I Hide My Chocolate

Midlife observations
April 26, 2020

Joy

What Matters Now

In Zoom Yoga this morning, our teacher had us conjure up a memory of when we felt joy. In this time of fear, loss, grief, depression, anxiety, terror, perhaps – if we can inhabit that memory of joy – it would be a resource of hope and light.

Without any hesitation, the memory of the birth of my children is what came up for me. I could not replace it by recalling some flash of ecstasy or awe at nature or pride in some personal achievement.

No, it is the extreme pain and effort and emotion of childbirth that resonated for me as joy this morning. I alternated between my two children. Seeing them for the first time as if it was yesterday. Vivid. I could see them. Feel them. Smell them.

Twenty plus years later, in this time of fear, loss, grief, depression, anxiety, terror – I worry for them. What now? Will they stay healthy? Will they find work? Will they find love? Will they have children? Will I stay healthy to see what happens next? When will I hug them again?

Perhaps this insistent and searing travel back in time to the birth of my children is a result of a mini baby boomlet our extended family is experiencing. The announcement of each new pregnancy over the last few months has been ever more exciting and hopeful in this dark time.

May the world waiting for these new humans be safe and secure, filled with love and new opportunities. May we all experience joy, even if it be born of pain and effort and emotion.

May we be healthy.

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July 28, 2019

Why I Run

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My Latest Obsession

My shoulder hurt too much for Downward Dog. Yoga had been my obsession for the last decade. Child’s Pose had been my refuge when I needed to cry at all the indignities of mid-life: career let-down, the appearance of jowls (jowls?!), the death of my mother, and the growing up of my children. Hand Stand had been my adrenaline rush, which I still hadn’t fully mastered. (Do we ever fully master anything?) I had pretty much let go of other activities and thrown myself into yoga, well at least as much as I could with a family and a full time job plus commute to Manhattan. I got certified to teach and continue to teach one class a week to appreciative middle-aged women, like me.

When it became apparent that I really had an injury – Degenerative Labrum Tear (ahem…aging) and Frozen Shoulder – and needed to practice yoga in a much reduced and more limited way, I wondered what I could do instead? I had run a little bit throughout my life but it was never a passion. I admired others who ran but never seemed to be able to achieve more than 3 miles and was certainly never happy when running.

I started walking. I would walk to Pilates class and back. (About 2 miles round trip). It was January 2018, and I would bundle up. Around March, I wondered if I could run. I ran a block. Literally. One block. Shocked at the huffing and puffing, I decided that no, I couldn’t run. The challenge remained, and so it went for the next 6 months. I added distance to my walks and lengthened the amount of time that I ran. When I did too much, my body let me know and I would have to take a break – never running two days in a row. By the end of last August, I was able to run 3 miles without walking. So, I entered my first 5K race in September. Why not?

My 22-year-old daughter was home at the time and decided to run with me. I told her I was very slow. “Oh Mom, that’s okay. I will stay with you.” We’ll see…I thought. The gun went off and everyone dashed ahead. After all, it was a race! I was left in the dust plodding in the back. My daughter tried to stay with me, but I shooed her ahead. I really didn’t need company for this torture. I thought I was going to die. At about the one-mile mark, the leaders were on their way back to win. I just kept plodding. My goal was to finish. At the two-mile mark, I started passing the walkers. When I saw the finish line, my daughter was cheering. I poured it on, (what was available to pour on) and – sort of – sprinted across the finish line. Under 40 minutes (woo hoo!) and not the last in my age group. Success! I was hooked.

Last Fall, I went for a physical. I hadn’t had one in about five years and was expecting a clean bill of health. Surprisingly to me, my cholesterol was high at 251. She told me to exercise more. Exercise more?! My husband, my friends, and I all laughed. How could I do more than I was doing? Well, Game On. I joined a cheap gym and started adding weight training. (My PT had told me that my upper body was weak, which was why I had the shoulder injury.) I kept up my 3-mile runs through the Winter and ran a second 5K in April, shaving 3 minutes from my time and no longer feeling like I was going to die.

It was like a new relationship. Completely infatuated with the endorphins, my mind wanted to run more than my body could handle. I still find I can’t run two days in a row. So cross-training it is. Weights, Pilates, and yes, Yoga. My shoulder is healed. (P.S. I love yoga after running – it gets everything stretched out.)

I joined a running club in May and started going to weekly running clinics with interval training. It has made a big difference! The camaraderie of other people, the discipline to incorporate speedwork, the chance to run new routes and the inspiration to try longer distances. I’m up to a solid four miles 3x/week and my goal is a 10K this Fall. Plus, I’ll go for my annual physical in October and see what I hope will be a drop in my cholesterol. I’ll keep you posted about that.

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March 11, 2018

Thank You Cooper

Mwah!

He never learned to say any words. Occasionally, though, his intonation sounded just like how we say “Cooper,” but it was a stretch. He did, however, mimic the sound of kissing. When I walked in the house, “Mwah!” When my husband walked in the room, “Mwah!” When he wanted to fly about, “Mwah!”

I thought we had more time, but Cooper died this week. He was 6. We always think we have more time, don’t we?

He’s a sweet, generic, blue budgie from the pet store. I am heart-broken. Slightly comical, I suppose. I find I am embarrassed to tell people that my parakeet died. Embarrassed that I care so much. Guilty that I didn’t do enough.

I’ve been pondering the ethics of “owning” a “pet.” My kids desperately wanted a dog, but we didn’t think we were home enough to give a dog a good life. A bird was the compromise. But is a life in a cage a good life for a bird?

I don’t know. Maybe. Maybe it is better than a life in a cage in a pet store.

We certainly tried to give Cooper as good a life as we could. His cage was in the center of all the family activity and we let him out every day. He had his flight pattern, circling around the first floor of our house, making his navigational chirps as he negotiated the turns with the utmost speed and accuracy before alighting on my husband’s head. His favorite human. I was too busy. My kids were too impatient. But my husband would stroke him and play with him every evening.

Cooper loved music and had pronounced preferences. His favorite was B.B. King, especially “The Thrill is Gone.” On weekends, we would have long family dinners in the dining room with conversation, joking, and music. Cooper was right there with us, singing along.

It seems salt on the wound that he would die shortly after my youngest left home for college. We joked, “Ah, just the three of us,” as Cooper would alternate between the top of my head and my husband’s hand. Well, now, it really is just the two of us and the house is much much quieter without his bright chirping, squawking, mumbling, and of course those air kisses.

He is very much a part of our family history and it feels fitting and painful that his life ends as the childhood part of our family story ends.

My husband told our son the news before bringing him home for his spring break. Our daughter is spending the semester abroad, so I facetimed with her to tell her the news. It must feel like an integral part of their childhood and homelife has died. They were both upset. I am proud that they are both connected to their feelings and cry easily. I do not. May they always love deeply and feel deeply.

My daughter said that Cooper was the reason she has chosen a vegan lifestyle. If he was so sweet, with so much personality — clearly a sentient being — how could anyone eat another being? Indeed.

Perhaps that is why we have pets. I don’t know that we make their lives better, but they make our lives better. Perhaps we are better humans for having known them.

Thank you Cooper. Mwah.

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January 28, 2018

Dreaming of My Mother

Clarity

I dreamt about my mom last night. Again, for the third time this week. The last two times, she was just a presence. Appearing to me as a calm, loving, encouraging, but fleeting moment.

This time was vivid.

I was at my childhood home. There was a recent grave in the front yard in the corner near the driveway. The grave was for my mother. My father was lying on top. Wanting to be with her. He misses her so much.

I went into the house. My mother was sitting in her chair. She had gray hair, but her stooped physical and mental frailty had disappeared. She was stunningly beautiful. Sitting with dignity and clarity and wisdom. Tall and clear-eyed. A guru.

I gasped. I was so happy to see her. I knelt down before her and looked her in the eyes. They were translucent. A beautiful color somewhere between green, gray, and blue. I was confused, because my mother’s eyes were brown. I questioned, for a moment, whether it was really my mother. I questioned, for a moment, if I had forgotten what my mother looked like. Then I took her face into my hands. Her skin was so smooth and soft. Miraculous. Touching her, I felt her presence permeate me. I gazed into her beautiful eyes. Feeling her love.

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August 21, 2017

Don’t Guzzle Your Beer

And Other Thoughts 

My son was born thirsty. He would nurse voraciously, gulping, urgently, as if he could not fill up fast enough. He brought this habit to his bottle, to his sippy cup, to his big-boy cup, and ultimately to the gallon of juice in the refrigerator at all times. I felt compelled to tell him, at the age of 7, that he will need to learn to sip alcohol, sloooowly, to savor the taste. I was terrified of the horror stories of 18-year-olds going off to college and guzzling their beer or throwing back shots until they die of alcohol poisoning. Okay, so it was more than 10 years away, but I figured it was never too soon to discuss.

Here we are.

We’ve made the checklists. We’ve got the stuff from Bed, Bath, and Beyond. You know, the shower caddy and shower shoes, new bedding (Extra Long Twin for those weirdly long and narrow dorm beds), hangers, a surge protector, a desk lamp, an umbrella, and myriad other supplies for living away from home. We’ve gone through his old toys and games and art projects. Keeping what has sentimental value (some of the sweet Lego figures he played with in the bath) and giving away the games he never opened. (They seemed like a good idea at the time.) And laundry. We’ve done a ton of laundry. He doesn’t mind doing laundry, so I think he’ll have clean clothes in college. Wrinkled but clean. We’ll see.

Now we wait.

Some of his friends have left already. Some don’t leave for a while. He leaves later this week. We’re sort of ready. (Can you ever be ready?) Kind of eager to get the emotion behind us. Kind of dreading it. Will he like his roommate? Will he like his classes? Will he be homesick? Will he be okay? Will he be happy?

He’s a loyal friend. He’s had a few close friends his whole life. It took him a while to develop and nurture these friendships. He is sad to leave them. He wonders how these friendships will evolve when they are far flung across the country. I try to reassure him that his closest friends will remain close. I am still connected with several of my friends from high school. They were crucially important people to me at a time when we were becoming ourselves. I love them deeply.

I think of all the things I want to say to him. Usually in the middle of the night. I try to nag less and be present more. I try to be near by in case he wants me. I try to tell him my middle-of-the-night ruminations during the few moments when he will allow me into his room, into his space. Stuff like:

  • You don’t have to have it all figured out. Try new things. You can change your mind.
  • Rent your textbooks. Don’t buy them.
  • When I look at you, it’s because I love you, not because I am judging you.
  • Take your vitamins.
  • You can tell me anything. I know you think you can’t, but you can.
  • Go to all the extra help sessions and office hours with your professors.
  • You will make new friends.
  • Take advantage of the city. Explore!
  • You have a deep and loving heart. It is my favorite thing about you. You are a good human being.
  • Choose your professors carefully. The teacher is more important than the class topic.
  • Use the credit card for necessities. Use your own money for entertainment.
  • I am sorry for all the times I disappointed you. Like that Friday night when I was the one who had a tantrum because you didn’t do what I wanted you to do.
  • Be you.

I am proud of you. I will miss you. (More than you know.) I love you.

Oh, and don’t guzzle your beer.

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July 30, 2017

Conversations with my Father

Remembering

We wait until the last hour to let the emotion crack through. It’s always my mom that breaks open our hearts. “I miss her so much,” my father sobs. I was taking photographs of old photographs. Photos of her I had never seen. The photos were in the front hallway in an envelope carefully labeled with instructions to himself in my father’s unmistakable handwriting: “Take to get copies.”

I search her face for a trace of my face. I don’t see any resemblance. Maybe, just maybe, there is a hint of my daughter in her face. My mother didn’t like photographs of herself and tended to avoid eye contact with the camera. She didn’t think she was pretty. To me she was beautiful. On that, my dad and I agree.

I hug him awkwardly, neither one of us very good at it. He resumes cataloging his assets for me, verbally, so that when he dies I will be able to deal appropriately with all the stuff accumulated in the house. If nothing else, he has always been meticulously careful about my financial wellbeing. But it’s not just a catalog. Each item has a story. I only half listen because he’s been pontificating at me for 54 years and I have always dealt with it by only half listening. I will myself to pay attention.

There are 3 violins and 5 bows. The Nicolas Lupot violin has some value. It’s an early Lupot – not one of the later, better ones. Nicolas Lupot was an 18th century French violin-maker in the style of Stradivarius. The Lupot is not the violin he is playing right now. I’m not sure why. It needs to be repaired perhaps? I try to remember the name of the place where I should take the violins when he dies, should I want to sell them. Weaver’s? Potter’s? I think one of the violins might have been my mother’s. I’m not sure. I really should get clarification on that.

They met playing string quartets, but my mom stopped playing after they got married. Relieved of what was mostly a chore for her. My dad, on the other hand, whispered to me at dinner the night before, “I don’t know what I’ll do if I can’t play any more.” Playing the violin is his lifelong passion. Even though his short-term memory is fading in an alarming way, (“Did we do anything yesterday?” he asked me this morning), and he has trouble adding the tip to the dinner bill, he practices the violin every day and plays string quartets once a week. It keeps him alive and in the house. I hope he lives as long as he can and then drops dead of a heart attack. The lingering withering away that my mother experienced is the worst…for all concerned.

Every year when I visit, I take inventory of how he’s doing. Pretty well by all accounts. Not much worse than a year ago. Maybe better. He has his routines, and he has mostly mastered his grief. The house is clean, (cluttered but clean), thanks to Pauline, the woman who has been cleaning the house since 1964. But he now holds on to things for support, acknowledging that a cane may soon be in order. I harangue him about doing his balancing exercises. And really Dad, cut out the sugar! His nutrition information is from 30 years ago and frankly he doesn’t really care. Why should he. Even though his post lunch stupor prevented us from our annual outing to the National Gallery. I could not get him out of his chair. Out of his house. Out of his routine. Inertia.

I am ambitious for him. For me. For us and our visits. This time, I will ask the meaningful questions. This time, we will have a special outing. This time, I will tell him more about me. Do children who live close to their aging parents and see them frequently feel as urgent with their visits? But, we fall into our habits. Overly protective of our private selves. It is not until the last hour that we really connect.

Each year, I ratchet down my ambition. There is more patience and love in our quiet togetherness. I watered his plants, nurturing the living beings in the household. I read. I practiced yoga. I listened to the birds. Waiting for him.

I walked around the house. Remembering. I looked at old photographs. The ones of me when I was growing up. The ones of my mom when she was younger than I am now. We walked around the neighborhood, remembering, and tut-tutting with mutual disgust and judgment at the hideous Mcmansions that have cropped up in our middle class mid-century suburban development. We went out for dinner. We watched tv. We remembered. Maybe it’s enough to just be together.

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March 14, 2017

Today’s Postcard

Say NO to Eliminating Federal Funding for Public Education and Nutritious School Lunches

Are you tired and annoyed by everyone posting political rants? Yeah, that’s what I was afraid of. So, I hesitate to post. You know me, I’m very non-confrontational. God forbid I should post something provocative or polarizing. Here’s the thing. I’m just a fair-minded, run-of-the-mill feminist and democrat who has never been politically active.

Until now.

Not a day goes by without some news item causing me to exclaim WTF in anger or disgust or cry in despair. I mean, really, what kind of world is it going to be in 10 years for our children and grandchildren?

Let’s be real, I work full time, I have a husband and children, I teach yoga. I am busy. I am not saving the world. What can I do? Does it even make a difference? After the initial shock, where we all shared outraged articles and felt overwhelmed, I took a bit of a deep breath and a bit of a break. I am not someone who jumps into the fray. No no. I need to research every issue and understand all points of view. Then pause and reflect. Then articulate my point of view, in writing. Then assess how I want to move forward. It’s exhausting and overwhelming, especially when every day presents you with a dozen new outrageous items to consider.

I’ve joined my local Indivisible group. I participate in some closed facebook groups. I read a lot and listen to a lot of political podcasts. I didn’t need a new activity, but there you have it. Our country is too important. Our democracy is too important. Our children are too important. Hell, the Earth is too important. I think we have no choice. To put your head in the sand and pretend that everything is going to be okay is immoral. There. I said it. I.M.M.O.R.A.L.

So, I’ve been sending postcards to my congresspeople. I try for one a day, but have not been successful. I get nervous on the phone, so the postcard thing works better for me. I am skeptical of petitions, so I tend not to sign them. So as not to annoy my friends, (I told you I was non-confrontational), I limit myself to no more than one post a day. I imagine that when I post a political pov, a contingent of my friends rolls their eyes and moves on. But, I don’t know, maybe not. Maybe there’s a quiet group out there that appreciates that I put myself out there.

Yesterday, one of those quiet friends quietly asked me what I knew about HR 610. Nothing. I knew nothing. So, I researched it. Yowza. Here goes my limited interpretation of this brief, but devastating bill:

HR 610, the “Choices in Education Act of 2017,” is a bill under consideration in the House of Representatives that proposes “to distribute Federal funds for elementary and secondary education in the form of vouchers for eligible students and to repeal a certain rule relating to nutrition standards in schools.”

  • HR 610 will repeal the Elementary and Secondary Education Act of 1965, which is the most far-reaching piece of federal legislation affecting education. It is responsible for ensuring that our public school system is fair, providing funding for low-income students, special education, English as a second language, and much more.
  • HR 610 limits the authority of the Department of Education, such that federal funding would be in the form of block grants to qualifying states. In other words, federal funding of public schools will now be transferred to the states. So, if you’re lucky to live in a progressive and affluent state, all good, probably. But if not, your education system will suffer. So will your children. So will your property value.
  • States, theoretically, will use these funds to create a voucher system for eligible families and schools. In other words, a family could use the voucher to buy a place in a private school.
  • But, more likely, the effect of vouchers could result in a middle class student migrating from a public school to a private school. It does not typically benefit a low-income student.
  • HR 610 repeals the No Kids Hungry Act, the requirement that school lunches meet specific nutrition standards.
  • Say what?! Let that sink in a moment. This bill says school lunches don’t need to be healthy. Um, that might be the most ridiculous thing I’ve heard, at least today. What does anyone have against nutrition for children? For some kids, school lunch is the most healthy food they eat all day. A well-fed child is better able to learn. A well-fed child is healthier and less likely to need medical care, which low-income families will be less able to afford under the new American Health Care Act, if approved.

See what I mean? It’s exhausting. Just a tiny little bill is fraught with complexity. But this one…well, it seems awful to me. So I am sending my congressman a postcard. I hope it helps.

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March 5, 2017

Food Matters

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A Leader Is What A Leader Eats

You know, I think it DOES matter what the president eats.

You’ve probably heard by now about his preference for over-priced well-done steak smothered with ketchup. It’s been all over the news and twitter. And the reaction has been intense and varied, ranging from “What a classless rube!” to “Let him eat steak. We have more important things to worry about!”

Indeed we do.

But…

Imagine, for a moment, how much leadership he could provide – just by what he eats. Imagine the week of dinners he could choose, if he were inviting, authentic, adventurous, a role model, a proper host, humble, inspirational, a leader.

Sunday

Tonight I’m having a supper club dinner with a group of immigrants who have invited me to try their traditional dishes. I can’t wait to welcome these families who are new to our country and to taste new foods!

Monday

Meatless Monday! Scott Pruitt and I have decided to set a good example and go meatless one day a week. Eating less meat has a significant impact on reducing greenhouse gases that contribute to global warming.

Tuesday

Working late. Exhausted. I know I’m in a food rut, but the meatloaf here is wonderful. I wouldn’t want to force it on you, but I highly recommend it. Comfort food at its best. Reminds me of my mom.

Wednesday

Dinner with Ivanka. She’s been on me to lose some weight and eat more healthy. Damn it’s hard. All those dinners out! But, I need to eat more healthy for my kids and my grandkids, not to mention my country! I don’t want to die of a heart attack. Ivanka tells me the Mediterranean diet is healthiest and the Sardinians live to be 100. I’m going to have some grilled fish with a little pasta and vegetables. No dessert! Sugar is evil. But I am going to have one glass of red wine and an espresso so I can send some late night tweets.

Thursday

I’m having a bi-partisan dinner for all the new members of congress from both sides. You know, reaching across the aisle so we can get some legislation passed! I’ve been trying out new chefs for the White House. Tonight’s chef will be preparing an all-American meal made with all-American ingredients from our all-American farmers. American food is great!

Friday

New restaurant night! I like to try new restaurants instead of the same old same old. There are so many wonderful restaurants with creative and adventurous menus. I find it inspiring to try something new at least once a week. Plus, I get to support small businesses and help create jobs.

Saturday

Ah, happy to be in Mar-A-Lago, my favorite retreat. I am so lucky and grateful to be able to travel back and forth every weekend and catch up with Melania. A long-distance relationship can be tough! We’ll have dinner here and I’ll have the well-done steak smothered with ketchup. I know it’s not the healthiest nor the most gourmet, but it’s my favorite. I’ve cut way back – haven’t we all? My dad and I used to eat steak together and this is how we ate it. Thanks Dad for giving me my start.

Imagine! What leadership he could provide, just by what he eats.

Image Source: The USDA’s http://www.foodpyramid.com/myplate/

4 Comments
February 9, 2017

How Many of Us?

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All of Us

Dear Republicans.

You have been warned. Women speak!

Sisters persist. Resist.

How many of us women have been ignored, dismissed, silenced, repressed, suppressed, censored, banished, exiled, sacrificed, raped, stabbed, killed?

How many of us women have felt it too dangerous to speak? To ask, to question, to complain, to expose, to change, to object, to confront, to agitate, to resist, to fight. To be angry. To stand out.

We hang on to our good girl ways. Afraid of being scolded. Smiling, quiet, obedient, following the rules, excelling at the rules, working within the system. Little flickers of resistance emerging in safe outlets. A poem here. A prayer there. A whispered secret message to a daughter.

We all are brave. Just living takes guts. But some have that extra bit of courage to be bold. Heroines. Each generation gets bolder, with more support, and more examples of different women being different.

When our soul can’t stay quiet. When safety is worse than the battle. When we have nothing to lose. When fairness is compromised.

When our children’s future is jeopardized.

Then we speak. Now. We must speak. All of us.

We will persist. Resist.

I am with her. And her. And her. And her.

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January 28, 2017

Tart Cranberry Marmalade

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No Sugar-Coating Allowed

Did you resolve to quit sugar? Has your resolve devolved into stress eating? Do you worry that it doesn’t matter what you eat anymore because the end of the world is nigh?

Sigh.

As I was taking this photo this morning, my husband asked what I was doing. I told him that the only topic I could imagine writing about was food. I am overwhelmed with the politics of the day, of the week, so I am reverting to my comfort/discomfort zone.

Food.

Maybe if I control what I eat, I will feel some semblance of control over my world. This myth fueling my disordered eating still lingers.

The World Health Organization now recommends that we limit our intake of sugar to no more than 5% of calories. That works out to about 100 calories, or about 6 teaspoons. Yup. That’s it. That is not very much.

Sugar is in tomato sauce, breakfast cereal, bread, salad dressing, yogurt, granola, nutrition bars, low fat snacks. Oh, and soda. It is easier to limit sugar if you cook for yourself instead of buying prepared foods. I  find that you can get used to less and less sugar over time. As you phase out sugar, you will discover that foods you used to like now taste too sweet and that the flavor is diluted with sweetness, not pure.

This month, I have craved bitter and intense foods to match my mood, eliminating more and more sugar. I have replaced my granola with walnuts. I have started eating more eggs instead of cereal for breakfast. And I have replaced my strawberry jam and orange marmalade with homemade cranberry sauce. It’s not for the faint of heart. But then, neither is living.

Tart Cranberry Marmalade

Austere. Sharp. Perfect for these bitter bitter times.

  • ½ 12 oz bag of cranberries (freeze the other half)
  • ¼ cup of orange juice (or pomegranate juice)

Heat cranberries and juice in a saucepan until gently boiling. Reduce heat and simmer (covered) for 10 minutes. Stir occasionally. Let cool. Refrigerate.

Makes about 1 cup and lasts for 2 weeks in the refrigerator.

Use as you would jam or marmalade. I like it with whole wheat toast/bagel and goat cheese. I make peanut butter or almond butter or walnut butter sandwiches with it.

You’ve been warned. It is not sweet.

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