I Hide My Chocolate

Midlife observations

Category: Parenting

July 12, 2013

“Enjoy the Food!”

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Secret Eating

When I got engaged to my husband, 20 years ago, perhaps my biggest worry was how I was going to keep my eating weirdness a secret.  I recall that I also had more typical concerns, like:  are we still going to be in love 20 years later?  (Yes, but it takes work to navigate the differences as we have matured into our older, more distinct selves.)  Funny, the eating concern is vivid and fresh, like it was yesterday.

Food was and is a big part of our relationship.  In the beginning, dates and weekends together revolved around either eating out at a new restaurant or eating in by picking a recipe and planning a meal to cook together.  We were both very active and thoroughly enjoyed eating a lot to offset all the physical activity.  Cocooned in our relationship, we developed a repertoire of delicious meals together.  Before our engagement, we spent the weekdays apart, where I happily could revert to eating alone my secret meals.

I would eat alone, secretly, so I could indulge my desire for gorging.  I learned to gorge on food that has few calories so I could eat a lot of it without gaining weight.  A classic strategy for a ballerina.  Some of my favorite foods for gorging, because they can be consumed in large quantities with little adornment except for some olive oil & vinegar or plain yogurt, include:  Shredded Wheat, Oatmeal, Quinoa, Lentils, Baked Potatoes, Sweet Potatoes, Escarole, Broccoli Rabe, and FRUIT.  Staggering quantities of fruit.  So sweet and refreshing, I still eat a lot of fruit every day.  Now I am better able to manage portion sizes and enjoy what I eat mindfully.  Back then, I would make the meal last by reading while I ate and not letting myself take another bite until I finished a paragraph.  There is so much food I did not savor because I was reading and so many books I did not retain because I was eating.  Both the eating and the reading were stalling devices – I was avoiding dealing with whatever anxiety I did not want to face at the time.  Avoiding human contact and conflict, avoiding taking risks to put myself out there in the world to claim who I really was instead of who I thought I should be.  Or who I thought they wanted me to be.  Anyone other than me.

In those happy years of early marriage and those busy years of raising young children, I did not have time to be so anxious and did not miss being lonely.  My husband accepted and ignored or laughed at my food oddities.  I adapted my rules, strategies, and preferences to our life together, eking out some secret eating time when he had his tennis nights.  But when the weight gain of mid-life settled in and the anxieties of mid-life settled in, I found myself pulling out my bag of tricks.  But this time, my kids were watching.  Desperate to model healthy food choices to my son who would prefer to eat macaroni and cheese exclusively; desperate to model “normal” eating behavior to my daughter who regularly lounges in front of the tv, eating alone;  I became obsessive with healthy food choices and regular meals with minimal snacking.  I lost my 20 pounds but am not convinced there isn’t collateral damage.  I can no longer control when and what my children eat.  Perhaps I never did.

When I found out I was pregnant with a girl, 18 years ago, perhaps my biggest worry was how to raise a girl without an eating disorder.  I vowed to raise a daughter with a happy sense of her self and her body and a healthy approach to eating that included enjoyment of food.  I recall that I also had more typical concerns, like:  will she be healthy?  Will she be happy?  Will I be a good mother?   (She is healthy.  I hope she is happy.  And, good or bad, I certainly am the mother I was meant to be.)  Funny, the eating disorder concern is vivid and fresh, like it was yesterday.

As girls, it makes complete sense to me why we eat alone.  There is too much pressure to eat socially.  Like Scarlett O’Hara, we have to eat a private meal before (or after) the public meal.  We are so laced into our form-fitting party attire and so expected to eat properly, pretending we don’t need or enjoy the sensual pleasure of eating to satiety.

There is too much pressure to eat what everyone else is eating.  Either too much or too little.  What if it doesn’t taste good?  What if it does taste good, so good I can’t stop eating it?  No, better to sit quietly with a vat of fruit, filling up on something healthy and tasty that won’t make me fat.

There is too much pressure to make food choices that are what “normal” people would choose to eat.  The homemade pasta with short ribs sounds delicious, but I am afraid of the calories and am cutting back on meat.  I’d really rather have the vegan farro with grilled vegetables.  Does that make me weird, someone to look askance at?

When the meal arrives, it is unseemly to devour the entire plate load of food.  “Oh no, I couldn’t possibly eat another bite” is what the good girls say, covering their plate with a napkin or mushing the food so that it is no longer appetizing or (my personal tactic) simply dividing it in half mentally and using their tremendous self-discipline to stop.  I don’t believe the thin celebrities who brag that they eat burgers and fries without guilt.  They go to the gym to work it off – or worse if they are bulimic.  They pay a price for their bodies.

Our children watch us, learn from us, imitate us, reject us.  When all is said and done, they take parts of us even as they separate and evolve into their own selves.  I am regularly terrified that some characteristic of me that I can’t stand lives on in my children.  Cuticle picking, secret eating, and all sorts of obsessive-compulsive and perfectionistic anxiety.  But they are not me.  They did not have my parents, my life.  They are loved, I think they know they are loved, and they have different life experiences and coping skills to grow into emotionally strong and honest adults.  Still, I can’t help but have a frisson of terror when I see myself mirrored whenever they exhibit anxious behavior traits.

When my brother-in-law urged me to “enjoy the food!” on a recent trip to New Orleans, I laughed.  He had no idea what a complicated feat that would be for me.  (Or did he?)  Balancing my fear of getting fat with my desire to eat, it used to be easy to lose track of what really tastes good and what really satisfies my body.  Now, though, with years of eating behind me and an increasing yogic sense of awareness of my body, I am more able to choose what I really want to eat and to enjoy it.  Nothing beats a delicious bowl of fruit.  Now, though, I prefer to share it.

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July 3, 2013

From Boy To Man

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A Talisman for My Son

We gave away the swing set today.

Ten years ago, at the peak of the building euphoria when we completed the renovation of and addition to our house, we bought this childhood accessory, fantasizing about the fun times our children would have flying through the air.  They were 3 and 7.  We had some metal monkey bars from a neighbor, but I wanted swings.  I had had a swing set as a child and was determined to provide this accoutrement for my children, hoping it would attract friends and laughter.  Happy solitude would be okay with me also.  The swing set got a lot of use that first summer.  Pretty quickly though, the slide didn’t seem very slippery or very steep.  The monkey bars were wood and gave my son splinters.  He preferred the ugly metal hand-me-down from before.  My daughter could no longer hang upside down without her head touching the ground.  The squirrels chewed up the canopy.  The next-door neighbors used it more than we did.  It has completely languished for the last few years.  Finally, it was time.  The decade of having young children has passed.  The neighbors up the street eagerly accepted the offer, carting it away and power-washing it with enthusiasm.  The swing set has new life.  They completely surprised me with a bouquet of flowers and a bottle of wine to say thank-you.  Four and two, the young girl looked me in the eye and handed me the bouquet of flowers.  It was all I could do to not cry.  It is time.  I wish them friends and laughter; happy solitude; and the sensation of flying to the sky when they swing.

My son turns fourteen this week.  My sweet boy is turning into a young man.  He doesn’t ask for a lot, but when he does he is very determined to get it.  We usually come up with a way to give him what he wants if we see it is important to him.   When we asked him what he wanted for his birthday, he surprised us with a thought out answer. He wants a coin on a chain, like my husband.  Many of his peers wear a chain with a cross.  I suspect he may want a chain like theirs to fit in.   But we are not Christian, so he knows the symbolic cross does not belong around his neck.  No, better to aspire to the trappings of manhood that his father has adopted and make them his own.  My husband’s grandmother gave him an ancient Roman coin that he had mounted and wears on a chain.  He treasures this coin and never takes it off.  A talisman of extraordinary power and magic.  What son would not want the same?

My husband and I were both touched by his request and set about researching the options.  My husband found a coin with Neptune/Poseidon on one side (my son’s favorite god) and a boy on a dolphin on the obverse.  The boy on the dolphin is, Taras, Poseidon’s son who was rescued from a shipwreck by a dolphin.  It also could be the boy version of Genius – representing the notion that a divine inner spirit resides within us and guides us and determines our character.  I like that interpretation.  And don’t we all need a guardian angel?

As my son turns 14, we are saying good-bye to so many of his childhood ways.  His voice is changing.  I must get a video of him – IMMEDIATELY – before his young voice completely vanishes.  I feel quite urgent about this.  He no longer crawls into bed with us.  Really.  Finally.  It is over.  For 14 years, he has slipped into bed with us eager for a comforting snuggle, a soothing backrub.  When he was a little boy, this was a nightly occurrence.  Gradually, it became just weeknights in the early morning hours around 4 am.  On the weekends, non-school-nights, he was more relaxed and able to sleep deeply and securely.  In the last year or so, the early morning visits have become less frequent – though he remains an enthusiastic hugger and snuggler at other times of the day.  Now, I can’t quite remember the last time he came in.  Just as well, he is getting so big, he really doesn’t fit – galumphing in between us to find a spot.  We knew this day would come.  We were pretty sure he’d stop climbing into bed before he left for college.  And with high school right around the corner, he seems to be on schedule.  I miss my little boy.  I am holding my breath for the man he is going to become.

One of the many things I feel I have missed out on by not belonging to a religious community is the tradition of ritual.  As he transitions from boy to man, it is an occasion to celebrate with a rite of passage.  Without a Confirmation ceremony or Bar Mitzvah, I feel the need to mark his growing maturity and sense of responsibility in some meaningful way.  We will have a family party and make a favorite meal and gift him with his Roman coin.  We will dance to the Beatles’ Birthday song.  And perhaps we will share our thoughts on what makes a good man.

My dear son, as you make the transition from boy to man, know that I am so proud of you.  We tend to think of good men as handsome and strong protectors.  These physical characteristics don’t last.  It is the strength inside you that will make you a good and honorable man.  I wish for you to have the courage to speak what is true and important to you and to live according to what you value.  Accept responsibility.  Seek adventure.  Be generous, patient, and loving.  Fight for truth.  Fight for love.  Live with integrity.  Live like you have only one life.

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June 16, 2013

What Did You Learn From Your Father?

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I Wonder

I hope that my children will like me and my husband, their father, and that they will want to spend time with us when they are grown and we are old.

For me, I choose to spend as little time as possible with my father.  The only way I could become my grown-up self was to leave home.  Whatever love I felt for him could not coexist with the suppressed rage I felt at the life-long expectation that I be obedient.  “Children should be seen and not heard,” was his not-so-joking mantra.  I rarely visit.  I feel guilty that I don’t visit; that I don’t want to visit.  My father’s grip on me is subtle but pervasive and insistent.  I silently stay away, unable to fight his hold, unless I stay away.

For Father’s Day, as we honor our fathers and fatherhood, I am sensitive to the poignant images of loving fathers.  I wonder how many of us long for a relationship with our father that we didn’t have?  I wonder if I can allow my anger and disappointment to recede for the day so that I can acknowledge what my father has given me?  I wonder what his father did to him?

Like me, my father was an only child.  He describes his early childhood as being unsettled.  While his father opted to continue his education because he couldn’t find work, my father and his mother lived with her parents.  He was very close to his mother and describes her as adventurous and very smart and well-educated.  His father was absent, preoccupied, and didn’t really understand my father.  Like me, my father was a sensitive and introspective child.  He discovered the violin around the age of 12 or so and poured all his energy into learning to play.  When his father invited him to spend the summer in New York with him while he had a short-term job there, my father refused.  He wanted to stay home and practice the violin all summer.  What young teen refuses their father and what father accepts such a refusal?  Didn’t the family function as a family or was it a collection of individuals?  At a young age, my father prioritized his own pursuits over family and friends.

Music formed the backdrop of my childhood.  As a young child, I fell asleep to the sound of my father practicing his violin.  On Saturday nights, he played string quartets with a loyal foursome who formed my father’s primary social circle.  My mother and I would watch tv (The Mary Tyler Moore Show and The Carol Burnett Show).  When they were done playing, they would have coffee and dessert.  When I was older, I was allowed to join.

I started playing piano when I was about 5.  Endless years of practicing, lessons, and recitals.  It’s amazing I wasn’t a better piano player.  I would complain about practicing, but my father insisted.  When I looked to him for approval after working on a piece, he would say in his undemonstrative way, “Hmmm, it was good,” which seemed the ultimate put-down.  Of course, there was the recital where I forgot the notes, so my teacher brought me the music and I had to start over.  Beyond mortifying.  I found out much later that the reason my father did not become a professional violinist was that he had severe stage-fright.

Around 7, he introduced the violin to me.  What a mistake.  Screechy and my father’s instrument.  I quit.  Then there was the year when I played the flute, around 9.  When my father revealed that violinists don’t like flautists because they compete for the same melodic line, I quit.  Later, around 11, he persuaded me to try the cello.  He explained that I didn’t have to be as much of a virtuoso to get an opportunity to play.  Somewhat of a backhanded rationale, but I complied, as usual.  More practicing, more lessons, more recitals and competitions.  It’s amazing I wasn’t a better cellist.  My mother says I was a very good cello player, that I got a deep and robust sound out of the cello that spoke to her.  My father hangs on to my cello asking periodically if I wouldn’t like to take it back to my grown up home.  Maybe next time.

When my husband and son took up the guitar two years ago, I contemplated joining them, gently strumming the guitar, picking at the notes and paging through the instruction book.  I enjoyed their lessons and usually beat everyone at “Name That Tune.”  No.  I didn’t want to practice an instrument any more.

The only time I saw my father cry (when I was a child) was when he was watching a violinist perform.  “Daddy, why are you crying?”  I exclaimed in confusion and alarm.  I don’t remember that he answered.  My mother explained that he was moved by how beautiful the music was.

I too am moved by music.  (Thank you Dad.)  The sound of a violin or a string quartet brings back the entire aura of my childhood.  But the music that moves me is music that I associate with dance, for that was my world, and not his.  Or pop music from the 70’s.  Other teens rebel by breaking rules and having fights that allow them to bond with their peers.  I rebelled by replacing music lessons with ballet lessons and by replacing classical music with Fleetwood Mac and Aerosmith.  It was the closest I could get to breaking the rules of our family, without leaving home, until I did leave home.

I wonder if his father had been able to be more present, more emotional, more tuned in to him if my father would have been less self-absorbed and more able to allow for differences and dischord to coexist with love within the family.  I wonder if something darker happened to my father to cause him to retreat into his own world, unable to express or share love in a mature way.  How much of my tendency to retreat, to go to a place of depression and anxiety is a habit learned from him and how much is cellular, genetic?  How much of the anxiety gene did I pass on to my children?  They say trauma, and how one reacts to stress, is passed on through the genes.

Now I see an aging man who is frightened of the end of life.  Exhausted at the amount of energy required to take care of his and my mother’s survival.  Unapologetic.  Needing me most just as I am most determined to assert my grown up self and establish severely distinct boundaries.  I wonder if I can allow my anger and disappointment to recede so that I can acknowledge what my father has given me?  I wonder if anger and love can coexist?  He did not show me how they could, being perhaps more conflict-avoidant than me, but it seems important to reconcile these emotions honestly so that I can model a better way of being for my children and theirs.  After all, they will need to leave home and become their grown up selves.  I hope they will want to visit.

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June 9, 2013

M.C. “B”

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Boys and School

“You know Mom, I think the only thing I’m going to miss about 8th grade is Mr. B.”

I smile quietly, “Yes, you’ve really enjoyed Social Studies this year.”

I whoop inwardly:  YES!  Finally!  There is something about school that he likes!  YAY!!!!!!

Thank you Mr. B., energetic rapper, grandfather to another Aidan, and devoted teacher.  With your sense of humor and enthusiasm, you sparked Aidan to have an interest in politics, the electoral process, and World War 2. It was the one subject this year that neither I nor my husband needed to coach.  (I do the humanities, my husband does math and science.  At least until we get so frustrated that we opt to switch places.  My husband has assisted with writing some remarkable poems.  And everything Aidan knows about linear equations, he learned from me.)  Mr. B., you were organized and predictable, which helped him tremendously.  You listened to Aidan and allowed him to play a prominent role in the classroom, inspiring him to be more confident.   In short, you connected with him.  For that, I am profoundly grateful.  P.S.  I heard your rap was awesome.

When my son was about a year and a half, our babysitter’s husband fell ill and she couldn’t take care of Aidan.  For this period, I brought him to back-up daycare at my office.  The daycare center was well-run with good people, but it was not home and the good people were not “Grandma Phyllis.”  Day 1, I followed instructions to minimize the separation torture – ie, quick hug and walk away.  Off to work, I spent the day worrying.  I did not visit him at lunchtime – I was assured a mid-day visit would make the separation worse.  Day 2, he knew where we were going.  This little 18 month old who was hardly speaking any words yet, sat next to me on the Manhattan-bound train and gave me the silent treatment: proud, stubborn, hurt.  He looked out the window, refusing to make eye contact or snuggle with me in any way.  Enraged at the person he loves most, he stared stiffly out the window.  I took his hand and tried to explain.  He said one word:  “Home.”  This from the boy who did not speak yet.   My heart broke.

My mother tells the same story about my first day at Nursery School.  When she asked me how I liked it, I said:  “Too shy.”  Never an extrovert, I did grow to love school.  Eager to please and competitive for the A’s, I thrived at school.   I wanted my children to do so as well.  Not just for the intellectual stimulation and social life – and social validation – but because I was busy busy busy with my career and couldn’t really deal with them not fitting into the realm of “normal” school life with its structure and schedule.  I have fantasized about living a more adventurous life of travel and home-schooling them, but alas, I am very risk-averse and quite embedded in our suburban life.  My children have had no choice but to plod off to school dutifully every morning and work on their homework diligently every evening.  No breakdown in the routine allowed for working mothers, nor their children.

So the years go by.  After Grandma Phyllis, there is Pre-School, Kindergarten, Elementary School.  We are in a “good” public school district with an array of teachers.  Most of them are competent.  Many of them are truly gifted and dedicated educators.  My older daughter got the competitive-for-A’s gene and sailed right to the top of the class and has stayed there.  Because she is a girl, who is smart, funny, and obedient, her teachers adore her and encourage her.  My son is also smart, funny, and obedient, but he really has not liked school very much.  He is not competitive for A’s.  That is his sister’s territory.  His motivation stems mainly from a desire to not disappoint us, not from a burning desire to learn.  Because he is a boy, who is sensitive, distractable, and disorganized, most of his teachers have treated him like just another boy in the middle of the pack.  He doesn’t get the encouragement that the top of the heap gets, nor the attention that the truly challenged genuinely require.  There have been a few exceptions.  Pre-School was nurturing and safe, a supportive entry point.  First Grade teacher Mrs. G. whispered that he is a treasure.  Fifth Grade teacher Mrs. B. tried a tough approach, recognizing that he was smart and demanding that he actually work.  But mostly, Aidan has just wanted to come home.  Homework was a chore that took him away from more comfortable at-home activities, like tending his garden, playing with his birds, or getting lost in the stories on tv.

Every year, we are all relieved when Summer arrives and the school routine ends.  No more checking the homework, coaching the hard subjects, organizing the backpack.  No more nagging – “Did you remember:  your library book, your lunch, your homework, your essay, your permission slip, your housekey, your instrument, your gym clothes.”  Constant nagging. We try to encourage Aidan to read and write and practice math over the summer, but I really don’t have it in me to insist.  September re-entry is rough.  It’s a long uphill slog until December.  He gets grounded January – April and then really catches some wind and sails through to June.  Here we are at June.  I am so proud and so relieved.  Finals still to go and then graduation from Middle School.  I remember Kindergarten orientation where I had to leave the room with a lump in my throat after the Principal said:  “Don’t blink!  Before you know it they’ll be on their way to college!”  Sure enough, I blinked, and my daughter is beginning the college admissions process and my son will soon be embarking on high school.

And so, as I wonder how to help my son navigate the choppy waters of puberty and high school when all he really wants is to be home, I thank the teachers who muster their entire arsenal of professional and personal experience to connect with their students – recognizing and encouraging what is unique about each individual in the hope that they will shine forward and become a fully realized human being, even if they are not competitive for the A’s.

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May 6, 2013

But What About the Laundry?

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My Deepest Fear

Sunday morning, my daughter woke up crying.  She had a class trip to Six Flags and was overwhelmed with homework.  Frightened of her anxiety born of perfectionism, too much like mine, I galvanized her to go on the trip.  “When you’re 50, you will wish you had spent more time having fun and less time on work.”  A tearful mess, (her, not me) I deposited her at the school and went home and worried.  My husband suggested that I surprise our son by taking him to Six Flags.  That way, I could check on our daughter and please my son at the same time.  (Conveniently, he had a business trip that day and could not join us on this “great adventure.”)

I don’t like amusement parks.  I was terrified of the local Halloween Haunted House as a child.  Dark with costumed figures jumping out and bowls of spaghetti guts and peeled grape eyeballs to feel, it was not a frisson of fun for me.  While the other kids were laughing, I was quaking and looking for the exit.  My fear was compounded with embarrassment at not fitting in with the other kids.  What was the matter with me?  When it came to rides, I could barely stand the Merry-Go-Round.  The Ferris Wheel was too high.  The Round-Up was too fast.  I never went on those flying swings.  And forget about roller coasters.  As amusement parks became theme parks and got better at supplying a well-rounded overall experience instead of just rides (think Disney, Busch Gardens), I grudgingly accepted them and even have been known to have a good time, usually in the company of more adventurous and extraverted souls.  The log flume ride was fun!  But roller coasters – I hated them.  The safety belt strapping you in so that you don’t die when you go upside down.  The adrenalin as you crank up to the first swoop.  The force of the swoop on your neck.  The wondering when the ride is going to be over.  The nausea.  The screaming.  And the newer ones in the dark?  I hate them.  I hate amusement parks.

I looked at my husband like he was crazy.  “But what about the laundry?” I exclaimed, grasping at a responsible-sounding excuse.  I wanted to go to yoga.  I wanted to plant spring flowers.  Maybe go for a bike ride.  And, of course, I had the weekly laundry to do.  I did not want to go to Six Flags.  But I was worried about my daughter.  And I did want to make my son happy.  Rarely spontaneous, I am quite sure that when I am 90, I will wish I had spent more time having fun and less time on laundry.  I woke my son and told him we were going to Six Flags.  The surprise, the disbelief, the thrill on his face gave me joy.  Off we went.

When we arrived, I remembered why I hate amusement parks.  The long lines.  The loud music.  The rickety rides.  The junk food.  (I brought my own peanut butter and jelly on whole wheat bread, of course.  I cannot eat that food.  Thank god the security guard didn’t make me throw it away when he inspected my purse.  Speaking of purses, do not bring a purse to an amusement park.  You cannot go upside down on a roller coaster with a purse.)  Six Flags pretty much consists of roller coasters, ranging from scary to terrifying.  It doesn’t help that I wonder about their maintenance and safety records and am skeptical of the nonchalant teens operating them.  For better or worse, the first ride we hit was the most terrifying.  (SUPERMAN:  Ultimate Flight)  I used my yoga:  Breathe.  Remember it doesn’t last long.  I willed the adrenalin to subside.  We swooped and screamed and I did not lose my purse.  I acknowledged, firmly and with no embarrassment nor apology this time around:  I hate roller coasters.  I hate amusement parks.  I wished that I could be a more enthusiastic and spontaneous and fun-loving mother for my son, but I couldn’t do it.  We spent the day sauntering the park, looking for rides that were not too terrifying.  He solicitously didn’t want to make me go on any rides that were too scary.  We ran into my daughter once.  She was having a good time with her friends and didn’t want to be stalked by her mother and little brother.  We let her be.  Exhausted, and about $200 in the hole, we drove home.  My daughter returned on the bus to her mounds of homework.  Life returned to its normal relentless pace of too much to do and too little time for joy and connection.

A 13-year-old boy killed himself this week.  I don’t know him.  It doesn’t matter.  I am devastated.  So sad for his mother.  I am the mother of a 13-year-old boy who can’t imagine life without him.  Even when, (especially when), we have days where I fall short of being the fun-loving mother I aspire to be and imagine he wants.  Tragedies like this one remind me that every day is precious, even when they’re not perfect.  Perhaps being the careful-loving mom that I am who acknowledges who she is and who she is not may be the best mom I can be to him.

Life is hard.  We all suffer.  Some more than others.  At 50, I have more self-knowledge and self-acceptance than I had as a teen.  I have become resilient, surviving the troughs because I have the experience of surviving previous troughs.  Surviving because I have people I love and who love me.  Surviving for those precious and imperfect moments of joy and connection.  Surviving because I am grateful for all the good in my life.  My deepest, most unfathomable fear is to lose a child.  I pray that my children never experience so much pain that they feel there is no way out.  I pray that my children speak their anger and ask for help.  I pray that my children do less laundry and have more fun.

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April 20, 2013

On the Road to Boston

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Grateful

I’ve planned it all out.  I will live to be at least 100.  There is longevity in my family.  I am thin, I eat excruciatingly healthy meals, and I do yoga.  Why wouldn’t that be the case?  That would give me another 50 years to figure out what I want to be when I grow up.  Sure, it might get lonely.  Statistics are quite certain that I will outlive my husband.  I figure I’ll go live on an ashram when I am old and widowed.  It has to be better than a nursing home.  I have plans to help my children with their children.  My parents couldn’t, didn’t help me.  I am determined to help my children.  There is a lot that I want to do with my next 50 years.

Every now and then, though, I am shocked into the realization that my life could end at any moment.

“Hi honey.  I am just calling to tell you that I am heading to Grand Central to catch a train home.  In case a bomb goes off and I don’t make it home, I love you.  And the life insurance policy is in effect.”

That was my phone call to my husband on Monday after I heard the news about the bombs in Boston.

That feeling was back.  After September 11, every good-bye became imbued with meaning and emotion.  I made a point to look in my loved ones eyes, to hug them, to tell them I love them.  I closed my eyes in the Grand Central tunnel.  I … prayed … that my commute, that my daily ordinary life, would not kill me or anyone else.  After all, you never know.  Of course, over a decade later, I relaxed.  A little bit.   Now, it’s back.

Coincidentally, my daughter and I had finally planned our first trip to look at colleges.  In Boston.  This week.  No more procrastination.  Winter Break in Stowe is behind us.  Spring Break in Spain is behind her.  My first 100 days on my new job is behind me.  No more denial.  She is 17 and leaving home in 16 months.  It’s time.  Where to look?  Eastern corridor.  D.C., Philadelphia, Boston.  She has loved Boston since her first school trip there in 7th grade.  Boston it is.  We made the reservations.  Tufts – a beautiful campus school.  MIT – she is an engineering nerd like her father (and just a regular nerd like her mother).  BU – what about an urban experience?  Instead of anxiety, I started getting excited.  There is perhaps no more exciting life transition than going to college.  Instead of focusing on how much I am going to miss her and worry about her, I started focusing on what she must be experiencing.  What a thrill!

After the bombs on Monday, we discussed rescheduling the trip.  Our schedules are so tight; our excitement so high; we rationalized that Boston is as safe a place as any.  Boston it is.

We packed Thursday night and went to bed, ready to leave before dawn in order to make our 10am info session at BU.  They warned that parking was terrible, so we needed plenty of time.  In the car, fortified with Starbucks before 6 am, we were off.  Dark and quiet, the magic I had hoped for happened.  No radio, no tv, no computer, no cell phone, we talked.  And talked and talked and talked.  What kind of school would be a supportive and nurturing environment for my beloved first born?  Where might she be happy?  Where might she want to live?  What might she want to do?  How to reconcile her math/science head with her intensely creative and talented art ability?  And, not to spoil the dreaming, what could we afford?  We couldn’t afford any of the schools we were looking at.  We just have to start somewhere.

Two hours later, half way to Boston, the conversation lulled.  She checked her cell phone.  “Mom!”  She was almost crying.  “Dad has called a whole bunch of times and he texted us, ‘Turn Around!  Aren’t you listening to the radio?’”

No, we were obliviously and happily in our magical mother-daughter world.

It took a while for the news to sink in.  Boston was locked down.  Everything was closed.  A manhunt was on.  There was a shooting at MIT, precisely where we here headed that afternoon.  This was not a movie, this was real life.  WTF?!  WTF?!  WTF?!

I pulled off the road to consider our options.  My first instinct was denial.  They’ll catch him and everything will be fine.  Let’s keep going.  Ridiculous.  And she was scared.  My second instinct was panic.  Let’s go home.  But we were so psyched to look at schools and have this special trip together!  I breathed.  I calmed down.  I decided to exercise my live-in-the-moment flexibility muscle.  You know, the one that is not very strong because I am a controlling, rigid, organized, disciplined, set-in-my ways, always-in-motion, nut.  What else could we do?  Aren’t there other schools we could look at?  Well, we’re right near Rhode Island.  Some good schools there.  Providence is a nice town.  Newport is a nice town.  We set the GPS for the University of Rhode Island arriving, magically, at 10am just as an Information Session and Campus Tour was about to begin.  They welcomed us heartily and off we went on our very first tour.  There was a lot to like, though it didn’t inspire that Aha! thrill of an ivy quad that she is waiting for.  She raised her eyebrows at me when we looked at the dorm room for three.  I teased her, reminding her that she had once dreamed of bringing her beautiful Queen bed to college with her.  And where would all her clothes go?  I reassured her that she could store off-season clothes at home, requiring regular visits home to update her wardrobe.  Phew, that problem was solved.

The day was looking up.  We jaunted off to Newport for lunch having the most delicious tuna I have ever ever had at Diego’s (truly, it is amazing and worth the trip) and topping it off with the best chocolate – ever – at Destination Chocolate (truly, it is amazing and worth the trip).  We fantasized about the sailboat my husband wants.  She and my husband had the same thought at the same time.  As he texted, she spoke out loud:  “If I go to URI, Daddy will want to get a boat and keep it at Newport!”  They are DNA twins.  We drove past the Newport mansions, anticipating the movie release of Gatsby.  I hope it’s good.  Maybe I should read the book.  She read it for school this year, but I never have.

Off to Providence.  Brown didn’t have any tours this weekend, but we figured we could just walk around and have our mother-daughter hotel night there.  We drove into town.  What a manageable city!  We headed toward Brown.  You drive up “College Hill” and it hits you.  Beautiful, understated, old, ivy academic richness.  It was what she was waiting for.  She fell in love.  Even if she’s one of the 6% or 9% or some silly low percentage that gets accepted, we can’t afford it.  Back at our hotel, I found it hard to tame my urge to be in anxious and perpetual motion to DO SOMETHING.  Movie?  Providence Bruins game?  Restaurant?  I was ready!  She confided, “Mom, could we get room service?  I’ve always wanted to get room service.  Maybe we could just hang here and watch a movie on the tv.”  Gulp, how unaspiring.  OK.  Gulp.  We can do that.  Gulp.  We looked at the room service menu.  Hamburgers struck us as a decadent choice.  Especially for me, the excruciatingly healthy sometimes meatless one.  Gulp.  We ordered hamburgers.  She picked the movie, Pitch Perfect.  I would have picked some Oscar nominee that I hadn’t seen.  It was such a fun movie.  We ate our delicious hamburgers.  We ate our delicious chocolate.  We laughed at our fun movie.  It was the best night – just about ever.  Safe as anyone can be, blessed to have such a special chance for mother-daughter time, I enjoyed just being with her. The movie ended.  We checked the news from our haven and were beyond relieved to see that the manhunt was over.

The next day, I continued (or tried) to follow her lead.  Did she want to take the tour at RISD?  Did she want to look at Quinnipeac?  Yale?  After all, she’s the one who’s going to college, not me.  It’s her life and she is wise and knows herself with amazing clarity.  We spent the day exploring and just being together.  I am so grateful.  Grateful for my life, for her life.  Grateful to be home safe and looking forward to the next road trip.

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March 27, 2013

“Who’s Your Favorite?”

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Love Is Not Finite

“You’re my favorite,” I winked conspiratorially at my son.

My 17-year-old daughter was packing for Spain and having a conniption about not being able to use her phone (the terribly backward iPhone 4).  We had arranged for a loaner Droid, but it was not up to her standards.  It was my fault.

My husband was scornfully not eating his delicious crabcakes for dinner, because I had forgotten to get tartar sauce to accompany them.  His dinner was ruined.  It was my fault.

My son had dutifully done his homework and uncomplainingly eaten his crabcake.  He pointed both out to me, leveraging the opportunity to come out on top of the family rating scale that evening.  And so, what else could I say but “You’re my favorite.”

“Ah!  Mom, do you know that that is the first time you’ve said that to me?” he replied with an earnest look into my eyes and a catch in his voice.

He is almost 14.  How could that be?

“Kiera, Daddy, even Cooper!  (our beloved parakeet) but never me,” he added, inserting knife and twisting.

Maternal guilt strikes.

“Who’s Your Favorite” had become a family joke.  All Aidan’s life, he has anxiously and eagerly demanded to know who was our favorite.  So sure it was his ambitious, obedient, over-achieving big sister.  So desperate for it to be him, we dealt with it by:

  1. Refusing to answer the question.
  2. Answering the question by naming anyone in our family community except for him – teasingly.
  3. Engaging in long, philosophical conversations about love.

How could he possibly be insecure about our love for him?!  We have enfolded him, literally and figuratively, into our arms, our lives, our hearts, profoundly.  I know no deeper love.  How does he not know this to the core of his soul?

When I was pregnant with him, I confided to my husband:  “I love Kiera so much.  I am afraid I won’t love another child as much.”  As an insecure only child, I had little-to-no experience with groupings of people, waxing and waning of friendships, sibling rivalry.  I did know what it was like to want to be the favorite of my parents in our dysfunctional triangle.   I, like Aidan, wanted people all to myself.  If there was fighting, it meant the love was gone.  I never experienced “normal” family fighting and making up and loving each other even when you disagreed or thought the other person was annoying.  My husband, one of three children, said gently to me: “Love is not finite.  You will make room in your heart for another child.”  How did he know?

Sure enough, when Aidan was born, my heart burst open more and there it was:  deep, profound, maternal love for this amazing creature.  So different from my first child.  He is sweet, sensitive, eager to please yet stubborn, charming, competitive, funny, empathetic, motivated by avoiding parental displeasure, disarmingly naïve, and deeply honest and transparent.  He pretty much would be happy staying home 24-7 and hanging out with us all day long.  He tolerates school, mainly because it is important to us.  His is a tough personality to have in a family where everyone else is busy being an over-achiever.

How can I help him feel secure that we love him and confident that his qualities are valuable?  It is challenging for me to not focus on academic and competitive achievements, because that is what I have spent my life valuing.  Aidan’s interests and talents lie elsewhere.

He is the best hugger I know and will happily spend unlimited amounts of time just being close.  Just being.  Not my comfort zone.  I want to encourage healthy, loving touch between mother and son.  Since I did not have that with my father, nor with my mother, it is difficult to know how best to be close.  Am I helping or hindering his appropriate development and eventual independence and separation?

He is not self-conscious.  He says what he thinks; he asks what he doesn’t know; and he is loyal to his family and his friends with intensity and without embarrassment.  There is no calculus of how is behavior or his words will impact his social standing or his cool factor.  He wears his heart on his sleeve.  As first grade teacher Mrs. Goldman whispered to me at our parent-teacher conference, “Aidan is a treasure.”  Yes, he is.

He plugs away at all that we ask of him, with mixed ability and mixed results.  He is diligent, resistant, a procrastinator, a day-dreamer, hard-working, lazy, thoughtful, creative.

He makes me laugh.

He remembers the words to all the tv commercial jingles.  (But not the words to all the math theorems.)

My interactions with him frequently take the form of nagging.  Did you do your homework?  When is your next math exam?  Did you read the chapter for ELA yet?  Pick up your clothes.  Make your bed.  Set the table.  Take a shower.  The time we spend together revolves around working on homework or driving to tennis clinic.  It is wearing us both out.  Surely there is more for us to talk about and do together?  I am at fault.  On the treadmill of life and achievement, I want to make sure he is keeping up.  Instead of quizzing him, perhaps I should listen to him, say yes more, and be open to what he has to teach me, to offer me.  Lessons on how to love, how to relax and have fun, how to be.

A few weeks ago, Aidan invited me to go to the movies with him.  I suppressed my impulse to say “No, I’m too tired on Fridays and just want to go home and relax.”  After all, how much longer will a 13-year-old boy want to go to the movies with his mom?  We went out to dinner afterwards and shared our thoughts about the movie.  And then we did it again the following week.  And again the following week.  Maybe this will be our thing.  It is for now.  When I get out of the house I’m not consumed with all the chores I should be doing and all the homework he should be doing.  When we get out of the house, we can just be ourselves, having fun together.

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February 23, 2013

Surya Namaskar Ski

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A Fervent Salute to the Sun

It was a cold and windy week at Stowe Mountain.  My smug celebration of triumph over my anxiety demons vanished with the lack of sun, the bitter cold, and the icy trails.  The smart decision, for me, would have been to accept that conditions were not good, for me, and to settle down with my book: Cyndi Lee’s May I Be Happy.  But it was too early in the vacation week to “give in” to a day off.  And so I fought the conditions, determined to have a magical week.  Our skiing abilities have converged at that happy and temporary moment where we all can ski together.  I wanted to enjoy this week together.  And so I did.

I ski because my husband skis.

We met on a group cross-country long weekend, 20 years ago this February.  I tease him that it was false advertising, because he is a downhill skier not a cross-country skier.  I had my one and only certifiable full-blown classic panic attack when attempting downhill skiing earlier with a former boyfriend.  Of course, I had much to be anxious about as we navigated the fork in the road in our relationship about whether or not to marry.  After sweating, hyperventilating, and resisting the urge to throw up, I decided that downhill skiing was not for me – and I decided not to marry that boyfriend.

I came to more adventurous sports, like cycling and hiking in my 20’s.  I was not brought up with much exposure to athletics and team sports.  I was one of the last girls picked for the softball team.  I discovered physical activity through ballet and loved having a strong and active body.  But skiing was forbidden to ballet dancers, deemed to be too risky.  These adventurous activities were so foreign to how I was raised, that I really got a charge out of the challenge of pushing myself physically.  Skiing, however, added a whole new layer of anxiety and discomfort.

I fell head over heels in love with my husband at first sight.  In my attempt to impress him, I agreed to go downhill skiing instead of cross-country skiing that weekend and fell and hurt my knee.  When we returned from the weekend, he checked on how I was doing post-ski-injury and we began dating.  We had a joyful and passionate courtship and married a year later.

Part of a loving relationship is sharing interests with the other person and doing things that make the other person happy.  I had spent years learning what I was interested in and was very insecure and suspicious about giving up my Self to take on another person’s interests.  This time it felt different.  Somehow it was okay to do things because he wanted to do them.  I learned to ski.

Learning to ski is an enormous challenge, especially as an adult.  It is a scary and uncomfortable activity that requires travelling, carrying equipment, and enduring a variety of less-than-ideal conditions.  For the first few years of our life together, it was difficult to actually ski together because our levels of ability were so different.  I took a lot of classes with other adults at my level.  I was very good in these classes, eager to please the teacher and work towards progressing to the next level.  Then I would ski with my husband and all my eager enthusiasm would dissipate.  I became passive aggressive, going extra slow on trails that should have been easy but I wanted to make sure he knew they were HARD for me.  I would stand at the top of a steep section and my heart would race and my stomach would lurch and I would exclaim that I couldn’t do it!  Somehow, for the most part, he patiently coached me or ignored my save-me-I’m-a-victim theatrics and we built a skiing life together.  It helped that there would be magical days when I wasn’t too cold and nothing hurt and I felt confident and skiing was actually exhilarating. I never gave up on skiing – feeling compelled to prove I could do it; feeling compelled to make him proud of me; and feeling compelled to achieve it because it was such a crazy different achievement from all the intellectual pursuits I had been directed towards by my parents.

We introduced our children to skiing at as young an age as possible and have been skiing as a family for 10 years.  My skiing, our skiing, has changed over the years.  In the early years, it was a lot of work to manage their equipment and our equipment and get them to ski school on time.  My daughter, an obedient first-born girl, unquestioningly and energetically went off to ski school every year and has become a beautiful and technically proficient expert skier.  My son, never one to separate easily, resisted spending the day away from us in ski school.  We insisted and he has also become an excellent skier, though I see elements of my anxiety and passive-aggressiveness in him.  I also see how he enjoys the thrill and the challenge when he skis in the woods and the terrain park.  My husband has become a more patient skier, willing to take breaks and ski less advanced terrain.  And I have lost my anxiety – most of the time.  It still lurches up when I am cold or the wind is blowing and I can’t see well.  But when the sun is shining, I love skiing.  I never thought I would say that or feel that.  It took 20 years – and I really only feel the joy when the sun is shining.

I use all my yoga on our ski trips.  I remind myself that nothing is permanent and that the bitter cold chairlift ride will not last.  I remind myself that my anxiety is a bad habit that I can change, have changed.  I remind myself to breathe and to change the tape in my head to something more positive.  I remind myself that I have nothing to prove and that my reason to ski is to have fun with my family.  I remind myself to be grateful for the happy moments, patient with the uncomfortable moments and compassionate with the different moods that swirl in close quarters.

I have such sympathy for the children and the parents snapping at each other as they struggle off to ski school, such sympathy for the woman at the top of a steep section yelling at her partner that she can’t do it or frozen with panic, such sympathy for the woman who says I am going to go to the spa.

With only one or two exceptions, we’ve spent every annual family ski week at Stowe.  Just as our family skiing experience has evolved over the last 10 years, so has Stowe.  Stowe has always had an active town with many shops and restaurants and plenty to do for non-skiers year round.  Like all ski towns, though, it welcomed a rugged attitude:  “I’m just here for the skiing!  I’ll ski anytime, anywhere, with any conditions!”  Toughness was embraced.  It took several years but the new resort at Spruce Mountain, the Stowe Mountain Lodge, has changed the tenor of the town and the skiing experience.  I wonder what locals think?  The new resort is beautiful, very expensive, and adds a level of luxury and comfort that didn’t use to be at Stowe.  The older resorts seem faded, as if they can’t grasp how to compete or to respond to the new type of person visiting Stowe. Most of our vacations have been spent at the Golden Eagle Resort, a mid-priced resort with not a lot of luxury.  It is familiar, but very dated and awkwardly large and spread out.  Tired aura.  At The Firefox Inn for a basic Italian dinner, we were shocked at the drab décor and the ungracious service.  Bad aura.  Frida’s Taqueria is crowded and doing a good business.  The food is authentic and the service is friendly.  Good aura.  West Branch Yoga exuded yoga.  When we walked in, we looked at each other and smiled.  It smelled like yoga.  We were welcomed generously.  Warm aura.  As for the luxury resort at Spruce, it is not my favorite place.  It is well-designed and convenient, but very expensive and haughty, with closed off sections “for members only.”  The guests there seem self-absorbed and in their ivory tower.  Narcissistic aura.  (Full disclosure – if I could afford it – I would probably stay there.)  I feel for the town and the older establishments as they face this junction in their business.  The more frugal die-hard skier still exists but the money to support the businesses will come from the affluent visitors.  I’m looking forward to heated seats on the chairlifts.  Surely that will be the next upgrade.

Friday, our last day, was the warmest day – though still no sun – and we were all eager for a good day after all the cold days before.  Rested from a day at the spa, I was ready to feel the exhilaration and to conquer the mountain.  We tackled Lift Line, a double black diamond trail, a rare event in my skiing repertoire.  My son wanted to say he did a double black run and my husband wanted to get it in before his knees failed him and I didn’t want to be left behind.  As we headed for the run, the anticipation of anxiety got the better of me.  Just making the commitment to do the run made my heart race.  It’s a nerve-wracking chute down to the top of the first drop off.  I got there and giddily sang:  “Hello Terror, My Old Friend” and made the mistake of stopping instead of just jumping in.  Frozen, I had to talk myself out of panic.  Once I jumped in, the run was fine.  My son was so excited to have done it.  He too conquered his anxiety.

We enjoyed every moment of the day.  Perhaps it was our last in Stowe.  What will our skiing life together be like when my daughter goes to college?  Is it time to give Stowe a break?   Finally, on the last run of the day, the sun tried to break through and we found a faint rainbow in the sky.  Magical.  Good-bye for now Stowe.  Thank you for some wonderful family moments and memories.

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January 14, 2013

3 Adjectives

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Wise.  Honest.  Compassionate.

The assignment I have been dreading and anticipating for 17 years has arrived.  It is time to help my first-born get ready to leave home.  To begin the college exploration process, the high school guidance counselor helpfully sent home a precise and systematic worksheet to distill the overwhelming and very emotional task into one page:  Choose 3 adjectives to describe your child.

Just three?  My daughter is the most amazing creature ever.  I cannot narrow her down into three adjectives.  She is beautiful, funny, creative, ambitious, curious, elegant, honest, meticulous, compassionate, disciplined, hard-working, eager-to-achieve, eager-to-please, smarter than smart, the life of the party, athletic, graceful, strong, willful, compliant, adaptive, loving, stylish, curious, culturally in-the-know, fast, careful, controlled, trusting, a rule-follower, capable, independent, determined, generous, mature, friendly, modest, empathetic, vibrant, serious, silly, spirited, grounded, loyal, wise.  An artist.  A teacher.  A leader.  Just three?

What stories will make her stand out to the college admissions committees?

Should I tell them about the day I took off from work to take her for her driving road test?  She was excited about making the leap into driving.  I was less so, but excited on her behalf.  I mainly wanted it to be over to get to our mother-daughter day.  Lunch and Christmas shopping.  She failed the test, perhaps the first test she has ever failed.  Crying…she sat in the passenger seat and I took back the driver’s seat cursing at the situation, in pain at her pain.  There was no way this was going to be a good day.  Shopping would not be girly.  Lunch would not be delicious.  Giving up, we transitioned into running errands.  Running to the bank that afternoon, I left her in the car texting.  When I returned, she looked at me with tears steaming down her face.  A gunman has massacred 26 people, most of them children.  The raw emotion of shock, fear, disbelief, exhaustion was up front and center.  I couldn’t believe it, couldn’t let myself feel it.  My deepest, most unspeakable fear – to lose a child.  These poor people.  I am too controlling and distant from my emotions.  She is my guide to how to feel.

Should I tell them about her participation in the peer mentoring program at school?  How the kids adore her because she looks them in the eye and treats them like one of the regular kids, like a friend?  The regular kids didn’t know what to say or how to behave.  One day, she was taking the bus home and she sat down next to one of the girls she mentors.  The girl was so pleased she gave Kiera a kiss and confided that she considers my daughter a friend. And my daughter IS a friend to her.  There is no status stratification in her mind.  Anyone who is genuine, nice, and funny can be my daughter’s friend.  When the kids she babysits want to sit and talk instead of go to bed so she can get her homework done, she sits and talks.  I was not that kind of babysitter.  I wanted those kids to go to bed so I could get my homework done.  No wonder she is asked back to babysit.  I was not asked back.  She is my guide to how to be a friend.

Should I tell them I am so glad she doesn’t have a boyfriend yet?  Unlike me at her age, she is not trying to find validation of her worth by the number of boys who like her.  She has a range of friendships from different aspects of her life.  Smart, funny, loyal friends.  Beautiful girls in all shapes and sizes, with all different personalities and temperaments, all contributing to the social support that embraces my daughter and keeps her grounded, more grounded than I was, more grounded than I am.  She is my guide to how to be a confident girl, a confident woman.

Should I tell them about her brilliant business idea?  Not only is she academically gifted, but she is culturally astute.  Not only does she have my husband’s math and science brain, but she is creative, stylish, and savvy.  Too bad she is a rule-follower spending all her time getting A’s.  She doesn’t have time to execute her business idea(s).  How do I tell her that A’s don’t make you happy, that A’s don’t guarantee success in life or money in the bank?  How do I encourage her to break the rules and take some risks when I am her role-model, a model of over-achieving obedience?  Be brave, beautiful girl, follow your path.  No one is more capable than you.

Should I tell them that she took on a job as greeter and administrator at our yoga studio to make money to pay for her school trip to Spain?  So determined she was to finance some of the trip to take the burden off of us and to show solidarity with her friends who are less affluent.  And now, she has insinuated herself into the life of the yoga studio.  The teachers count on her to get the computer system straight.  The students see her smiling, gracious demeanor and share how they are doing with her.  And when they see me, they tell me what I already know…”Your daughter is just wonderful.”

Should I tell them about all the reality tv that she watches and how I don’t understand this?  I hate tv.  Well, I did like our evenings watching What Not to Wear and Project Runway.  And I do think she could be the lead critic on Fashion Police.  And she has converted me to a diehard Ellen fan.  I suppose it is comparable to my hours reading novels as a girl – a window into other people and how they live.  She is different than me – as it should be.

Should I tell them about what a great tennis player she is but that she hates competing?  How my husband’s passion for tennis meant she has been playing tennis since she was 5.  Tennis is in her body but she has stage fright in a tournament.  She sprained her ankle playing a tournament and was sidelined for 6 months.  Coincidence?  Or is that how she communicates that she is done with tournaments.  Or needs to re-approach tennis in a way that works for her.  Time to build her own life and not live her parents’ dreams.

Should I tell them that when I found out I was pregnant with a girl, 17 ½ years ago, I prayed to raise a girl who was happy and confident – comfortable in her own skin.  That would mean raising a girl who listened to her body, respected her body, admired her body, trusted her body, her Self.  I prayed that I would love her the best that I am able.  I prayed that I would enjoy every minute I had with her.  When I found out I was pregnant, I couldn’t stand the thought of her leaving home 18 years later.  Here it is.  The Moment.  It is her time.  Heart in my throat, how can I hold her close while giving her the freedom to be a grown-up, at home – practicing before she has to do it for real?  How best to love and support her through this thrilling transition?  Somehow, we will find a college that is right for her.  She will be ready.  I will try to be ready.  To let her go.  To dream her dreams and live her life.   She is Wise.  Honest.  Compassionate.  Born with a soul older than mine.  She is my guide to how to live.

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November 30, 2012

Letting Gluttony Lurk

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Learning to be a Joyous Hostess

Just as a compulsive shopper cuts up her credit cards and vows never to step foot in Nordstrom, so the binge eater hides from food triggers, avoiding parties or establishing strict rules around acceptable foods and acceptable quantities that can be eaten – and doing penance when she fails.  It is difficult to hide from Thanksgiving.  My heart goes out to all who find this celebration of gluttony to be a struggle.  No matter how many years go by, I remember the struggle (and struggle still).

Yes, phew!  I survived another Thanksgiving.  And even enjoyed much of it.  Now that is something to be thankful for!  Each year it is better.  As I check in politely with acquaintances this week the general response is:  “Ah, Thanksgiving was wonderful, so relaxing!  Lots of food and wine and family!”  Really?  REALLY?  Does anyone ever answer, “NO!  I hate Thanksgiving!  It’s a lot of work and I eat too much and I feel horrible after it’s all over!  Thank God it’s over!”?  A holiday centered on an abundance of food that encourages binge eating.  That’s a landmine for those of us with eating issues.  Consider:

The Anticipation

I, the competitive, ambitious, my-meal-is-better-than-your-meal over-achiever emerges in full regalia.  Thankfully, this trait has been tempered by time and parenthood.  (I am not a joyous hostess.)

Then:  I compulsively reviewed recipes, looking for the perfect one that would make the most delicious turkey and the most amazing dessert.  No shortcuts allowed.  Time was not a consideration.  Neither was effort.  Neither was expense.  I would design an elaborate menu, shop at multiple stores to find the best ingredients, cook for days until there was no way I was going to enjoy eating the food.  I am not sure my guests enjoyed it either because it was too obviously a performance and not about comfort and generosity.

Now:  After having children, I have found I cannot afford the luxury of time to devote to an elaborate meal, nor do I want to.  Moreover, my family is not interested in some new-fangled dessert or trendy turkey-cooking technique.  They want the same old menu year after year.  It was me who wanted to prove what a great cook I was.  Hmmm.  I suppose I can forego gourmet-dom and do the same old menu.

My kids now want to cook and have ownership of some of the dishes.  Hmmm.  I suppose I can give up some control over the meal.  My son now owns mashed potatoes and I “assisted” him (wink wink) with the stuffing and the gravy.   My daughter now owns pumpkin muffins for breakfast as well as sweet potatoes and pecan pie.  My sister-in-law brings pumpkin pie and cranberry sauce.  I make the turkey. (Alton Brown’s recipe for brining and roasting the turkey has been the best method yielding the most delicious results, for me.) Plus a salad and roasted radicchio rounded out the meal this year.  Everything was delicious.  I even allowed myself to enjoy the super-sweet marshmallow-y sweet potatoes, a dish I have scorned in the past.  Indeed, I think they were my favorite dish this year!  In spite of a twinge of guilt, I coach myself to not mind that I am not attempting some new complicated dish this year.

The Eating

I, the obsessive-compulsive calorie-counting nutritionivore – with disordered eating patterns a constant backdrop eager to raise its ugly head at a moment’s notice – enjoy an abundant Thanksgiving dinner?  YIKES!

Then:  As a child, before I took over the kitchen, I remember a quiet boring day with my mother cooking and my father and grandfather watching football.  It was just the four of us.  (My parents were not joyous hosts – and thus I never learned how to be one either.  Perhaps there is still time.)  The turkey was a production, with everyone fussing over whether or not it was done.  My grandfather brought a bittertart traditional cranberry sauce and some pies.  My mother made stuffing.  I waited impatiently all day – so bored and lonely – until it was time to eat.  Finally it was time to eat and I basked in that activity, gorging on all the delicious food.  Everything about the food was pleasurable after a boring, lonely day as a young only child.  When I was old enough to cook, I took control over dessert, perfecting piecrust and elaborate renditions of traditional pies.  But by the time I was old enough to cook, I had become self-conscious of my body.  Gorging on an abundance of food to pass the time or fill the loneliness had led to a normal and normally curvy adolescent body that generated unwanted attention.  Better control that appetite – channel that food appetite into cooking not eating.  Like whack-a-mole, though, appetite cannot be suppressed permanently and will rise up again and again until dealt with.  I remember my first Thanksgiving home from college.  Depressed, I just ate and ate and ate, picking at the turkey, picking at the pie.  It was so delicious and so much more delicious than the cafeteria food.  Trying to fill up with comfort and looking for love that was only available through food – or some achievement.

[Note to all parents, aunts/uncles, teachers and friends of adolescents:  Please help young people stay young and to respect their normal bodies and to be confident no-sayers.  It is painful to be a child with a woman’s body lusted after by older boys and men.]

Now:  My hyper-discipline goes into overdrive.  I take one normal sized portion of everything I like, leaving what is not important to me (mashed potatoes and gravy).  I drink one glass of wine with the meal, not before.  Then when everyone goes back for seconds, I take some salad.  For dessert, I have a miniscule sliver of each pie.  After all, the first bite is the most delicious bite. The day after, I revert immediately to my regular eating, refraining from the dessert leftovers.  No guilt from over-indulgence, no penance required.  (And limited joy derived from the meal.)

The Clean-Up

I, the martyr shows up.  No, No, I don’t need any help.  Don’t mind me.  I’m exhausted from cooking all day, but no matter – go have fun!  I’ll just stand here for another hour by myself doing the dishes – a chore from my childhood that I hate – seething with rage.  Don’t mind me. (I am not a joyous hostess.)

Then and Now:  Yowza, I am still struggling with this one.  I asked for help from my children and my nephew kept me company, curious and appreciative of his aunt.  It’s an improving process, but the rage remains.  What is that rage?  Childhood disappointment in an unsatisfying meal where “children are to be seen and not heard.”  Oh, and then do the dishes.

The Week After

When politely asked how my thanksgiving was, I can now answer:  “I loved the time with my family.  My children are becoming wonderful cooks and kitchen companions.  And I am learning to be a more joyous hostess.”

 

Kiera’s Pumpkin Muffins

  • 2 cups all purpose flour
  • 1 teaspoon baking soda
  • 1 teaspoon baking powder
  • 1 teaspoon salt
  • ½ teaspoon ground cinnamon
  • ½ teaspoon ground cloves
  • ½ teaspoon ground ginger
  • ½ cup (1 stick) unsalted butter, room temperature
  • ¾ cup sugar
  • 2 eggs, room temperature
  • 1 14 oz can pure pumpkin
  • 1 ½ teaspoons grated lemon zest
  • 1 teaspoon vanilla extract
  • 1 cup plain yogurt (preferably Greek-style)
  • 1 cup chopped walnuts, toasted
  • 1 cup golden raisins

Preheat over to 325°F.  Sift or stir together the dry ingredients.  Using electric mixer, beat together the butter, sugar, eggs.  Beat in the pumpkin, lemon zest, vanilla, and yogurt.  Gradually add in the dry ingredients.  Gently stir in the nuts and raisins.  Spoon batter into muffin tin.  (We use foil liners.)  Bake approximately 25 minutes, until toothpick inserted into center comes out clean.

Makes 15 muffins.  Delicious with cranberry sauce.  (Muffins freeze well.)

Grandpa’s Bittertart Cranberry Sauce (the recipe is from the package – so easy)

  • 1 cup water (or orange juice)
  • 1 cup sugar
  • 2 cups fresh, whole cranberries – a 12 oz package

Bring liquid to a simmer.  Add sugar and stir until dissolved.  Add in the cranberries.  Simmer gently until the cranberries begin to pop, about 10 minutes.  Sauce thickens as it cools.

Delicious on muffins and toast (as well as the thanksgiving turkey).

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