My Food, My Body, My Daughter

I've had this blog post rolling around in my head for a few days now. Originally, I was going to write about how training for a marathon has significantly changed my intensely rocky relationship with food for the better. To think of food as fuel is a rather foreign concept to me. For much of my teenage and college years, food was either something I could viciously control, or a hateful reminder that I was a not perfect (a failure).

I am a recovered anorexic and bulimic. It's something I talk freely about with anyone who asks, but not something I've addressed in this blog. Why? Not sure. I do find myself a wee bit uncomfortable right now, not because I'm embarrassed, but because thanks to television, movies & celebrity "news" coverage, eating disorders have become so cliche. I can still remember watching (the original, thank you very much) 90210 where Kelly had anorexia for like, 2 freaking episodes. Really??!! My eating disorder is certainly not as severe as it could have been, but 20 years later I may not be having active relapses, but I still grapple with food and body issues on a daily basis. I spent 2 years of high school in a daze, manically counting calories (usually about 250/day) and desperately searching for new ways to hide the fact that I either wasn't eating, or was spending the majority of the night and early morning purging. It still amazes me that there are rather large chunks of those years I simply don't remember. There's not much room for  memories when every waking thought is devoted to food and how to triumph over it. I had a not-terribly-surprising relapse in college, and then one in grad school that completely caught me off guard. I was 25, married, at my dream grad school doing what I loved, and eating only the broth from chicken noodle soup. Thankfully, the last relapse was rather short-lived and 10 years later, I'm happy to say I've not had one since.

As with many things in life, motherhood included, I've discovered that my eating disorder is another one of those things that will probably be a "work in progress" forever. And now that it's bleeding into my relationship with my daughter, I'm on high alert. I quickly realized that I've got some work to do.

My little family just had a glorious weekend at the lake. We swam. We ate. We water skied. We ate. We drank. We ate. By yesterday afternoon, I was not only filled with food, but with absolute panic. I felt completely and totally out of control. The old inner dialogue, which has been present but quiet over the past decade, was loud and insistent once again. It is NOT OK to eat cake after EVERY MEAL! What if I can't stop eating? The food is there and I can't seem to stop myself. What's wrong with me? What happened to my self-control? All of these thought spinning around in my head as I tried to remain calm and ride it out. And then, to my absolute horror, my inner dialogue started in on my daughter. I am cringing with shame right now, but what's the point of writing about this if I'm not honest, no?

This was a vacation weekend for all of us and we ate accordingly: French toast, bacon, muffins, bagels, chips, popsicles, cake, cake, and more cake, hot dogs...etc. If it is served at a county fair, we probably had it. When I realized that my daughter had been eating just like me all weekend, I felt a whole new kind of panic, followed immediately by incredible amounts of guilt and shame (did I for a moment worry about my son's eating? Nope, and I suspect that is a whole other post entirely). It was a brief and passing moment, thankfully, but it happened and I'm left trying to figure out how to deal with it. Let me say right now, I know that L is a happy, healthy little girl. Once a tiny and malnourished baby (only 8 lbs at 5mos), L is an incredibly active 4 year-old. I know this. I also recall, before parenthood, talking with my husband and stating firmly that I would never allow my eating issues to ever come close to my kids. They were my issues, after all. But it didn't work out that way, no siree.

Once again, the universe has put me in my place. Here I was, thinking I had this thing licked. I was training for a marathon, reveling in the fact that I was actually having a happy and productive relationship with food. At 35, feeling pretty darn content with my body. Hell, even liking the way I looked more often than not. I may not have had a relapse, but I've had my eyes opened. As with almost everything related to motherhood, there is some serious work to be done. I know it's impossible to protect my girl from the barrage media images, all telling us that we aren't tall enough, thin enough, pretty enough, have clear enough skin, tight enough jeans, long enough hair, a flat enough tummy, perky enough tush...etc. My worst fear is that, however unconsciously, I'll be contributing to the barrage that's aimed right at my little girl.

Heigh ho, it's back to work I go.

He loves me, he loves me not...

I've been thinking quite a bit about rejection lately. Specifically, the rejection of your adopted infant and/or toddler and the laundry list of emotions that follow. I had been safe in my he-prefers-me-to-all-others bubble for almost a year. E simply wanted me more than anyone else...I could do no wrong (of course, I still insist this is absolutely true). I have not stressed over his attachment the way I did with L. I'm sure much of this has to do with the fact that L was my first and thus I obsessed over EVERYTHING, but also L was just a different baby. She was friendly, warm, engaging, but it took a long time to really feel secure that she knew me. I remember frequently asking hubby, "Do you think she really knows I'm her mother?" To my darling better half, this became a "does my butt look big?" kind of question. No matter his answer, I wasn't satisfied. I read every possible book on attachment, found those dreadful checklists online and obsessed over every single bullet point. When did I stop fretting over L? I honestly cannot recall. Now she is a very verbal 4-year-old and tells me she loves me multiple times each day.

Almost from the moment I met my sweet little E he sought me over all others. I will always remember how shocked, astonished and pleased I was when we asked a favorite nanny to take a picture with him before we checked him out of the orphanage for good. If you look at the picture, the whole time he is whining, reaching out and leaning towards me. E's first year home was wonderful in the sense that I didn't really stress too much about his attachment because he always demanded to be with me, but challenging as well because I had never mothered such a needy child. His need to be constantly touching me is most often a lovely thing, but there have been (and still are) moments when I could scream for the need for some personal space. 

But this past week, my dear friends, HE rejected ME. What the what??!! We're moving into a Daddy phase, I suspect, and I'm surprised at how I'm reacting - I'm uncomfortable, uneasy, hurt, needy. I find myself trying waaaaay too hard to make him laugh or smile, just so I can have some tangible proof that my boy still loves me ("He likes me, he really likes me!"). Poor thing, I can just see the inner dialogue on his face when I get this way: "Geez. Why won't she just give me some personal space? A man can only take so many kisses."

What I cannot seem to explain to myself is that right now he has been like this with pretty much everyone as of late. E has some language delays and the frustration that he experienced just a month ago is now exponentially greater. He wants things, and I can't understand him. Lately the majority of our days go as follows:

Elijah: "Mama, baba." (gesturing vaguely)

Me: "What? Juice? Snack? Tree? Flower? Lion? I'm sorry honey, I don't know what 'baba' is."

Add in the fact that, with very few exceptions he calls everything "baba", no wonder he gets pissed. I try to consider also that I am the one with him the majority of the time. When Daddy is home, E still most frequently comes to me with requests & demands, thus Daddy isn't forced to engage in the "baba" dialogue of frustration.

But oh, the rejection! Why does it hurt so much? Why do I take the often arbitrary actions of a toddler to heart? When it happens, why do I get that pit-in-the-stomach feeling of insecurity in my mothering? In his attachment? I know this will pass...I know it for sure as I now have absolutely NO problems when L is angry with me (Lord knows that happens frequently enough). I know it's a good thing that he's lovin' on his Daddy so much, but golly, I wasn't ready. I wasn't prepared to let anyone into our exclusive little club. Hell, I didn't even know there was a club until E started inviting other people and jealousy reared its ugly head. My baby who really wasn't a baby for long is definitely not a baby now. He's starting to see more things, notice more people and the desire to interact with those things and people is growing. I realize now that as much as I've bitched about having to carry this gigantic boy everywhere, I'm now so very sad that he might be starting to give that up, and letting my insecurity dictate what it all means.

One year ago today...

I met my beautiful son, E. As you can see, our relationship had a bit of a rocky start. Apparently we arrived during his afternoon nap and he was more than a little groggy when he was first placed in my arms. Poor baby, it hurts my heart to see these photos where he is so clearly terrified and confused. What you can't tell from this photo is how terrified I was as well. But I simply held him close and kept whispering to him that I was his mommy and he was so very loved and that he could cry as long as he wanted, I would wait.

Eventually he calmed down and snuggled into me...one of his very best traits. He is truly the snuggliest baby ever.



Our first family photo. As you can see, he's still in shock, clinging to his new teething ring for dear life.



E and Mommy asleep in the Frankfurt airport.




E & L a few weeks after we arrived home. As you can see, L is not terribly pleased with her new competition little brother.




E's first birthday. Already looking less like a baby and more like a toddler. Sniff sniff.




Fun at Mimi & Papa's!




Just took this yesterday. He was not afraid of the sprinkler for ONE MINUTE. And check out the pirate skull & crossbones on his trunks. How cute is that? I do love me some Target.




Gorgeous boy. Those eyes.




I don't know why I love this photo so much. It's just so very him. He may walk away from me for a wee bit, but he's always always checking in, blessing me with his smile.



 My beautiful boy. One year ago today a nanny put you in my arms and my life changed forever. Here are some things I want to always remember about you: you love to be in your mama's arms (seriously, I'm getting some impressive guns as my boy just keeps getting bigger and bigger), and when you get sleepy, you pop your right thumb in your mouth and your left hand immediately goes down the front of my shirt. Your dance moves are hilarious: some random squats followed by a rather violent up & down movement of the arms. Your emotions are swift and dramatic...if you feel as though you've been wronged (perhaps by another cute little Ethiopian that happens to be your sister) you make sure we KNOW it. And if you are happy, it's huge smiles, laughter, and dancing (like when I gave you your first sucker today). You are fearless and your curiosity and desire to get into things is unparalleled. I had never heard of a 15-month toddler learning to open baby gates, or doors, or plastic water bottles until you, my little MacGyver. You give the best sloppy kisses (some day we'll have to talk about how you shouldn't go in for a kiss with your mouth wide open, but that can wait a few more years). You are a mama's boy, through and through, and I wouldn't have it any other way.

Happy "Gotcha Day," my amazing, beautiful boy. Every day I thank my lucky stars that God brought us together.

When I need something to smile about...

I take a look at these gorgeous babies of mine. Our car was returned to us today after being stolen and missing for almost a month. I really haven't experienced much anger about our car being stolen until today. Today my car was returned without carseats and looking & smelling like an ashtray. They left cigarette ashes EVERYWHERE. They left food, hand sanitizer (don't even want to think about that) and an f'ing sweatshirt for me to clean up. I'm pissed. I simply don't understand how someone can steal a car with two carseats and have a joyride without realizing that they were stranding a family with two small children. It doesn't feel like my car anymore and I suspect it won't until after a very very thorough cleaning. So, I choose not to dwell on the shittiness of car thieves, but rather at my beautiful and lovely children. I know I'm hopelessly biased, but aren't they gorgeous????

Wearing the adorable shirt I made her last week. A FREE Oliver & S pattern!

Slightly blurry, I know, but this is E. Love his smile, even with the constant stream of drool.

L right before her Flying Pig race! Cute Adidas outfit from Costco, of all places.

E sat there and played with pots & pans sorting jars of babyfood. Love his concentration face.

He loves that hat. I don't have the heart to tell him it doesn't fit.

Beauty.

Tina Fey's Prayer for Her Daughter

Love this excerpt from Tina Fey's new book, Bossypants:

First, Lord: No tattoos. May neither Chinese symbol for truth nor Winnie-the-Pooh holding the FSU logo stain her tender haunches.

May she be Beautiful but not Damaged, for it’s the damage that draws the creepy soccer coach’s eye, not the Beauty.

When the Crystal Meth is offered, May she remember the parents who cut her grapes in half and stick with Beer.

Guide her, protect her when crossing the street, stepping onto boats, swimming in the ocean, swimming in pools, walking near pools, standing on the subway platform, crossing 86th Street, stepping off of boats, using mall restrooms, getting on and off escalators, driving on country roads while arguing, leaning on large windows, walking in parking lots, riding Ferris wheels, roller-coasters, log flumes, or anything called “Hell Drop,” “Tower of Torture,” or “The Death Spiral Rock ‘N Zero G Roll featuring Aerosmith,” and standing on any kind of balcony ever, anywhere, at any age.

Lead her away from Acting but not all the way to Finance. Something where she can make her own hours but still feel intellectually fulfilled and get outside sometimes And not have to wear high heels.

What would that be, Lord? Architecture? Midwifery? Golf course design? I’m asking You, because if I knew, I’d be doing it, Youdammit.

May she play the Drums to the fiery rhythm of her Own Heart with the sinewy strength of her Own Arms, so she need Not Lie With Drummers.

Grant her a Rough Patch from twelve to seventeen. Let her draw horses and be interested in Barbies for much too long, For childhood is short - a Tiger Flower blooming Magenta for one day - And adulthood is long and dry-humping in cars will wait.

O Lord, break the Internet forever, That she may be spared the misspelled invective of her peers And the online marketing campaign for Rape Hostel V: Girls Just Wanna Get Stabbed.

And when she one day turns on me and calls me a Bitch in front of Hollister, Give me the strength, Lord, to yank her directly into a cab in front of her friends, For I will not have that Shit. I will not have it.

And should she choose to be a Mother one day, be my eyes, Lord, that I may see her, lying on a blanket on the floor at 4:50 A.M., all-at-once exhausted, bored, and in love with the little creature whose poop is leaking up its back.

“My mother did this for me once,” she will realize as she cleans feces off her baby’s neck. “My mother did this for me.” And the delayed gratitude will wash over her as it does each generation and she will make a Mental Note to call me. And she will forget. But I’ll know, because I peeped it with Your God eyes.

Amen.



Happy Birthday, doodlebug!

Tomorrow my girl turns 4. Lately, I look at her with complete amazement. She's a bonafide little girl. No chubby baby parts to her at all, she's all lanky limbs and a big 'ol head of hair. She includes phrases such as "that freaks me out" or "I just can't take it" into her daily speech. She does, however, call an umbrella a "hambrella." It tickles me and so I haven't corrected her just yet.

I remember the day I got "the call." It was a Monday afternoon and I had just arrived at work. I remember spending the next couple of weeks completely freaked out at how insanely tiny she was. At 5 months old she was only 8 pounds - not even close to making it onto the WHO growth chart. When we met L she was 8 months old and a whopping 12 pounds. Still so tiny, but already full of the personality for which she is now notorious.

My darling L is bright, hilarious, scary smart, energetic, dramatic, and incredibly loving (she just turned to me and said, "Mommy, I am so very glad you are home from the store. I missed you so much." Oy).

Happy Birthday, Doodlebug. The day I met you was one of the best days of my life. I love you so much there are simply no words.

Guilty Pleasure

Has anyone else seen the show Parenthood lately? Lordy, I do love that show. I rarely watch it in the evenings, but rather I enjoy catching it on Hulu on rainy afternoons when the babes are napping. My brain knows that the show is beyond corny, but I just can't stop! I can honestly say that I have never watched an episode and NOT cried and cried. It's that cheesy and wonderful.

And despite the heightened drama that is the cornerstone of any show like this, there are frequently episodes that hit rather close to home. For example, in the past two shows one of the characters is dealing with infertility. I am always amazed at how quick my eyes are to well up whenever I watch a show that has infertility as a part of the storyline. Why does this happen? I am the incredibly joyful and blessed mother of two of the most wonderful little human beings on the planet. I love them so much it astounds me. So why the tears?

I can truthfully say that I have no regrets from our journey of becoming the family that we are today. Each and every experience has shaped me as a person, shaped my marriage, and shaped how I am a mother to my kids. But I think those years of infertility treatments (and subsequent failures) have left scars deep down where I don't see them every day or even every month... but they are there. And perhaps they will always be there, just like a physical scar. Because really, how can one endure the endless shots, nurses, pills, getting blood drawn every other day for weeks, procedures, more shots, hormones, the indignity of those damn stirrups... and all to see the empty bubble that was my uterus on the ultrasound screen every. single. time (10, to be exact).

The thing that struck me the most about the episode I just watched (mascara lines down my cheeks to prove it!) was the husband. He was perhaps not quite as emotional about it as the wife, but pretty darn close. I thought of my darling hubby and how he was the opposite. He gave me those horrible shots in the ass with a steady hand. He may have cried on his own, but I never knew it. All I knew was that he was there for every meltdown, every hormone-induced freak-out, every run to KFC when I was on bed rest, and he was steady. Calm. I knew without having to ask that he was going to take care of me for both my physical pain and my grief each time a cycle failed. I remember our final IVF so vividly, even though it was 5 years ago. We had actually received the news that the cycle had worked! Of course, things happened over the course of the next week that gave me cause for concern and definitely kept my hopes at the "cautiously optimistic" level, but I still was not truly prepared for that moment on the table when the doctor, nurse and I looked expectantly at the ultrasound screen, hoping to see a little blob with a heartbeat and instead saw nothing at all. I had a 30-mile drive home where I knew hubs was at home having lunch. I remember calling him pretty much hysterical yelling, "There was nothing there!" And when I arrived home he comforted me, now a complete sobbing mess, took me up to bed and handled all of the phone calls we would soon get from family members wanting to know how the scan went. I still can't believe he did that. Had to repeat over and over on the phone that no, the scan did not go well and yes, I was ok but didn't want to talk to anyone. I can honestly say I don't know anyone stronger than my husband.

So honey, here it is, perhaps definitely not said enough: you are my hero. My knight in shining armor, making my heart go pitty pat. We may lead rather mundane lives here in the 'burbs and your acts of heroism may not be as dramatic as in the TV shows, but know that they are noticed and appreciated.  Like when we were at someone's house and something broke leading L to say, "My Daddy could fix that. He can fix anything."

Married at 22 looking like babies, we got through college, grad school, a year apart, transfers to the middle of nowhere and then Chicago, infertility through all of that, baby #1 and baby #2, and now we're slogging through the land of mortgages, preschools, tantrums, diapers, yard work... scary stuff, man. But I have no fear. I've got my knight with me.