely have to get done to keep this family functioning - grocery shopping, errands, laundry and cooking - but when I really looked at my days, I was spending a lot of time doing stuff in pursuit of that wily temptress...Perfection. I have in my head an image of what the home and life of a successful, forty year-old, stay-at-home-mother should be and, true to my type-A personality, that's what my home and life were going to be like. Living this way, the to-do list is never completed, it only ever gets longer. There is always one more thing to do.
Adding to my self-induced mania, is the insidious message from the world at-large that running on all cylinders, all the time, is normal. Being stressed has become the status quo for the American adult. The constant motion, the incessant checking of our texts, our emails, our Facebook is de rigueur . We are always doing, doing, doing, running, running, running on Dunkin', or Starbucks or Red Bull, but where are we getting? How much of it is really necessary and how much of it is conditioned learning?
As David Thoreau wrote, "It is not enough to be busy. So are the ants. The question is: What are we busy about?"
On the eve of my 40th birthday I asked myself what is was I was busy about. Some of it was wonderful, such as interacting meaningfully with my kids - reading to them, doing crafts, and taking trips. I feel most myself when coaching Girls on the Run, leading Girl Scouts, and volunteering at the school. And, of course, there are my two loves, running and writing. But sadly, those pastimes were not taking up most of my waking hours. Instead my hours were filled with, housework, such as cleaning out the bathroom vanity (is H actually clipping his toenails in there?), bullshit errands, like buying a sink liner and organizing, for example, our shithole of a garage after it had been trashed, yet again, by children too busy to properly put away their bikes, scooters and rollerblades. I asked myself, "How many years do you have left?" If I were my mother? Three. While premature death may not be in my future, did I want to spend the next 40 years living this way?
So my 40th birthday gift to myself has been to spend more time doing what I love and only the time required to do what I have to do. This may seem like a "duh" conclusion, but it has required the Herculean task of silencing my inner critic. She's quite a demanding bitch, that one, and she's been reigning on my head for forty years. It has also required that I stop (OK, try to stop) caring about what other people think, which, when I am brutally honest with myself I care about...a little too much. To help in this endeavor, I borrow, from my friend S, a term she was introduced to not so long ago. The "Fuck You" Forties. Meaning, this is the decade I will finally start doing whatever the hell it is I want and anyone who doesn't like it can go fuck themselves. This doesn't mean I can let the house turn into a pig sty or never do another load of laundry, but it does mean there can be eggs for dinner because I spent the afternoon having lunch with a friend and I'll go to the grocery store tomorrow. I used to marvel at the women I knew who did that, had lunch with friends, or saw a movie during the day or found time to read books when not on vacation. I have realized, it happens because they make it happen.
You have to be an active participant in your own happiness on a daily basis. I was the only one sentencing myself to a life of drudgery and my new "FUF" mindset has given me the key to setting myself free.
I know I am in a unique, and privileged, position, being able to shape my days as I see fit, but we all have at least a little time which we get to spend however we want. Unless you have an infant. In that case, Godspeed, and I'll see you in twelve months. I urge you to take a hard look at how you are spending your time and ask the question, "What am I busy about?".
Then get busy about something you love.
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