Monday, January 8, 2018

The Biggest Boob

I've always had a weakness for big things: big purses, big hair, big diamonds, big sandwiches. I consider myself a connoisseur of the finer things in life, yet I also like oversized sweatpants and max-stuffed Oreos. I guess I'm a bit of a walking (or more likely sitting) contradiction. So while I can understand that my husband doesn't feel the need to shower me with lavish gifts every Christmas, I also assume that he still knows how to use that big brain of his.

I gave birth to a nine pound clone of my husband, celebrated 7 years of marriage, and turned 32 all in the span of four weeks. As each celebratory occasion came and went without so much as a foot rub, I started wondering what wondrous Christmas surprise my husband had planned for me.  Now surely you, my sensible audience, can understand that I was expecting something in the ballpark of a Mercedes Benz this holiday season. Or an island. An island would do.

Christmas morning arrived and I patiently waited for Amelia to open all her gifts so I could guiltlessly tear into mine. I had visions of shimmering diamonds and crisp airline tickets to Bora Bora; perhaps a newly discovered galaxy named after yours truly. And there it was, placed so delicately under the tree---a perfectly wrapped box with the fanciest of bows, just waiting to be opened and loved. Ladies and gentlemen, there are no words.




I introduce to you the Beebo! In case the picture isn't self-explanatory, my highly anticipated gift is a hot pink rubber tit that holds a bottle of milk. I assume it comes hands-free so one can conveniently smack their husband upside the head for buying the Beebo in the first place. Really, Matthew? You saw this and thought of me? Were you thinking of gift ideas one night and this just came to you in a vision, like, "I think my high maintenance wife would love to dangle this atrocity from her shoulder! Surely it would improve her quality of life if she didn't have to hold a bottle with her actual hand!"

Fast forward two weeks and that stupid rubber hooter is still sitting in its box, taunting me. I load Millie into the car and head to Springfield to meet my friends and their children at Skyzone Trampoline Park, and Matt stays home with Greta and the Beebo. It's been about, oh, say two years, give or take, since I've really broken a good sweat, but I figure now, seven weeks postpartum, is as good a time as any. I'm feeling limber and spry as I glance upon the ten foot basketball hoop at the end of the trampoline. I say to myself, "Surely after that McDonald's lunch and with this extra thirty pounds of baby weight I'm carrying, I can slam dunk the hell out of this basketball!"

Nope. No, I couldn't.




I got about three feet of air, threw the ball wildly at the net, and heard an ominous "pop" that I can only compare to the opening of a Pringles' can. Holding my ankle in the fetal position, I rolled around the trampoline while a group of bored kids stared at me, impatiently waiting their turn.

I'm back home limping, terrified to go to the hospital for an X-ray because patients with influenza A (this year's dominating strain) are surely gathered by the hundreds there. Then, like some sort of sick joke, Amelia has a snow day. So here I am, watching my six-year-old screech out an Alicia Keyes' tune because I don't have the heart to tell Amelia that her singing parallels my slam-dunking abilities, all the while trying to alternate ice and heat on my Shrek foot and feed the baby. Ugh, if only I had an extra hand!

Oh.You.Have.Got.To.Be.Kidding.Me.

That damn Beebo is now strapped on my chest. If my foot weren't so swollen, I'd be putting it in my mouth.








Friday, December 1, 2017

And Greta Makes Four

First it was the skinny jeans. I've been waiting ever so patiently for that stupid trend to run its course. Unless one has the legs of a praying mantis,  a tapered ankle does no one any favors.  My body, you see, was meant for wide flare jeans. Back in the day, when I was feeling particularly svelte or right after a bad bout of the stomach flu, I would even shimmy into a daring pair of bootcuts.  But the jegging? Hell to the no.

Now, as I online shop with a sleeping baby on my chest, I'm reminded of THIS year's stupidest new trend: the off-the-shoulder-shirt.  You've got to be freaking kidding me. The only thing wider than my hips are my shoulders. I'll be sure to pick up one of these blouses next time I'm going for the whole "I-belong-on-the-fifty-yard-line" look. I don't think I can properly relay my hatred for these neckless, shapeless blouses and this whole shoulder-cleavage movement. I can only hope that it passes by the time Greta is out of onesies.

You see, I gave birth to a mini-linebacker three weeks ago. My darling Greta Louise is once again the spitting image of her father (go figure).





Unfortunately, the good Lord decided to bless her with my shoulders. As she was making her grand entrance into the world, she went and found herself in a bit of a sticky situation (no pun intended). Her shoulder became stuck, and as a result, Greta's collarbone was fractured in the process of childbirth. Apparently this is a common complication for larger-than-average babies, though the nurses seemed surprised that it happened to her larger-than-average mother. 

By tucking her arm into her shirt or pinning her sleeve, the break should heal in no time.

Look at the size of that hand! 

Amelia was over-the-moon excited to welcome her little sister. (She wanted to take a picture of Greta to school so all her classmates could see, but she was  also very concerned they would think she was born with only one arm.) Unfortunately, all of the excitement and anxiousness soon turned to annoyance as she realized Greta was now a permanent fixture in our lives.

"I want Greta to go back to where she came from," she told me the other day.

"Back in my stomach?" I asked in response.

"No, to where she was before that," Amelia answered.

************************************************

The baby just blew out her diaper, so, uhhh,

Stay tuned....












Wednesday, June 28, 2017

This Too Shall Pass

I've always wondered what it would feel like to have a thigh gap. I often think of this when I meander into the wrong store, suddenly aware that the only thing they sell in my size are the purses. I look at the ladies whose legs are the same circumference as PVC pipes, and I find myself so intrigued. I mean, does the wind just tunnel through? And is it hard to stay warm in the winter?

For most of my life, if you asked me what I hated most about my body, I would undoubtedly say my thighs. No matter how much weight I lost, they were still destined to meet in the middle.

Right now, as I sit here pregnant with my second child, I couldn't give a damn about my stupid thighs. I would deal with all the chafing in the world if I could fix what's going on inside my fractured mind. Move aside, thunder thighs---my brain is now my least favorite body part.

People often ask me why I waited almost six years between children. Were there fertility issues? Was Amelia that difficult? Do I not put out?

When I discovered I was pregnant in 2011, I made the difficult decision to go off my Prozac for the health of my unborn baby.  For thirteen years I relied on medication and cognitive behavioral therapy to cope with the debilitating anxiety and intrusive thoughts that go along with OCD, and in a moment's notice, I quit cold-turkey.

I know I must sound a touch dramatic when I say that OCD is a thief of joy, but it truly robbed me of all peace during my first pregnancy. I was afraid of anyone and anything---afraid I would contract a placenta-crossing disease; afraid I had poisoned the baby after licking an envelope. I know that at times my fears were almost laughable, but OCD took me to the darkest abyss, and it's taken me this long to find the courage to do it all over again.

After much research and discussion with my doctor, I made the decision to remain on Prozac this pregnancy, albeit a much lower dose. It was actually one of the easiest decisions I've ever made. Before all you sanctimonious mothers chime in and tell me all the risks involved, please know that I do more research than a tenured scientist. I'm very well informed.

Now here I am, halfway through my second pregnancy, and once again, I'm slipping. While Prozac has taken off a bit of the edge, OCD and pregnancy hormones are still like water and oil---like Britney and Justin. I shook a man's hand the other day and then was plagued with the fear that he may have had drug residue on it. I spent the rest of the day researching skin absorption rates and checking my blood pressure for fluctuations. How can something be so irrational and yet make so much sense to me?

By the grace of God, I'm going to get through this---I did once before and I will once again. I keep telling myself that 'this, too, shall pass.'  I've even considered getting that motto tattooed on my body, but, you know---hepatitis and flesh-eating bacteria and all that.

I'm trying so hard to see the light at the end of this four and a half month remaining tunnel---where there will be a beautiful newborn baby girl and all the Prozac my little brain desires. And maybe then I can finally get back to hating my thighs.






Friday, February 24, 2017

Blood, Sweat, and Tears

"Supercalifragilisticexpialidocious," my husband announced as I stood, bewildered, in the living room. It took me a moment to realize that what he had actually said was, "What about getting a job?"

I was ready to tell him that Amelia is far too young to join the workforce when I noticed that he was talking to me. A job. J-o-b. The word stuck to the roof of my mouth like peanut butter. Jooooooobbbbbbbb. 

But I'm already a professional Google searcher, I tried to explain. And a Netflix critic. And a chicken finger connoisseur. How much can a girl possibly take on in one day? "I'm not Wonder Woman," I tell him. 

He thinks that my OCD would benefit from some time away from home. I'd no longer be able to research bacteria levels on kitchen sponges between episodes of Game of Thrones. A job would stimulate my brain; light a spark under my well-rested, growing derriere. 

For once, I have to agree with my husband. The worst thing you can give an OCD sufferer is a search engine and time to think. My symptoms lessen when I stay busy; I focus on the task at hand instead of the million catastrophic risks waiting outside my front door. At the time of this conversation, one of scariest scenarios is just days away: Amelia's tonsillectomy.

February 8th finally arrived. There I was, death grip on my rosary with mascara-stained cheeks, staring at a clock that I swore had stopped moving. I could feel every palpitation of my heart, and for a moment, I questioned whether a big ole scaredy-cat like myself had the strength to do much of anything in this life. I looked all around the same-day surgical waiting room and noticed people snoozing and emailing and snacking on protein bars. I found them to be such calm, fascinating creatures. 




These unenlightened individuals apparently hadn't studied the hundreds of complications that can occur with any given surgery: bleeding, allergies to anesthetic agents, cardiac arrest, infection, thrombosis. Perhaps they didn't have the time; perhaps they had jobs. 

Amelia's procedure lasted fifteen minutes, and the next two weeks were long but uneventful--- she bounced back faster than Britney Spears after 2007. Her pain was manageable the entire time, and all she wanted to do was eat and annoy me. 

Fast forward to Wednesday night. Amelia was pretty much back to a normal routine and Matt was on business in South America. As per our nighttime routine when Matt is away, I crated the dog, alarmed the security system, and tucked Amelia in bed beside me. 

She wakes me at midnight asking for a tissue. Half-asleep, I grab one from my nightstand and hand it to her. "The bed feels wet, mommy," she says. "Shhhh," I mumble. "Mommy is just sweating. Go back to bed." 

Three hours later: "Mommy, I need a drink."  Annnnnnd I'm up. I switch on the bathroom light and fill a cup with water. My bed, now slightly illuminated, looks strange to my heavy eyes. 




I wonder for a moment if I've been sweating blood---or maybe Cabernet. Then a light bulb goes off in my groggy head and I realize it's coming from Amelia's mouth and nose---she's having  a post-tonsillectomy complication. I examine her enough to know that most of the blood is dry and she is no longer actively bleeding, so instead of calling an ambulance, I grab my bra and her coat and rush to the emergency room. 

To make a long story short, the bleeding resolved on its own, and Amelia's back at home under my careful observation. It appears this was a one-off (albeit terrifying) episode and is unlikely to happen again. 

So the circus is back in town. Amelia stayed home from school and I'm back on Google. I open the door to grab a UPS package and our new puppy makes a break for it. Here I am, braless and shoeless, chasing our deranged, escaped dog around the house and into our woods while Amelia is standing in the doorway screaming, "Your boobies are jiggling, mom!" and I'm yelling back, "Stop screaming, Amelia!!! You're going to re-bleed!" 

Sometimes I look at my life, and I don't know whether to laugh, cry, or eat more Girl Scout cookies.

Perhaps I'll ask Google. 








Friday, January 27, 2017

Tombstones and Tonsils

"Mommy, what should we write on your grave when you die?" asked my sweet child on our way to school. In all fairness, death has been on all of our minds lately with the recent passing of my grandfather. An avid fisherman, 'I'd rather be fishing' is etched on his tombstone.

"I don't know, Amelia. I really haven't given it much thought. What do YOU think it should say?"

She strokes her tiny chin like she's Aristotle before announcing, "I'd rather be napping."

Oh, children. They really do say the darndest things. I give her a forced smile in the rearview mirror and reply, "Mommies get tired sometimes. It takes a lot of energy to raise a child. And a puppy. Our new puppy makes me very tired."

What I didn't have the heart to tell her was, "Mommy is mentally ill. Mommy has an imbalance in her brain that causes her to dwell on intrusive thoughts until she can hardly function. Mommy is tired because mommy's brain runs marathons everyday."

And this particular week, I'm Usain freakin' Bolt.

Let me explain: Amelia's getting her tonsils out in twelve days. To an OCD brain, a tonsillectomy is the equivalent of a toddler performing open heart surgery on the side of the road with a plastic butter knife.

I can't stop researching medical journals. I scour through case studies in the middle of the night, evaluating each and every risk in my head while watching tonsillectomy videos on YouTube. I've even read up on anesthesia experiments in young monkeys (that shit was bananas!).  I've allowed two small masses of lymphoid tissue to consume my every waking thought. So yes, Amelia, mommy is tired.

I know you other mothers worry, as well---it's part of this job description. I just want so badly to be an "average" worrier; to let my daughter play at the park without first thinking of concussions, MRSA, cerebral bleeds, or rabid raccoons lurking near the monkey bars. With Obsessive Compulsive Disorder, there's always danger around the next corner; an impending sense of doom.

Ironically, if you were to look for antonyms of OCD, you would stumble upon my husband. I married  a man who, on a scale of 1 to Evel Knievel, mitigates risk by popping a Tums before eating expired chicken. I watch in awe as he goes through life unaware of all its dangers---my very own antithesis. He's given Amelia a world of adventure that I cannot give, and in that, I take comfort.

Oh dearest daughter, I'd rather not be napping. I'd rather be seizing the freaking day. I don't want my gravestone to describe some frail, tired, scared woman. I want it to say, 'I'd rather be listening to Britney Spears' or 'I'd rather be eating cake batter', but it's so hard to be anything other than my OCD.

I wish I could stop being so selfish with my own worries and concerns and focus more on you, this amazing little being, but my brain circuits have gone haywire. I'm a defected mommy with the best of intentions, but oh, how I love you so.  If the doctors could discard OCD like they do a set of inflamed tonsils, I'd be the first in that operating room (as long as it was steam sterilized).

Until then, I'm going to need a nap or two.




Thursday, January 5, 2017

To my Dearest Grandpa Black

“Old Dan Tucker was a fine old man, washed his face in a frying pan…”  My grandfather would sing this to me as he placed his arm around my shoulder. Sometimes he would create his own melody, rhyming my name or humming a silly tune. Even as the years passed, I never grew tired of hearing him sing. In recent years, when he lost his ability to clearly speak, he would still come to my side and put his arm around me, grinning. I know he was silently singing to me; an unspoken hymn between a girl and her grandpa. 

I will miss the little things about him; the simple, mundane memories that are now so significant—his patient, calloused hands gently casting my fishing pole. I would watch with childlike intrigue as he cleaned our catch at the end of the day, expertly filleting what would soon be our dinner. 

I remember the thrill and anticipation as he built us our very own swing set, and I recall my mother’s gratitude as he constructed a bedroom wall in our basement. Wherever there was a need, he met it. My grandpa was always giving of himself.


Since Earth is that much more barren and desolate without you on it, Grandpa, then I can only believe that Heaven is that much more radiant with you in it. I pray that the lakes are boundless and the fish are abundant. I pray that you are once again singing—perhaps the newest alto in the choir of angels. Maybe you are with them now, grinning your remarkable grin and singing, “Old Dan Tucker was a fine old man”….so were you, Grandpa Black. One of the finest.  


Wednesday, December 28, 2016

New Year's Pez-olution

I’m sitting on the couch mowing down Pez from Amelia’s stocking stuffer. My puppy just made a meal of her own feces, and our new security system keeps making weird beeping noises, alerting me to the fact that an intruder may stumble across this sad, sad, scene.



It’s December 28th, folks, and as I sit here braless, contemplating all that was 2016, I’m acutely aware that I’ve got no plans for this next year. Everyone’s joining a gym, learning a new language, promising to quit some bad habit, and yet here I sit, munching on some Pez. My New Year’s Pez-olution. 

Last year I vowed to lose twenty pounds, which I did (I just didn't vow to keep it off). The year before that, I vowed to lose thirty. It’s always been about weight with me. Losing it and gaining it. Dropping it and piling it right back on. Carrot sticks to Cheetoh Puffs. Health shakes to Dairy Queen Mocha MooLattes.

This year, as I gaze upon American soil from my very own American couch (or more likely Chinese), I’m reminded that my life, which was once a whirlwind of different countries and emotions and experiences, has finally slowed to a soothing, high-caloric lull. I’m home, surrounded with people who sound like me and even look like me. No more tiny people with all their tiny clothes. No more pencil-thin French women who somehow make smoking look glamorous and sleek, while if you stuff a cigarette in my mouth, I closely resemble a Sasquatch on fire.

I vaguely remember years ago trying on a black gown at a little French boutique. There were no mirrors in the fitting room (just another way for the French to body-shame me), and after awkwardly taking no less than thirty selfies to avoid finding my way to the public mirror, I decided that this dress may actually be a winner. The employees (whom I’m certain moonlighted as Victoria’s Secret angels), studied me like a trigonometry equation. I immediately felt self-conscious and blamed my curves on the baby weight. “I just had a bebe, you see,” I explained to Gisele and Naomi. “Ah, oui,” they mumbled in return. I peeled the dress off of my now shamed body, hung it back alongside all the smaller, impossible sizes, and returned home to my  giant, three-year-old baby. 

And here we are now, 2017 just days away, and I can’t help but wonder if all this self-focus is my real problem; that besides all the food I've been consuming, I’m actually just too consumed with myself. And no, this isn’t some cop-out to losing weight (I know I'd feel healthier and more energetic sans twenty pounds), but rather an awareness that I’ve made myself the center of my universe, and in doing so, I've left little room for much else. 

So instead of some cliche resolution where I promise to go to the gym three times a week until April rolls around (chocolate bunnies, of course), I’m going to forego any actual resolutions and simply try harder: try harder to be a more involved mother; try harder to take less selfies and more pictures of my kid; aspire to notice the needs of those around me instead of only obsessing about my waist to hip ratio; aspire to replace anxiety with faith; and above all, and perhaps most importantly, strive to be continually kind. 

This obsession with food and body image is going to be a lifelong struggle for me. I'm never going to tire of frosting straight from the can, nor will I ever wake up one morning and think, "You know what sounds good, Stefanie? Celery! Go grab yo self a stalk!"

But I can be kind. Always, I can choose to be kind.