ANTI-resolutions for 2016

I have not blogged in over two years.  I'm not sure why this is...it's not as if I used to have more free time, or more thrilling content to write about.  But despite the resounding silence on my blog, I have had a plethora of mental breakthroughs, which I have subsequently forgotten.  But I am reminded of these breakthroughs at New Years, when the web is aglow with miracle diets that purport to finally turn us all into supermodels for only $49.99 (plus shipping and handling).  In an act of sheer rebellion, I have developed a list of "anti-resolutions".  These concepts seem terribly counterintuitive as half of our nation stampedes towards the nearest Whole Foods to purchase the "Nature's Pantry Way Shelf Natural 30 day diahreah be a model instantly cleanse" (TM).  But I have a sneaking suspicion that resisting the stampede will be better for my health in the long run.  So without further adieu....(clears throat dramatically)....

Lana's TOP 5 ANTI-RESOLUTIONS for 2016! 

(Copyright "Lana doesn't know what she's talking about", 2015)

1) I will NOT sign on for any restrictive/extreme diet plans.  

This includes diet plans which meet the following descriptions:

a) eliminating entire food groups from your diet without documented, individualized and scientifically-based health benefits

b) Promises to give us all a beach body in only 10/21/30 days

c) includes the words "breakthrough", "revolutionary", or "amazing"

d) Developed by celebrity personal trainers who exercise for a living

e) feature "before" and "after" photos in which the "before" picture just looks like a normal woman who has had a child and/or a life

f) includes reviews from other fatless fitness gurus

g) Named after a doctor who lives and Florida and whose head shot indicates a clear history of excessive tanning salon patronage


I will instead continue to chip away at the slow, bumpy, ever-changing, and ultimately more gratifying goal of eating mindfully and intuitively.  I will continue to focus my inner attention on a long-neglected source of wisdom; my body's cues.  This thing (referring to said body) is a result of eons of evolution.  And while it may be easily led astray by the shiny bright lights of high fructose corn syrup and white flour, it is generally quite skilled at sending clear signals when I need more veggies, less sugar, or a god-damned piece of CHEESE.  The problem is that I usually don't listen to these cues because I am busy reading diet books written by Dr. Fake and Bake, famous fitness consultant to the stars.

Don't get me wrong.  There is nothing more comforting than a book that promises a new life if only you would just live on quinoa, beets, and green drinks which take 5 hours to make each morning, you lazy loser!  I have purchased SO many of these books.  And they all wind up at the goodwill, because GUESS WHAT? Extreme diets are NOT realistic for anyone who has a) a job, b) a child c) a life or d) a pulse.    In my humble experience (which I suspect is somewhat similar to the experience of many of you) these diets always, always, ALWAYS end with a sense of failure.  Driving away from the Goodwill drop-off I find myself thinking "Why wasn't I able to modify each bite that enters my body at all times, and in all situations?  Why wasn't I able to ignore the constant stream of internal cues which my body sends me because it is STARVING.   Ah, meh, gawd, eh em SO fat" (because duh, knows that self-critical voice talks like a valley girl!  She uses a vocally destructive vocal fry too, because her full vocal range makes her look fat).   

Instead, I will work towards the ultimate goal of being a human being; you know, those weird creatures who eat lots of healthy things and sometimes eat not so healthy things.  Beating myself up for the not so healthy things has NEVER gotten me anywhere.  EVER.  Did I mention that beating myself up doesn't work? I just want to reiterate this because the aforementioned beating up of the self is SUCH a popular pastime for women in our culture.  


2) I will NOT weigh myself anymore.

My weight does not fit within the "average" range dictated by many a distressing BMI chart.  But even when I ate 1200 calories a day in my mid-twenties (I had recently been dumped by a guy obsessed with thin women and had decided that the only way to keep a man in our culture was to be "thin enough").  Even during that awful time, I was still on the upper end of normal according to the BMI charts that assume that every woman who is 5'5'' has the exact same build, bone density, and muscle mass.  NOPE!  I have the build of an athlete, and I always have.  I'm just sad it took me so long to appreciate this aspect of my genetic make-up.  I have run 4 half marathons, albeit slowly.  I have climbed mountains...slowly (OK fine, they were more like hills, but still...it was an accomplishment, OK??).  Also?  I don't mean to brag, but I can do each posture in a 75 minute hot power yoga session.  Well, except for those that involve balancing in positions that could result in head injuries to myself or others.  The point is, I feel like a total badass when I'm going into warrior 2 and my "heavy" thighs get to show off what they can do.   THAT is what I want to focus on.  Sometimes my eyes gaze enviously upon the slender 20-something on the mat next to me (given that my yoga studio is very crowded, I usually have plenty of opportunity to study my neighbor's anatomy in excessive detail).   But then I recall looking just like that girl (mumbles number under breath) years ago, and I was not happy at that time.  I was anxious and lonely.  Yes, I did get more attention and recognition for my physical appearance.  I got hit on far more often because my body met our culture's dysfunctional picture of attractive.  But no amount of "oh my god you're so thin/you've lost SO much weight" comments ever silenced the inner angst.   

3) I will only do forms of exercise that I enjoy.

I started jogging when Elliot was an infant.  For a few years, particularly when I was home with Elliot full time, I really enjoyed running.  I loved the zone I got into around mile 2.  I loved the sense of physical exhaustion and achievement after completing an 8 mile training run by myself in the rain.  Mostly, I enjoyed the sense of community and belonging at various running events.   It was like I'd finally been admitted to an elite girl clique, and the only cost of admittance was a pair of running shoes and an ability to run a 5k without collapsing. 

I may enjoy these things again one day, but lately I have zero desire to run.  This fall, my old ACL injury flared up and my knee got sore whenever I went jogging with my running girlfriends.  While I was sad to give up that time with these women whom I adore, I decided to listen to my body and I started walking instead.  Yes, I said WALKING!  It's this miraculous form of exercise used all over the world by people of all ages!  When I was really into running, I thought walking was "boring" and an inferior form of fitness, primarily because it didn't burn as many calories.  But to follow up on anti-resolution 1 and 2: WHO GIVES A SH*T ABOUT THE CALORIES? It is such a joy to meander at a reasonable pace through the hills of our hood without feeling like each stride is a mental battle of will.  Perhaps I don't burn as many calories after a 3 mile walk as I would during a 3 mile run, but I certainly feel energized, revitalized, healthier, and a heck of a lot happier.  

4)  I will keep coming back to the present moment.  When I remember to.  One moment at a time.  

My bookshelf is overflowing with books about mindfulness (see list below).  I bought these books in a desperate flurry when my mom suffered a stroke and my husband was recovering from foot surgery and I felt like a walking, pulsating bundle of stress and fried nerves.  After reading these incredible gems I am not a zen guru, nor do I have a regular meditation practice.  I have no idea if I ever will have the discipline to set aside intentional time and meditate.  But what I DO have is a newfound awareness that there is in fact a different way to think and live.  

Meditation is not only for rich hippies who carry their home-brewed kombucha around in organic, grass-fed mason jars.  It doesn't mean you have to clear your mind.  It simply means you take a step back and observe the hamster wheel of your thoughts, offering your own brain the same judgment-free, objective lens you would offer the hamster (unless you hate hamsters, in which case we probably can't be friends).  You can do this for 30 seconds here and there; while washing the dishes, exercising, showering, driving, helping your 5 year old put on his pants even though he clearly knows how to do it himself, etc.  Thanks to my exploration into the concepts of mindfulness, I have a set of skills that allow me to insert the slightest distance from the inner monologue and fretful storyline that used to dictate my entire mental space. This ability to step back helps me wake up when I'm getting caught up in the future or the past, and the miracle is that just recognizing this and shifting my perspective ever so slightly can change my mental state instantly.  Suddenly the a-hole driver who honked at me doesn't mean the whole world is out to get me and ruin my day.  The whiny child does not mean I am a crappy mom who doesn't know how to manage her child's behavior.

The concept of focusing on the present moment alone is a miracle for those of us with, hem hem, "anxious tendencies".  I have always tended to spend a LOT of time and energy in future-land, which is a terribly dark place full of global catastrophes, sudden death of loved ones, loss of jobs, car accidents, plane crashes, cancer, and dreary financial situations.  Some recent examples from my voages to future-land:

• Personal Health....."So and so died of cancer.  She smoked for 20 years.  I smoked for one year in my 20s.  Oh GOD, I'm going to die of cancer and leave my family behind and....[shallow breathing]....what will they do without me???"
• Work....."I didn't take great data about that one kid who I worked with a few months ago.  I think he may have had a lateral lisp rather than a protrusional lisp.  OR what if he actually had tongue thrust and I missed it?   What IS tongue thrust anyway?  What if his very bitter and mentally unstable mother decides to sue all of the special educators who ever worked with him, and I lose my SLP license (note: this is a fictional child) and we have to sell our house and then Elliot doesn't get to go to college???".  
• Parenting: "Elliot has never been invited on a playdate by a kindergarten classmate.  Does this mean I am not teaching him adequate social skills?  Should I be scheduling playdates? Never mind that he seems very happy and has great bonds with my friends' children who are his age...clearly I am ruining his social life by not facilitating closer friendships with children in his class!"
• My parents' aging process and health: "Such and such happened to such and such old person who I worked with during my nursing home rotation in grad school.  What if this happens to my parents?  What if this happens to my mom?  How will my dad handle it?  What if this happens to my dad?  How will my mom handle it?  And how will I handle the weight of this burden, because clearly I have to do it ALL BY MYSELF!" 

Clearly there is some hyperbole involved here, but as you can see, future world is really no fun.  Thankfully it is not very likely to occur.  But even if it did occur, living in future world will not make these catastrophes any easier to cope with.  In fact, by living in future world I wear down my mental resources with a constant influx of cortisol, thereby reducing my stamina and emotional energy to cope with unexpected challenges. There is some real fancy psychological research to back this up, which I would cite here if I had the energy.

But thanks to the ancient spiritual wisdom of folks like Buddha, Jesus, and Oprah Winfrey, I am now aware that there IS an alternative place to mentally exist.  I don't have to be trapped in future land ALL the time.    Instead I can come back to the present moment, which truly is ALL we have (it's mind boggling to think about this fact for a few minutes...seriously, we have NO idea what the future holds, the only thing we have is right here and now...crazy huh???).  

I have found that returning to the present moment requires that I take a step back and redirect my mental energy towards 2 simple (but challenging) things: 

1) MY BREATH

2) MY SENSES

So just to recap....

1) BREATH

2) SENSES


When I'm going for a walk, usually I spend 90% of the time planning what I'll do for the day, the year, the decade...but the difference is that now I can take a step back (literally) and stop, even for just a moment, to focus on the smells around me (the smell of evergreens on a rainy day is intoxicating), the sights (amazing how much wildlife there is to see when I'm not obsessing about whether I said the right thing to a parent during a meeting two weeks ago), and the sounds outside of the constant inner dialogue (did you know you can hear boats on Lake WA even from a half mile away?).   

Washing the dishes, I can take a pause from my little annoyances (e.g. Elliot's love/hate relationship with all things edible).  Instead of going down the road of "why is my kid SUCH a picky eater?  What am I doing wrong as a mother?" I can choose to look at the rotund squirrels bouncing around carelessly in our backyard. Animals provide ideal (and hilarious) models of living in the moment.  I very much doubt that the obese balls of gray fluff out there spend ANY mental energy worrying about their non-existent squirrel waistlines.  They probably don't have a stack of books about the latest fad diet in their den (nevermind that squirrels can't read.  Work with me here!).  There is something to be said for sheerly focusing on survival.  Our superior brains and our capacity for meta-cognition (the ability to think about what we are thinking about) can be such a curse sometimes.  

5) I will try to practice self-compassion.   

Writing this last point, I must confess that I feel like Stuart Smalley, the famous self-help addict from 1990s SNL (see clip below for hilarious sample of Stuart in action).    

Despite the ridiculousness, he has some good points.  I grew up with a unique combination of 12 step programs and Southern Baptist Christianity that resulted in a very destructive idea that I should be constantly vigilant about my defects of character and daily seeking forgiveness for my endless list of sins.  Well aware of a family history of alcoholism on both sides, I was convinced I was an alcoholic before I ever tasted alcohol.  No pressure!  As a teenager, I wrote in my journal to God each night with a list of sins that needed forgiveness.  A very blunt therapist once asked me "what the hell did you even have to write about??".   So in other words, I tend to be just a wee bit hard on myself.   Thankfully I have realized that the only purification I need is to be cleansed of all the shame-generating sermons and bible studies of my adolescence.  

It's a slow process, but I have found lots of guidance from the wisdom of Buddhism and progressive Christianity (by that I mean the version of Christianity that actually follows Christ's clear focus on love and compassion for everyone).   While taking time to put on my imaginary blue cardigan and recite self-compassion meditations (with a lisp, obviously) may feel painfully awkward and ridiculous, these exercises are necessary to undue the aforementioned hellfire and brimstone brainwashing.  Also, a little self-compassion allows me to be far more compassionate with others, particularly my child.  The work of the fabulous psychologist Kristin Neff has been quite helpful (see her awesome website for resources and free guided meditations....narrated with a lisp, of course).  

On that note, may you all have a fantastic 2016, free of unattainable resolutions and full of self-compassion.  Because you're good enough, you're smart enough, and DOGGONIT, people like you!


Books about Mindfulness:

1) The Mindful Way Through Depression (multiple authors who I'm too lazy to list)

Great info about anxiety and how to use mindfulness practices to interrupt the anxiety hamster wheel.

2) The Mindful Brain, by Dan Seigel

Heavy on neuroanatomy and neurophysiology, but lots of fascinating research for you science dorks.

3) Peace is Every Step, Thich Nhat Hahn

Written by the famous zen buddhist monk who brought the concepts of mindfulness to the west during the Vietnam War.  Written very simply and quick to read.

4) Wherever You go, There you Are, Jon Kabat-Zinn

Written by the doctor who developed "Mindfulness Based Stress Reduction", a program for patients suffering from terminal illness, chronic pain, and mental illness.

5 ways to be nice to other moms (and to yourself).

It's been awhile since I posted about the trials and tribulations of modern day parenting in rich-green-mom-ville.  Thankfully our parenting journey has been relatively "smooth" the past year or so, though by no means easy.  But I've been jogged awake by a few events:

• My recent clinical training as a speech pathologist, which focused on helping parents whose children have developmental delays of many sorts (speech/language/social skills/feeding skills/num chuck skills...). 
• The periodic quandary about when to have another child (at some undisclosed and likely far off point in time) and the resulting trips down memory lane; recalling those early days of parenting a newborn, and the pure shock of realizing how hard, and amazing, and hard (that's what she said) and amazing parenting is. 
• reading the best parenting book ever written....and no, I'm not talking about Dr. Sears...I'm talking about Tina Fey's "Bossy Pants".  There are two chapters that she devotes to mom issues; 1 about being a working mom, and the other about breastfeeding.  Those short, silly and wise chapters sum up how I feel about both issues, and the biggest message is "do what works for you and stop judging other moms if they do it differently".  

Tina (my new BFF) talks about breastfeeding nazis, and I'm sure you all know who I'm talking about.   I've known a few.  They made life hell when I was no longer able to breastfeed Elliot.  One of my clearest memories of new parenthood was sitting in a lactation consultant/nurse's office when Elliot was 3 months old.  He had started to scream whenever he saw my boob come near him (I mean, they are quite large, but still...how can a baby resist THESE? [insert lewd gesture of your own choosing]).   He had stopped gaining weight as a result of this lack of enthusiasm for my aforementioned well-proportioned boobs.  We would later discover that the source of this aversion was infant acid reflux (his poor tiny esophagus had been burned raw from the acid, and so he was in tons of pain when he ate.  Being a smart kid, he learned not to like eating and subsequently developed a feeding aversion which took months to undo).  Anyhoo, back to the nurse/lactation consultant's  office.  Actually, let's just call her "nurse asshole" to be more efficient.  She put him on the scale, looked at me quizzically, and said he was not gaining weight and I would need to pump more often and bottle feed him.  Since I produced roughly .00006 ounces of milk each time I pumped, I did the math and asked (through stifled sobs) about supplementing with formula. Her response, and I'm fairly certain this is a direct quote: "Well, you can do that if you have to, but just so you know, there are new studies showing that formula can actually cause some diseases".

I subsequently went home, burst into tears, and glided swiftly into a fun romp with postpartum depression.  I furiously pumped for hours each day, obsessively measured each ounce Elliot drank,

and mentally whipped myself each time I opened the jar of formula to supplement my meager breast milk product.  I soon developed the same anxiety and dread around feeding that my poor child was experiencing.  I don't know how we got through that but we did.  Let's just say it was not a fun way to start out our mommy/son journey.

I am not blaming this nurse for my post partum depression.  Though clearly she did not help the situation.  I'm certain she sat through numerous classes about how breast is best, formula is worst, and new moms need to be "encouraged" to breastfeed by any means possible.  She was just trying to do her job.  I am now sitting in some of these same classes, though thankfully the instructor who teaches our pediatric feeding course is far more fair-minded and down to earth about the topic.  But as I sit in these classes each week with these beautiful young ladies who do not yet have children of their own, I worry that they will set themselves up for future self-torture, just as I did as a beautiful young lady (chortle chortle).  Because what I finally realized is this: The greatest source of mom guilt was and still is my own expectations of myself as a mom, and my failure to meet these expectations.


Prior to actually having a child, I expected myself to breastfeed Elliot for at LEAST a year.  I expected to LOVE being a full time stay at home mom and find it to be the most fulfilling experience on the planet.  Neither of these things happened.  But some things happened which I wasn't expecting.  I was not expecting to love him THIS much...it is unreal how much you LOVE these little creatures who come out of you!  I was not expecting to still need the balance of a career.  I was not expecting him to look like a mini-version of my husband, and I was not expecting to find that so ludicrously adorable.  I was not expecting to find such delight in his knobby little knees and stumpy big toes.  I was not expecting that my favorite part of the day would be snuggling next to him and reading stories each night.  I was not expecting to be so inept at coming up with crafty activities and games to play at home.  IN essence, parenthood is NOTHING like you expect it to be; it is so much harder, and so much better (that's what she said).

So this brings me to my very profound advice for new moms, or for people who work with new moms, or just happen to have conversations with new moms:

1) Focus on what you do well!  In any job, there are things you struggle with, and things you suck at (erm, I mean, "areas for improvement").  Try to do the sucky parts better when you can, but more importantly, focus on what you're GOOD at!  I am good at singing and dancing and acting ridiculous with children.  So I do that with Elliot...a lot.  I don't do crafts with him because it usually results in someone throwing glitter across the room in frustration (hint: I'm not talking about Elliot).  If nurse asshole had only affirmed what I WAS doing and that it WOULD be OK, I may have left her office smiling instead of sobbing.  When I was tagging along on speech therapy home visits to families of infants and toddlers with special needs, I was taught to always point out what the parents were doing WELL with their little ones, and to build on those great skills while giving additional tools to help with the challenges.  And EVERY parent encounters challenges, whether their child qualifies for services or not.

2) Ignore the breastfeeding-nazis (to quote Tina) and the mom-petitors.  The more passive aggressive remarks they make about daycare or formula, the greater the hole in their own sense of self.  Sad for them, but not your problem.  When Elliot was two and I decided to return to graduate school, it was such a relief to meet other moms who worked AND were great moms with happy, well-adjusted children. I finally felt that I had found my niche as a parent.  Not to say that there is anything wrong with staying home!   Which leads to my next point:

3) Don't define yourself OR other moms by these dumb categories;  work vs. stay at home, breastfed vs. formula fed; single child vs. multiple kids; "typically developing" vs "delayed".  We are all in this together.  Being a mom is just hard.  There is no easy way around it.  It's hard if you work outside the home or inside the home.  Either way, you are ALWAYS WORKING.  None of us has it easy, but at the same time, we are all SO fortunate to have the honor of raising these miracle boogers (seriously, they were inside of us!  Now they are here!  And they have legs!  And arms!  And tiny little noses!  How crazy is that????).   I have to make a conscious effort not to compare myself to the other parents who have a 2nd or 3rd child. When people start talking about the ideal spacing of siblings (should you have your kids 2 years apart or 3 years apart?) I think about having another child before you're ready and how that stress can impact the whole family.  And then I do my best to leave the conversation and find people without children to talk to.

4) Try not to build up expectations about how it's going to be.  That is impossible to avoid, I realize, but just know that it will be different than what you expect, and that really is OK.

5) Unless you are a pediatrician or a healthcare specialist of some sort, please do not start out conversations by asking moms about their child's developmental milestones. In fact, just add milestones to religion and politics on the list of things NOT to bring up in casual conversation. 

And on that note, go give your little nugget a big fat squeeze, and then go give yourself a giant pat on the back (or a huge piece of chocolate). You're a good mom!  Your kid is alive, loved, fed, and as healthy as you are able to get them.  You rock.

5 of the most ludicrously gorgeous sacred carols EVER (with fancy links)

Lately I've been missing the spiritual aspect of Christmas.  Having spent many of my adult years working in churches as a paid choir singer (aka "ringer"), my December calendars of yore were always full of rehearsals, services, and concerts.  But when I went back to school last fall, I made a commitment to keep my priority list simple so I could be as available to my son as possible.  I didn't want to be away from him all day, only to see him briefly at dinner time and then rush off to another evening rehearsal.  So this is the second year that I find my December calendar oddly devoid of musical commitments.  And I'm left feeling that some crucial element is missing from the holiday season.  That element is music; not the corny, boisterous carols like Jingle Bells, but the brilliant choral masterpieces that celebrate the sacred, calm, and mysterious aspect of this season. 

 

 

Although I've drifted far from the comforting black and white Christian faith of my childhood, I still hold onto a sense of reverence for the birth of Christ.  I am not sure whether the whole story of Christ is an elaborate myth, or if Jesus actually was God incarnate (though if He was, he had a few wise spiritual brothers who inspired their own religions, in my very humble opinion).  Despite my lackluster identity as a Christian, I do maintain faith in some Divine Power greater than us all.  It is a benevolent presence that is beyond my understanding.  I like it that way.  I'm fairly certain that the Omnipotent Being who created the intricacy of a snowflake and the vast power of the Universe has qualities that are far beyond my puny human brain's capacity to comprehend.  And that mystery is exciting, because it tells me that there is more to our existence than the day to day ups and downs.  It tells me that there is hope beyond the horrific tragedies that we see each time we turn on the news.  As we approach the 1st anniversary of the Connecticut school massacre, that darkness and tragedy is particularly close to the surface of our realities.
 

 

I see this beautiful mystery when I look up at the stars and attempt to grasp just how tiny our little world is in relation to the grand scheme of things, or when I look at my little boy sleeping peacefully and try to fathom the miracle of his existence. Pema Chodron, a well-known American Buddhist nun and writer, talks about our awareness of such mystery in an article called Waking up to your world: "Awakened mind exists in our surroundings—in the air and the wind, in the sea, in the land, in the animals—but how often are we actually touching in with it? Are we poking our heads out of our cocoons long enough to actually taste it, experience it, let it shift something in us, let it penetrate our conventional way of looking at things?"

 

This mystery is captured so perfectly in the image of the baby Jesus.  Mind you, I don't mean the bigotry-spurning Jesus portrayed by fear-fueled fundamentalists.  I mean the radically loving and compassionate Jesus who unconditionally accepted EVERYONE; republicans, democrats, prostitutes, judgy pharisee asshole types, gay people, straight people, alcoholics, meth addicts, compulsive shoppers, potheads, anarchists, welfare queens, CEOs, and even George Bush Jr.   Whether He was literally the Son of God or just an amazing leader and teacher, his life embodied compassion, and his birth and existence was and is full of miracle and mystery.

 

As a musician, I have found that music conveys this mystery far more fully than any sermon, book, or dogma I've ever encountered.  So as I prepare for the Christmas season, I am going to try and take a few moments here and there to be still and be awake to the mystery of the baby Jesus and all that He represents.  When I'm tempted to obsess over our limited gift budget or the catty annoyances that come up between family members, I'm going to listen to songs like those I've listed below (with fancy youtube links so you can hear them too!).  These are choral classics which I've had the honor of singing many times with various choral groups.  They never fail to quiet my soul and help me tap into the mystery of the Divine. 

 

1. Lux by Eric Whitacre, a modern (and living!) composer.  The video is almost as orgasmic as the music (and no I don't mean THAT kind of video).


2. A Christmas Carol written by the great American composer Charles Ives, and sung here by the exquisitely in-tune choral group Chanticleer (*PS: if anyone needs more evidence that gay men are indeed just as blessed as Godly as any straight person, I suggest listening to a few of their spirituals, and then try to spout reasons why they shouldn't be able to marry one another in a sacred union).  And speaking of Chanticleer, here is their amazing recording of the next song on the list...


3. Ave Maria by Franz Beibl.


4. Bogoroditse Devo, the "Ave Maria" movement of Rachmaninoff's obscenely gorgeous Vespers. 


5. Oh Magnum Mysterium written in 1572 by some guy named Vittoria (clearly I've forgotten everything I learned in my music history courses). 

 

On that note (HA!  Get it?  Note?  Music?) whatever your belief system or religion, may you all find a moment to stop, breath, and ponder the mysterious spirit of this season.  I'd also love to know, my dear readers, which songs bring you BACH to your spiritual center (get it?  BACH? the composer?  Oh nevermind...).  No seriously though, I really would love to know, so please share, either here (if you can figure out how to comment) or on facebook.  Happy singing/listening!

The neurotic mother's guide to graduate school survival

My decision to enter graduate school was based on sound logic.  It came from years of searching, self-awareness, and an excessive number of therapy sessions.  And it came from a realization that motherhood takes on a different form for each woman.  It was the right decision, and the more time I spend in my current grad school program (which involves a full time course load AND a full dose of clinical rotations) the more I realize that my entire disjointed, sporadic professional AND personal life has led me to my current profession; speech pathology is an ideal mix of people, singing, data analysis, and adorable, hilarious children with special needs.

Despite these revelations, I sometimes feel that I am going nuts. And when I do feel nuts, here is what helps:

1) Reaffirming my goals and identity as a mother.

This means checking in with other working moms who have happy, well-adjusted children, and cleansing myself of unhealthy sources of mom-shame (i.e. trying to be the same mother my mother was to me, which is not realistic on many levels, or comparing myself to my girlfriends who love the SAHM career path).  

2) Making the most of the time I DO have with my child.

Even if I get home from a tedious class that goes until 7 p.m. ( hypothetically speaking) and only get 2 hours with Elliot before bedtime, I do my best to make those hours count.  That means putting away the fricking phone (I often fail at this) and engaging with him.  Most of all it means cuddles, laughter, 5 or 6 nighttime stories, and an excessive number of kisses which he cannot escape, despite his futile 31-pounder attempts...mwahaahaaaa!

3) Lowering my standards for myself as a student.

I recently turned in the WORST paper I have ever written.  I skipped the class that it was written for in order to complete it and slither by the teacher's mailbox sheepishly in order to turn it in on time.  And I had a minor Type A breakdown right after turning it in...oh the shame of the typos and minimum number of required citations!  But I spent the weekend caring for my sick child, and that is more important.  I have managed not to slack to the point of flunking (yet) but I sure as hell don't put my all into my schoolwork anymore.  I put in the least amount of time required to learn the material on a basic level and pass the class, and I put my maximum effort into my clinical training (which occupies roughly 25 hours a week these days).  Something has to give.

4) Letting go of irrelevant and counterproductive mom anxiety.

Elliot still uses a binky, wears diapers, and sleeps in our room (in his own little bed).  If I still spent my day around other full time moms, which typically results in comparing milestones like baseball statistics, I'd be completely freaked about these facts.   I know this because I spent Elliot's first year freaking out about his 10th percentile weight and his feeding aversions.  But thankfully I rarely have to engage in milestone stats talk these days, unless it comes to talking about communication milestones related to my clients who aren't speaking yet at the age of 5.  So I've finally woken up and given both Elliot and myself a break.  So he needs a binky to feel secure. Big EFFING deal!  We'll pay for the braces! If he potty trains 5 months beyond the milestone chart- WHO  CARES????   Let me tell you, there is nothing better than being around beautiful, adorable children with genuine developmental delays  to alleviate obsessive, perfectionist parent tendencies.

5) Laughter.

When my heart starts pointing with anxiety and I want to scream very loudly or just punch a wall because I don't know how to do everything I have to do, I resort to hysterical giggling.  We are all surrounded by comic relief, if we choose to see the hilarity or each situation.  And as a mom, sometimes it comes down to choosing whether to laugh very hard or scream very loud.  I try to choose laughing.

6) Giving myself a break.

I continually have to forgive myself for the less productive coping mechanisms I engage in which  result in excessive calorie intake.  Clearly the 5 pounds I've put on since I started this program is purely neuron weight.  Because neurons are huge, and real heavy!  See point #3 if you're wondering whether I am making an accurate statement. (note: as I compose this very profound post, I am also trying to determine which type of take-out to order this evening.  Pizza?  Indian food?  Thai?).

7) Keep a ludicrously simple priority list.

Mentally, I can only handle two priorities: my boys (husband and child) and school.  I'm not very available these days, as a friend or relative.  But it's temporary, and it's worth it.  The people who are close to me and support our family know this. 

Back in the miscarriage saddle again...

Lately it seems that I only blog when I'm grieving.  I suppose it's because writing is therapeutic, as is sharing.  And because the only time I am able to sit down on my own and write for "pleasure" is when I'm a blubbering mess and therefore earn the coveted and rare gift of alone time.  Also, for certain topics, I believe in sharing my experience so that others may benefit and feel a little less alone when they experience a similar loss.  With miscarriage, I believe sharing is particularly important.  It is a very common grief.  One THIRD of known pregnancies end in miscarriage.   There are a lot of women dealing with this loss, perhaps some of the (5) readers who will see this post.  Yet there is tremendous shame around miscarriage in our culture, and the topic tends to get swept under the rug. Screw that!!

So here's a quick snapshot of the emotional roller coaster ride we have been on the past 2 weeks:

• STEP 1: 1st pregnancy test turns up negative.  feel mostly relieved for all the reasons described in this previous post about having a 2nd child.  And because at this point in our lives, I already feel spread far too thin between school, parenting, and family (which is ironic b/c as a result of being so busy, I don't have time to exercise, and thus being "spread too thin" is purely metaphorical relative to my ever-expanding ass).
• STEP 2: four days later, 2nd pregnancy test turns up positive.  Feel panicked for all the reasons described in the aforementioned post.  Then feel excited.
• STEP 3: excitement continues to grow as we realize that we WILL be able to figure out how I can finish school after the baby is born sometime around Dec. 22 (the due date, according to the fount of all procreational knowledge...and no, I'm not talking about my OB-GYN...I'm talking about babycenter.com).
• STEP 4: decide not to tell anyone until after the 1st trimester, given that I've had a miscarriage already (before Elliot).
• STEP 5: begin to tell my girlfriends who have had miscarriages.  There are many of them.  They are all amazing, wonderful women, and I want to be able to lean on them for support if I lose this pregnancy.
• STEP 6: order maternity clothes because my pants are getting abnormally snug.  Apparently with the 2nd pregnancy, your tummy pops out right away. 
• STEP 7: decide to let myself feel joy and gratitude about the pregnancy; to live in the moment despite what the future may bring.  Brene Brown, my new favorite self-help author (and Oprah's new BFF) talks about how many of us find joy to be one of the most frightening emotions.  We tend to hold back from enjoying the gifts we have in our lives, thinking that this will protect us from the agony of losing them (e.g. that thought that you have when things seem to be going "too well" and you think "oh shit, I better not get too used to this, because at any moment, things could fall apart.  My husband and child could be in a car crash.  My parents could get cancer.  I could have a stroke.  Etc...etc...").  Here's a somewhat cheesy and melodramatic but AWESOME clip of Brene (yeah, we're on a first name basis) discussing this exact topic with, you guessed it, Oprah. 
•  

•  STEP 8: Come home from an insane day at work/school and soon after, discover the tell tale signs of a miscarriage. Although it is common for women to have spotting in the first trimester, my gut just tells me what's up.  I may have even known before I saw that first terrifying flash of red.
• STEP 9: try to explain to Elliot why mommy is crying and laying on the couch, and why it's probably not a good idea for him to jump on my belly during our nightly cuddling-wrestling routine.  He promptly offers me medicine and a band-aid, which warms my heart like nothing else could.
• STEP 10: tell all those wonderful ladies I mentioned in step 5, as well as all the family members we told.  As expected, they surround me with virtual hugs, love, and support.  I am so grateful for my support network.  

So that brings me to the present.  Today, I am staying home from school for the first time since I started last fall.  My type A perfectionist tendencies will just have to shut it.  Staying home is an exercise in leaning on others; specifically my wonderful clinic partners Alyssa and Rachel, who will conduct the evaluation of a stroke survivor's communication impairments, which I was supposed to lead as part of my clinical training.  My dear friend Amy will record the lecture that I am missing this morning on stroke-related swallowing disorders .  And I'm guessing that my clinic supervisors and professors will understand, and remind me once again that when it comes down to it, most people have very compassionate hearts, particularly in this wonderful profession.

I am going to spend the day crying, writing, and listening to sappy music.  Tonight, Rob and I will bury the embryo that passed from my body this morning; a seed-sized remnant of a living being who, despite his/her tiny size, already had such a huge impact on my body and our emotions.  I will likely continue to cry when I see posts from friends having their 2nd or 3rd babies, because it will make me wonder if Elliot will ever get a chance to pose in those cute family photos with a baby brother or sister.  I am going to practice gratitude for my precious son, as I am once again reminded of what a miracle his existence is.  Tomorrow evening I will go for a walk with a dear friend who has experienced this same grief.  Healing comes in so many forms, and at times like these, a girlfriend can serve as a real-life angel.

If any of you women who read this have experienced a similar loss, know that you are not alone.  You have a wide, far-reaching sisterhood of  women who have been there; who have experienced this unique and confusing loss.  Before you try to blame yourself for it, remember that you did nothing wrong.  In a culture of miscarriage-shame, I will be reminding myself of this fact as well.    

Ode to an Orange Orb

I can't stop sobbing over this cat.  In the past 24 hours, I have literally sobbed a river of tears for Francine, our beloved family pet who went to kitty heaven yesterday (pictured here wearing a degrading sombrero, which she patiently donned for 5 minutes before hissing in an offended fashion).   My eyelids have swollen to the size of marshmallows from the crying.

I have always had a tendency towards animal death drama, as my mother can attest.  I missed countless days of elementary school to grieve for lost gerbils.  There was Luigi the gerbil, who I found lurching around his cage one morning with complete unilateral paralysis.  Apparently gerbils have strokes too.  [side note to speech pathology nerds: Do they also get aphasia?  Impaired squeak-production and squeak-recognition?].  On that dreadful gerbil stroke day, my patient mother drove her sobbing daughter (me) and the ailing gerbil (Luigi) to the vet 3 times, and the patient vet gave us a number of optimistic but destined-to-fail treatment options (including Karo syrup) which I spent the day administering to the hopelessly impaired rodent.  The poor fuzzball was probably thinking "dear God kid, just let me die a normal rodent death!  Where are the snakes when you need them???".  Needless to say the Karo syrup did not cure Luigi, and there was much plaintive sobbing as we lowered the checkbook box that was Luigi's coffin into the ground next to the swing set and the shed that also functioned as an "animal clubhouse" (note: the animal club was a bit like the Babysitter's Club, but instead of a cool clique of pre-teens, it was a group of socially awkward chubby 5th grade girls who didn't know how to interact with other humans and thus obsessed over rodents...now that I think about it, I may have been the only member). 

But despite my history of hyper-dramatic pet-grieving processes, I have still felt blind sighted by the wall of grief that hit me when we euthanized Francine yesterday.  Amidst bouts of sobbing, I have identified a few factors (other than hormones) that made this grief particularly salient. 

First,  I think that for some of us, it is just easier to grieve for animals.  Their lives are shorter, and some might say simpler.  When they die, you don't have to consider whether they regretted any of their life choices.  Nor do you typically have to worry about how their death will affect your loved ones, as you do when you lose a grandparent and watch your parents grieve that deep and unfathomable loss.  In short, it's easier to just get to the heart of the sadness and process it, without having to peel through all the other emotional layers.  As I stroked Francine's cold little paw this morning before we lowered her into the ground amidst a circle of ferns, I did not have to worry about staying strong and moving forward with my life, because I knew the grief would pass.  So I dove into it and let the tears flow (while Elliot built train tracks in the house with his father). I shamelessly pondered how it was possible that she was "dead", and tried to comprehend the fact that she really truly was not going to wake up and start purring or "clucking" with her disproportionately small voice.  At the end of the tears and the questioning, I came away with a firm belief in animal heaven.  But that's another blog post entirely.

Also, by virtue of their short lives, pets often function as emblems of whatever era of your life they had the pleasure of partaking in.  We rescued Francine from the pound when I was unknowingly 1 week pregnant.  Francine laid beside me and purred when I miscarried 9 weeks later, and licked the tears off of my face with her sandpaper tongue.  A year after that, she happily laid atop my round Elliot bump as I sprawled out on the couch watching trashy TV each night, and her rotund orange form was the first thing we saw when we walked through the door with our new baby boy. 

Francine was not a fan of sibling life.  Her loud, mournful high-frequency cries resounded through the night in the first few weeks after Elliot's birth, waking us from coveted opportunities to sleep between breast-feeding marathons.  She scratched newborn Elliot a few times.  I can't say I blamed her, as I often wanted to scratch someone during that post-partum period of raging hormones and flowing tears.   Thankfully we had the gift that other new parents in this situation (and there are sadly so many) would die for: an angel known as Lisa (Rob's mother).  Lisa took Francine in and gave her a home full of cat friends, and cared for her in a way that bumbling, sleep-deprived new parents cannot.  Francine's lonely midnight cries ceased, and I am not ashamed to admit that she was far happier in her new home. 

Despite Francine's change in location, she was still part of our family, and her time with us was one full of life-altering events; pregnancy, loss, 2nd chances, and our transition to parenthood.  She blessed us during that time with her silly and unique behaviors; her staccato cluck-like "meh?", her big-boned waddle, the Queen Latifah voice that Rob used when speaking on her behalf, her tendency to close her eyes effort-fully when she "smiled", and a plethora of other amusing antics.  Though mourning her life was a "simple" process relative to mourning grandparents and other relatives, there was nothing simple about the rich and wonderful blessing she was to all of our lives.  We will miss you sweet, goofy Francine.

the long and winding career road

This is the first post I have written in a state of utter euphoria (previous posts have been written in other states that shall remain nameless). Why such joy? Well, I'll TELL you (drumroll). I just found out that I was accepted to the graduate Speech pathology program at the University of Washington, and I will be returning to school full time this fall!!! (insert sound of floor creaking as I jump up and down in a jiggly fashion). The glee I feel over this news is heightened by years of searching, self-doubt, and a remarkable ability to ignore my own desires and skills.

I first thought about becoming a speech pathologist 10 years ago, after spending all of my teenage/college years in a practice room with the desperate dream of becoming a professional opera singer. At that time I was mourning the loss of my opera dreams and looking for a way to use my extensive (yet seemingly pointless) expertise about the human voice for some greater good. Reeling from the loss of the opera star fantasies that formed my young adult identity, the speech pathology career path functioned as my "back-up" plan. In the world of career romance, it was the boring stable guy that I chose not to date because I was too busy chasing flaky musicians who wrote me beautiful songs but didn't stick around for the hard stuff. Not that I'm speaking from actual romantic experience (cough cough).

Since that time I've done a lot of career dating. I had a beautiful but short-lived love affair with music psychology research...which, I soon realized, was the same old musician dude disguised in the tweed and glasses of academia. Because when it comes down to it, academia can be a daunting stage where rotten tomatoes fly at you in the form of rejected grant proposals. Instead of critiquing each note you sing, the audience picks apart your methods, your area of interest, and your befuddled theories. Like a music career, the tomatoes and catty critiques are 100% worth it if it's truly your passion. But if it's not your passion, well, let's just say it's a lot to sacrifice for something you don't love.

Thankfully the stable career nerd stood by, prompting me to pursue a 2nd bachelors degree in speech and hearing science and a number of eye-opening teaching/clinical experiences. And my actual stable guy (i.e. my husband) stood by while I agonized over which career path to follow and how to fit it in with our family plans. I have said it before and I will say it again: Rob is a very very patient man.

And thus this past year, I finally got my career-promiscuity out of my system and decided to pursue my SLP dreams once and for all. I'm sure motherhood helped me get here. A few years ago I worked with a career counselor and could not answer the basic question: what do you like to do? Now I know. I like to help people, interact with people, use my brain, and use my extensive knowledge about communication for something besides my own performer ego.

I am approaching this new career relationship with a hard-earned appreciation of what really matters, and what will really make me (and thus my family- crucial connection I am finally getting) "HAPPY" on a day to day, 40+ hour per week basis.
I know this path won't be easy. There will be long nights of studying after Elliot goes to sleep, MORE student loan debt (if that's even legal), and what I'm sure will be a very challenging transition from being home with my sweet baby to dropping my big confident boy off at daycare. But like any healthy relationship, I know that if I put the work into it, it will provide far more satisfaction than any short-lived affair. So to the Speech Pathology admissions committee I would like to say a big fat "I DO!".