Like Mother, Like Son

I despise onions.  Allegedly, this all started in 1983 (suspiciously the year my sister was born) at a White Castle “restaurant.” According to the only eyewitness, my mom, I threw up in the parking lot after eating a hamburger and begged to know “what the gwoss white thingys on top” were.  The rest is history, and 31 years later, I can't eat onions.  It’s been a struggle, and I am super awkward at Mexican and Italian restaurants, but somehow I’ve been able to make it this far and have had some amazing onion-free meals.

My onion phobia is a little tricky to explain on first dates because it inevitably leads to the revelation that I also don’t eat anything that is transparent with lines—celery, shallots, etc.—and then I seem like a raging weirdo.  Fortunately, I have been making some progress in peeling back my layers of fear (bam…pun intended!), and my number one roommate, also my mom, is now making homemade soups with onions and pureeing them in our Vitamix.  And, baby girl likes her some creamy soup.

The point of all this, you ask? Lately, my son EJ has been flexing his “I’m independent” muscles, which has translated into him making a stank face and throwing pieces of non-preferred food on the floor during meals.  I know this is what toddlers do, but it’s annoying nonetheless.  Since I am incredibly cerebral, self-aware, and enlightened, I’ve just made the connection that EJ’s food-aversive behavior mirrors what I have been doing to my friends and family for the better part of three decades.  “We’ll take an order of nachos with no salsa or guacamole,” “Can we just get a white pizza?” “Can you tell me how your risotto is prepared?” “Can I have shrimp fajitas with just peppers?” “I can’t eat this because the lettuce tastes like it came in contact with a red onion.” Eesh. 

So, I just want to say to my loved ones that I’m sorry and I’m working on it.  I hope EJ can work through his food issues soon too.

Memoir of a Divorce

This is not funny and lighthearted enough for Throwback Thursday, but it's a throwback nonetheless so I figured I would share it on a Tuesday to keep the alliteration going.  I wrote it nearly two years ago for an essay contest about regret, and I remember frantically trying to finish it the night before labor was induced and I had EJ. Anyways, I came across it the other day and was instantly transported back to that time in my life. Some people I know are having hard times right now, and finding this again was a wonderful reminder that bad times are finite, and there is always good ahead.  Two years later, I'm happy with my life and am a different person...but only because I went through this.

Forty weeks pregnant with my first child.  It’s been a kind pregnancy, but my little one’s movements now seem arduous for him and are indelibly uncomfortable for me.  I am ready for him to come.

By the light of day, I am a confident, excited mother-in-waiting.  My time is consumed with a never-ending slew of parental tasks, all of which I do gladly, absentmindedly rubbing my belly.

The nights are much different.  As I shift uncomfortably in bed, I feel raw and exposed, a spotlight of pitch black highlighting my truth.  I am scared and alone, nervously anticipating single parenthood and the new version of my life that has been thrust upon me by two callous souls. Hours pass by as I try to block the bad thoughts and once again chastise myself for canceling the damn singing chicken.

I don’t know when it all started, but I know exactly when it ended.  March 12^th at 11:23 p.m.  That was the night I confronted my husband, the supposed love of my life, about a discrepancy on our phone bill.  That discrepancy was a series of text messages and calls to an unfamiliar number.  Looking back, it was actually the cliché adultery scene you hear about.

My husband initially acted confused, but then his lip started to tremble and his eyes welled up. I then knew he was having an affair with his coworker. I was five months pregnant and it was the week of our fourth wedding anniversary.

I didn’t even cry.  The shock and hurt momentarily dried my tear ducts.  I don’t even think I yelled.  I remember thinking, this isn’t my life, this shouldn’t be happening to me.  I had married a great guy after dating for several years and we did everything you are supposed to do…right down to planning for a baby that we both wanted.

Regardless, I found myself looking at the clock, noting the time of death of our relationship, and then staring into the eyes of my best friend who had instantaneously become a complete stranger.  Throughout tears and an abundance of sorries, my husband was never able to say the right thing, nor did he beg for my forgiveness.  I knew that the damage was irreparable and the relationship was over.

From the moment I found out about the infidelity, I chose to take the high road and not put additional undue stress on myself or the baby.  Never did I partake in any yelling, cursing, breaking dishes, throwing clothes on the lawn, or anything else that seems satisfyingly badass in a woman-scorned movie.  My entire marriage just crumbled tidily before my eyes.

A few days after my discovery, a dear friend called me.  I had fled home to seek refuge in my mother's house, and had spent my days and nights curled in the fetal position.

“Want some cheering up?” she chirped.  I responded with a grunt, turning to face myself in the mirror and thinking how old and haggard I looked and felt.

“I did something.  Do you or do you not want to know?” she continued.

“Do,” I replied, my ambivalence palpable.

“I did some snooping and SHE is having a party tonight at a bar near where I work.”  

A guttural-sounding gasp escaped my mouth.  I pictured her having a fantastic, fun night acting as if nothing was wrong.  Like a family hadn’t been completely broken. My husband would probably even be there.   I hadn’t spoken to him in days.

“Anyways, I’m sick of women like her and men who cheat.  It is not okay!” she preached.  I sighed.

“So…..So I hired a singing telegram to serenade her and tell everyone in attendance what disgusting, vile creatures she and your husband are.  Oh, and the singer is going to be dressed in a big chicken suit.  It symbolizes what they both are and I don’t want anyone in the place to miss it!”

Silence from me.  I checked the mirror again and inadvertently, a smile had spread across my face.   The laughter was not far behind.   It was the first time I had laughed in what felt like eons.  Suddenly, it wasn’t me who felt embarrassed or ashamed.  It could be the both of them being mortified in front of coworkers and others.  They deserved it.  Maybe their night would be ruined, just like my nights had been and would continue to be.  Maybe for just a few moments, they could feel as small as I felt.

My joy was short-lived as my gaze shifted back to my reflection.  I looked at myself and noticed that my smile had taken on an eerie joker-like appearance.  I didn’t look victorious; I looked crazed.  At that same time, my baby kicked and I was brought back down to reality.  This was not me.

“You have to cancel it,” I ordered, some strength edging its way back into my voice.  “It’s just not worth it.  Let her have her party and pretend.  She knows what she is.  They know what they are.  And frankly, if they don’t, it’s not my job to show them.”

“Fine, your call,” my friend replied glumly, telling me she loved me and murmuring something about having to quickly cancel the transaction.

I looked back at myself.  The shadows were still there, along with a faint line etched into my forehead by brows that had been furrowed for days.  But, I looked like me again, and the spark in my eyes flickered back, if only for a brief moment.

           

As I stare into the darkness, and play and replay the it’s-not-fair game in my mind, I wholeheartedly envision that a singing chicken would have given me a sense of peace, making the adulterers feel some of the pain I’ve felt or perhaps help explain how my marriage fell apart. 

Thankfully, I have finally decided that this thinking is selfish.  It’s the thinking of a single girl who’s been scorned.  That’s not me anymore.  I am someone’s mother, someone’s light, someone’s beacon.  And that person doesn’t go out seeking revenge.  That person doesn’t revel in someone else’s misery.  She forges ahead and tries to make a glorious life for her child and herself. 

Now, as labor is imminent, when the chicken pops into my mind and the revenge pulse starts to quicken, I turn on the light, get out of bed and walk to my son’s crib.  I stare longingly and lovingly at his ocean-themed sheets, the hand-sewn quilt adorned with his name, and the whale decals I’ve affixed to his wall. 

There are two whales swimming along—a mother and son.  She’s showing him the way forward, both of them smiling brilliantly.  And in that moment, I know that when I finally meet my little boy, so soon from now, that there is no room for anger, only love.  Chickens don’t belong in my house.  They live far away from here, and they deserve one another.  I’ll take my little whale and swim happily off into the sunset.

Exit Strategy

There’s nothing about January 1^st (aside from the whole new year thing) that makes it a good time to start over, so I’ve stopped making New Year’s resolutions.  There’s no point.  I hibernate all winter, which is the antithesis of rebirth and embracing the new. Yes, I always have a few good days of dressing up, being energetic, and working out in me, but other than that, I’m pretty much a bear all season, literally and figuratively.  

Today, as winter exits and spring begins, I find myself wanting to think about renewal, rebirth, and gasp, fruits and vegetables.  Therefore, I’d like to articulate my resolutions for spring.  Since I love some frivolity, my “foo foo” goals include running a 10K on Memorial Day, finally getting away on some mini-breaks (am feeling British today), and making some fantastic plans for EJ.  I would also love to have 6-pack abs, make a perfect soufflé, and learn to speak Italian fluently, but I’ll save those last few for one of my weekend lists.

More and most importantly, my main objective for spring is to work to find some beauty in every day. I’ve kvetched about this in the past, but as the last few days and weeks have painstakingly shown me, the good and bad times of life are in a constant ebb and flow, and if you aren’t able to find specks of joy during the horrendous times, you’re going to waste a lot of precious moments being pissed off.

People around me are sick right now, and I don’t mean goopy-eyed or runny nose sick.  Bad sick.  Knock-the-breath-out-of-you, catastrophic sick.  It’s horrible and sad; the perfect reason to curl up in a ball and scream about how unfair life is, which is exactly what part of me wants to do for them.  But, I can’t and won’t.  I will not squander our time focusing on the boo hoo instead of the woo woo.  Amidst the sad and the hard, I will help them laugh and find something to enjoy.  A meal, a movie, a joke, a video of EJ running around in his diaper…pear-shaped physique displayed loud and proud. And, if enough of these tiny moments accumulate, they’ll break up the dark…just like the stars in the night sky.  Happy Spring. 

Newborn Fashion Faux Pas

"Don't worry, the hospital takes care of everything for you." Famous last words.

This is what a good friend told me when I asked what to bring to the hospital for my unborn child. I took that to mean I should pack nothing for him, and just worry about bringing my comfiest sweats, lip balm, mascara, and a hair brush. Oh, and Vogue and Elle and my i-Pad to catch up on my reading. After all, I would just be laying around, right?

I got through labor pretty unscathed, and the first 48 hours of motherhood were easy breezy. Cute baby rolled in, cute baby rolled out, visitors, cute baby rolled in, lunch...you get the point. However, I was then told that there would be no more of the baby being rolled in and out or changed for me, and that I now needed to get gone and take him with me. I mean, I knew it was coming, but it still seemed sudden. 

This is how our departure went to best of my recollection:

My cute baby, EJ, is rolled in by the nurse on duty. I nurse him, kiss him, tear up a little, and then try to give him back to the nurse to be rolled back to the babysitting room.

Nurse: No, it's time for you all to go. You can get out his things and get him dressed.

Me: In what?

Nurse: His clothes.

Me: Long pause.Crickets.I don't have clothes for him. I was told you guys took care of things.

Nurse: Incredulous look.You didn't bring clothes for your son!? I've never heard of such a thing.

Me: More meekly. I was told you guys took care of things?

Nurse: We don't provide clothes for the babies too. That would be ridiculous. 
Busies herself around the room, mumbling about how she's never seen this in twenty years, can you imagine if everyone did this, etc.

Me: Look over at Vogue on the table. Think about fashioning pants and a top for EJ. Realize don't have tape. Getting frustrated and embarrassed. Nurse is still mumbling. Have had enough.  
Okay, I get it, I messed up, but it's not like you're buying the clothes! Can't you help!? 
Solemnly stare at EJ while trying to show I'm not wearing a wedding ring and hoping she can somehow tell my husband cheated and I'm currently in the process of divorcing him. 

Nurse: Sigh. I guess I'll have to go find him something to wear.

Me: Sigh.Thank you. Also, will there be lunch before I go?   
Look down immediately, as this was probably not the best thing to say.

Five minutes later...

Nurse: Heavy sigh.  We had some donated baby clothes in the NICU.  This is what I found.
Shows two onesies...one in size preemie and one that is 9 months.

Me: I guess we have to go with the bigger one.  
I take it; it smells a little like mold or cheese or moldy cheese.  Look on the back and it has NICU812 written on it in permanent marker. Look at poor EJ.  Has no idea he's about to look like a prisoner.  Get him dressed.  Both legs fit through one of the leg holes.  My mother is mortified and won't even look at me. 

Nurse: Are you all ready? And, no, you won't be here long enough for lunch.
My mom, EJ, and I all but run out of the room and never look back. Months later, as I sit to put together EJ's baby photo album, I realize there are multiple pages in the beginning entitled "Home from the Hospital." Oops.  Decide to leave in the model family's pictures and call it a day.  

In his closet, EJ has his prisoner NICU812 onesie perserved for when he's older.  We'll laugh about it one day.

The Nuts and Bolts of Dating...Actually Just The Nuts

Weird selfie guy was the first in a series of interesting dating experiences I had during my second time around as an online dater.  I began to see that dating is so tumultuous...full of high highs and low lows. When I was able to shut off my tendency to over-think, I saw the hilarity in the whole thing and didn't take weird dudes or bad dates too seriously.  Other times, I felt hopeless  and could only picture myself raising EJ amongst a colony of cats in a slightly imperfect pink velour Juicy Couture jumpsuit from TJ Maxx, drinking the Tab I had purchased off Amazon.

Here's the recap of December (in chronological order):

Weird Selfie Guy (see previous post).

Too-expensive dinner guy: This nice guy took me to a lovely, very expensive restaurant for our first date.  I suggested repeatedly that we keep it more breezy and just have drinks, but he wore me down.  So, I got gussied up, met him outside the fancy restaurant, but unfortunately knew within the first sixty seconds that we wouldn't be a good match.  I then felt horrible that we had to go through a whole dinner, and initially tried to play the "I'm not a big eater" card, even though I've considered the Coney Island hot dog eating contest on several occasions.  He was a chef and kept ordering a ton of stuff no matter how much I objected.  At a certain point, I just gave in and started eating Thanksgiving Day style.  It was the least I could do. THREE HOURS passed and I started to feel physically uncomfortable and sweaty.  However, too expensive dinner guy then insisted on ordering the three desserts the restaurant was famous for, so I took a water break, did some deep breathing, and dove in.  THREE HOURS AND FORTY MINUTES later, he forced three doggie [shopping] bags of leftovers on me.  I looked like I was leaving an outlet mall.  After an awkward hug goodnight, I sped away feeling like I had robbed someone...which I guess I did.  I did thank him for dinner the next day, but fazed out the conversation after that.  Hey, it happens.

Cute Firefighter: we met for coffee and chatted for about two hours.  We had different interests and backgrounds, but enough in common that I would've gone out with him again.  However, oh diss, he never asked for a second date.  I did make a bad joke about saving cats in trees that maybe didn't sit well.

FaceTime Guy: this guy was a bit younger than me, and even though I told him I was riddled with baggage and he should find someone youthful and carefree, he still wanted to meet for coffee.  So, I gave him my number, and we texted back and forth for a bit.  Then, out of nowhere, he wrote, "I'm going to FaceTime you now," and HE DID.  (Now, I'm still uncomfortable with FaceTime in general...I always think I look weird and I spend the whole time looking at myself rather than the person with whom I am FaceTiming).  Anyways, I saw that he was calling to FaceTime, threw my phone under the couch and hid.  It didn't help that I had my hair in a scrunchie and was wearing a Biore nose strip, but regardless, you don't FaceTime with strangers, right?  That date never happened.

Then, thank the Lord, it was Christmas, and I took a week off from dating.

The List

What a week.  It started out strong with me wholeheartedly trying to ignore the ides of March curse and find joy in the non-joyous.  Then it all went to hell.  Maybe it was my double conjunctivitis, sinus infection, or hacking cough, but somewhere between the goopy eyes, green boogers (mine and EJ's) and pharmacy runs in sub-freezing weather, I seemed to have lost my zen buddha attitude from last week.  Being the masochist that I am, I even added "read some books on how to make yourself more zen buddha," to the mile-long list of things I had to get done over the weekend.

To preface this post, I need to briefly describe my lists.  They are always handwritten on random scraps of paper (take that, i-Phone "notes!"), they are long, and most of the things can't reasonably be accomplished (i.e. get a passport on a Sunday or grow my hair three inches).  I'm also a really good procrastinator, so I have no idea why I list-make and torture myself.

Anyways, I was feeling a bit better yesterday afternoon and was about to check item number 14 off my weekend list (have a skirt that I bought 29 days ago at J.Crew that I no longer want...am a return policy nerd and don't believe in messing with their 30-day rule), when I got a call from daycare that EJ had woken up from his nap with a fever.  I took him back to the pediatrician, and the doctor, the same poor man whom I flipped out on last week, breathed an audible sigh of relief in being able to tell me that EJ was fine and his body was working through something viral.  Phew.  EJ and I were heading back to the car when I had a brilliant idea.  The list.

"EJ, would you like to split a snack with mommy and then pop into J. Crew?  Some fresh air and a treat will be good for you and then we can go home to snuggle and rest.  Also, please stop looking at mommy's eyes like that, it's called conjunctivitis and I'm treating it."  EJ showed me his silent affirmation and off we went.  First stop, snack at Panera.  EJ seemed to be in the mood for a pumpkin muffin.  I...oops he, loves pumpkin.  I got coffee for myself and water for him.  All was right with the world.  I set EJ up with his water and a piece of our muffin behind me at the coffee station.  I smiled as I watched my cherubic baby sipping his water and taking tentative bites of the muffin (he must've forgotten how much he likes pumpkin flavor).  Two women next to me starting oohing and aahing over him and I turned to make my coffee.

"That baby is too cute," the woman remarked to her friend.  I grinned.  "That baby's eyes are gorgeous," she continued.  "That baby looks fantastic in blue.  That baby...that baby....is THROWING UP!!"  I spun around. Chunks were flying from my little cherub.

In moments like this, instincts take over.  Apparently my instincts were to: remain eerily calm as he projectile vomited (I didn't want to freak him out), and move my half of the muffin far away from him.  When he finished, I grabbed fistfuls of napkins (I was rollin' without a diaper bag on this impromptu trip), wiped him up as best I could, and dashed out of there before the smell gave us away. When we got to the car, I shoved more napkins down EJ's shirt, rolled down the windows, and sped home, alternating between taking shots of my coffee and shoving the remaining half of the muffin in my mouth.  When the going gets tough, the tough eat dessert.

At a stop light, I turned and looked at my vomit-soaked baby.  He smiled.  I attempted to wink a goopy eye at him. We both burst out laughing.  I looked at my weekend list (hastily written on a Bed Bath and Beyond flyer) thrown beside me on the front seat and crumpled it up with dramatic flourish.  "EJ, let's get through the ides of March first.  There's always next week."

Sleep, Baby, Sleep

Yawn.  Another groggy morning following a choppy night of sleeping head-to-feet with EJ.  The poor guy has been sick, and before that, he was out of sorts as a slew of new people watched him while I ran around like a crazy person back and forth from the hospital to see my mom.  I guiltily take these facts into consideration every morning around 3 when my little man is standing up in his crib shouting "mama!" behind his pacifier, and of course, I go get him.

After two weeks of this, the lack of good sleep is catching up with me.  I feel and look worn down...my illuminating under-eye concealer no longer hides anything; it just makes my dark circles shiny.  I also keep thinking about what my pediatrician and the tough-love parents I know would say: I should not be bringing EJ into bed with me and I'm doing him a disservice by not letting him work out his sleep issues on his own. 

I talked with EJ this morning as I was changing his diaper.  I told him that I love snuggling with him, but now that he's feeling better and things are getting back to normal in our house, he needs to spend the whole night in his crib.  He looked a me with his big, blue eyes and stoically murmured, "Bu-shu, bu-shu, pees, mama, bocu wa."  I was stunned.  He was right.

Oh, I should translate:

Mom, you look very pretty today.  I know I kicked you in the face last night, but my feet are clean, and it's all good.  I've been getting upset lately and just like knowing you're next to me; it helps me sleep better.  I mean, it's not going to last forever!  You think I'm bringing you to Harvard with me?  You know, I saw some boys from the three-year-old classroom the other day, and maaaan, did they look tough! Do you think those big boys sleep with their moms? No mam.  They're too grown-up, and it's just a matter of time for me too.  Soon I'm going to have to start thinking about that potty thing you showed me, and after that, which pee-wee sports teams I want to try out for.  Also, I just thought I should be open with you and say that some of the rambunctious boys in my class were talking about jumping ship and ditching their cribs at night. Aren't you glad I tell you when I want to get out? 

Time is fleeting and there are stronger under-eye concealers. EJ won't want to snuggle with me forever, so I will gladly take what I can get.
 

The Ides of March

Beware of the ides of March.  This famed line from the Shakespeare tragedy Julius Caesar fictionalizes the ominous warning unheeded by Roman dictator on the day he was assassinated. Once upon a time, the ides simply meant the middle of a month in the Roman calendar, but since Caesar's death, the ides of March has lived in infamy, and you can find a ton of bad stuff that has happened on or around this day.  It's even the name of the 2011 movie that starred Philip Seymour Hoffman. Eesh.

Six years ago, the ides of March was my wedding day, and two years ago, it was the time when a nagging feeling in my gut led me to discover that my husband was having an affair.  Since then, I've started to believe that Shakespeare was onto something and this time of year really does bring bad luck.  As the ides of March 2014 approaches, my life has been plagued with a series of unrelated, unfortunate events that have stacked together like an impenetrable Lego structure from hell.  And, try as I might, there's seemingly been nothing I can do to break down the bad pieces.  Until now.  

Before another March ides kicks my ass, I've decided to stop being surprised, and in turn, bummed, when the universe boots me off the path I was on or messes with the plans I had.  I've decided to switch my thinking.  

Yesterday would've been a good day to start this.  When EJ's pediatrician told me that he had a double ear infection (this news came at the end of a fourteen hour day on two hours sleep), I burst out crying and shouted to the poor, startled man, "I CAN'T EVEN DEAL!!!!"  I could tell EJ was mortified...he didn't know where to look and started to eat the tongue depressor he was holding.  The doctor shoved me the prescription, hightailed it out of the room, and I ugly-cried all the way to the car while my poor, sick baby pulled his hat over his eyes.

It didn't all have to go down like that.  I could've been happy that I trusted my instincts to call the doctor and that EJ was going to get the medicine that would make him feel better.  I could've stopped kvetching to my friends and colleagues all day about "how tired" I was and instead gossiped or shared funny stories.  I could've chosen to see the good in the day.

Let's try it now.  So far this morning...
Had to my cancel long-awaited my hair appointment (EJ was supposed to be with his father today).
Another few weeks of my dozen gray hairs standing tall, kinky, and proud!

EJ is napping and it smells like he pooped...he's going to get horrific diaper rash again.
The poor kid needs to sleep and that's why I bought stock in Triple Paste.

Had to ditch the fun grown-up plans I had for the day.
I get to have more time with my beautiful little boy, and I will work my friends and some cocktails into the day as well.

This is feeling good so far (five minutes in).  Watch out ides. 

The Breakup: From Dust to Dust

We met online.  It ended online. Seven months with the pretentious boyfriend came to an end via email. Truth be told, I knew it wasn't going anywhere. At my age, when you don't love someone after four (or five or six or seven) months, you're never going to.  Plus, as time wore on, the logistics of our lives were just making things too difficult.  Most importantly, he was a douche, and it was getting hard to ignore.

Here's how it played out: his red flags had been waving all along, but at the end of the relationship, one was glaringly apparent: I still hadn't been to his house.  Now, I'm a smart cookie, and I am positive he didn't have a secret family, but I knew it was STRANGE that I hadn't spent time there.  Ironically enough, I got his email the day before I was set to visit him.  Hmmm...

Anyways, things had felt a little off between us for a few days, and I texted him at work that we should chat.  Hours later, I received the email.  Upon reflection, I would've preferred Carrie's fictional post-it note breakup in Sex and The City.  I read the cold, distant form letter three times and then deleted it.  It obviously wasn't  his first rodeo with electronic break-ups. The exact wording is a fuzzy memory now, but the beginning is burned into my brain:

I have some bad news.  Yes, it is what you are thinking.  I am ending our relationship. 

I mean, really!?  How does one respond to that?  I have bad news...you're a douche? I also found it hilarious because he had just taken EJ and I apple-picking the weekend prior and was all like, "If we were married..."  Anyways, I decided to not respond, blocked him on Facebook and deleted all the pictures he'd posted of us, cried off and on for a day, and then moved on. When you've survived the kind of break-up that was the end of my marriage, it makes minor bumps a lot easier to get over.

After it was over, my friends and family asked what I really saw in him.  Four months later, I have an answer.  After a divorce (or a long relationship that ends dramatically/traumatically), whether you realize it or not, you are looking for affirmation that you are worthwhile and lovable to someone else, and that's why so many people latch onto rebound relationships.  Pretentious guy did me a favor. In his abrupt pulling of the eject chord, I was able to see his true colors and realize the nagging sensation in my gut was indeed right...again.  Ironically enough, I began to feel optimistic rather than scared about dating again.  The next time around, I wouldn't settle one bit.

I still wonder where he lives though.