"Oh, yeahhhhhhh!!!"

During this month of March, I have participated in the Slice of Life writing challenge in which writers blog daily and comment on their fellow challenge participants' posts. I did not "succeed" in the traditional sense of the word because my writing completely fell off around March 17th when I embarked on a 10-day family road trip. And then, upon my return, there were sleep disturbances galore (thanks Daylight Savings, time zone changes due to travel, sinus pressure, chronic pain, and out-of-sorts children) to contend with along with getting the household running back on routine. You see, normally I would view my "failing" in this writing challenge with frustration and shame. I am the kind of person who has spent her life Kool-Aid Man-ning through the walls of all my challenges; but in the past few years I've grown tired of what Darin Johnston, one of my fellow slicers, articulated so beautifully: “I’m exhausted from trying to be stronger than I feel.” And, I've spent the past couple of years trying to honor that exhaustion and let myself off the hook a bit. I'm not the Kool-Aid Man: I cannot continue to crash through brick walls with no physical or emotional fallout.

For folks like me that tend towards Type-A high expectations and an overdeveloped sense of responsibility, these daily challenges have the potential to do the exact opposite of their intent if we let them: unleash our inner-critic that is the harshest of them all. I may not have blogged every day this month, but I have not failed in accomplishing my personal goals that were motivations for doing this:

• I have established more of a daily writing habit than I have had in years.
• I have felt encouraged and heartened by others reading and responses to my writing.
• I have connected with fellow writers and gained inspiration from reading their thoughts, including a small group of local friends that I hopefully helped to encourage through my reading and commenting during the first half of this challenge.

All in all, I'd say that's success!

Remember to be gentle with yourselves, friends. You deserve time, space, and lots of hugs.

Rainbow spotted on the last day of our family road trip;
a reminder to look on the bright side and celebrate all that you have accomplished
instead of dwelling on that which you have not.

Road Trip!

We've got our compression socks on and the Boogers are blasting on the radio -- Florida, here we come! We've made it out of our home state and there has been no bloodshed among our children, which is no mean feat, as we live 15 minutes from the border.

My 6 year old is already eating gummy bears and playing license plate bingo and chattering on as usual, my teen daughter just awakened from her sulk by spotting a sun dog (pictured), and our exchange student is in the way back of our van listening to her music. She shared with me that her parents back in Barcelona are so excited about this trip not because of our visit to Florida, rather the road trip itself. "What an American experience!" I guess it is... Traveling 14 hours by car from Barcelona would get you to a whole different country, like Germany.

Things we've seen so far:

• A sundog 
• A swamp with a ton of Trump signs (irony, haha)
• 2 small oil pumpjacks
• 2 deer standing on an outer highway road
• geese flying in a perfect V (we cityfolk rarely get to enjoy this site)
• 2 car vending machines
• Middle Tennessee Castle (yep, it's a castle)
• pretty waterfalls on roadside cliffs/exposed rock on hillside
• a handpainted sign announcing gas prices as "$5 Democrats / $1.49 Republicans"
• a collaged and painted sign reading "Making the Taliban Great Again" with Joe Biden's face superimposed on a stereotypical clipart of a Middle Eastern fighter clutching a Kalashnikov

***

It rained and stormed our entire second day of driving, so we saw a lot of gray.  However, our hotel had an automated pancake maker that infrared cooked both sides on the pancake as it was transported down a ramp and flip-flopped onto your waiting plate: this was the coolest thing my son had ever seen (according to him). When asked for a quote, he said, "I liked it because I got to see it get made and I liked how it was like the Pancake Olympics." 

Six Word Memoirs

Spring in the garden brings hope.

Hope: chickens hunting and ranging around.

Around the corner, contented chickens dust-bathe.

Dust-bathing on their sides, wings stretched.

Stretched and reaching, claws scratch, kick.

Kicking up a dust-storm, dirt flying.

Flying: furious flapping at zero elevation.

Elevation: dinosaurs evolved, tiny backyard raptors.

Retreat!

Where are all my moms at? Ooooh, ladies, let me tell you... I am writing while pissed! You know those mornings when nothing goes right? Well, that's been my morning.

I woke up this morning and, other than an inconveniently timed Zoom meeting, my day was set to be delightful. I was heading to an overnight writing retreat with my favorite teacher-writers from the Gateway Writing Project. And, it's the best kind of retreat: unstructured! The only schedule we have to stick to is the meal schedule; our small writing groups meet for sharing and feedback whenever we as a group decide. And I always look forward to our evening social when we enjoy adult beverages and lively conversation and, last time, Cards Against Humanity! 

The frazzled and exhausted author beginning
to enjoy a therapy donut once arriving at the retreat. 
Not pictured: therapy coffee.

Well, this morning, nothing went according to plan. The Zoom meeting was cancelled, so I was already getting a late start for no good reason. My husband needed the car this weekend to chauffer kids hither and yon so he had to drive me the 40 minutes to the retreat center, effectively erasing my decompression time between home and writing. My son had a meltdown because he was hungry and didn't like any of his clothes, so he wouldn't get dressed. Then he refused to come downstairs because a neighbor teen was over visiting. I was trying to pack my clothes and gear while the whole family was in my room and underfoot: my husband just wandering around dazed, my son still upset and loud-talking about his television and clothing hardships, and my daughter wanting hugs and the $5 I promised her. Despiteall of the distractions and slowdowns, I managed to get everything packed and downstairs where I then had to dodge three teenagers juicing and blending and chattering loudly in the kitchen just to get my water bottle and protein bar to-go. I managed to find the relocated charging cord (thanks, husband) for my earbuds (which I'd meant to charge last night, but there was another set of fires to be put out) and was ready to go. Then my son refused to come downstairs because he'd been crying and didn't want our neighbor teen to see him, he was embarrassed. I brokered a deal between them that she would remain in the kitchen until we left, which worked well until I realized she had parked us in our driveway. Thankfully, my son had overcome his self-consciousness and we were able to get out the door and on the road before any other crises could occur.

As we drove out of town, my husband started chatting with me about world events. It is rare that we are able to have a sustained conversation, so I was grateful for this time to talk like people -- despite being quite frazzled and trying to get into the writing and relaxation mindset. But as he continued on about our state's plans to follow Texas's lead in paying people to rat out friends and neighbors who cross state lines for abortions and then The Florida Project and Disney's hand in reinforcing poverty with their housing monopoly, I felt my stress and anxiety increase exponentially. Finally I asked him how he could think and talk about this stuff and be okay, because I was not handling it well and felt like I was going to freak the fuck out. I want to talk to you, I told him, and I don't want to make you feel like you can't talk with me about this kind of stuff, but right now after the morning we had, I just can't do it. He understood and was happy to change the subject to JK Rowling being trolled on International Women's Day, but we still ended up discussing the politics of wizard police, house elves, and TERFs who believe the need for better leadership is the only problem with "the system". You know, lighter fare. 😬 Oh, and did I mention our son kept proclaiming from the back seat that he couldn't hear the music and was brow beating us for turning it down and talking over it?

And then, just as I finally felt like I might be coming down from this bad trip of a morning, I realized I was completely fucked: I left my computer charging cord at home. The one time I have a number of pieces to do heavy revision on and I won't be able to use my computer! I have a journal I can write in, but I'd planned to continue cannibalizing them and typing up helpful snippets for a project I'm working on --  NOT rewrite works in progress by hand. Just no. So what? I use my phone? Teachers, we all know how well that works for our students, amiright?

My husband did the worst thing possible at this point: assumed my retreat was in some high tech place with a computer lab/writing center where I could easily borrow a charging cord for my antique Lenovo computer (haha) or borrow a laptop or print off my work. No, I explained, this is like camping in a spartan motel room. There are no fancy labs for checkout -- my plans were fucked! So, just stop trying to remedy it (unless he was going to drive the 40 minutes home and bring it back to me) and be sympathetic. Ugh.

And then my son, although maddening at times is a really sweet kid, told me all about he's seen a show on the TV where someone was able to recharge their cell phone using a potato. "So, Mom, once you get to the place, if you see any potatoes snatch 'em up and use Nature to help you!"

I tried really hard to get my act together, despite feeling like I was going to Hulk out, so that I could say loving goodbyes to the two people I love most in this world. I didn't exactly succeed, but I think they both noted my efforts to be kind and caring through my haze of anger.

So, now I'm here at the writing retreat and I've written this cathartic rant-y blog entry, watched the latest episode of Chicago P.D., and taken a two hour nap. I'm feeling much calmer now and ready to smash a big salad. And then, mayyyyybe, actually get some butt-in-seat (writing) time.

Fingers crossed!

Pivoting

Back in my dancing school days, I had no issues with pivoting. Put one foot forward in a tondue, shift your weight forward onto the ball of your foot, and then spin both balls of your feet around and *voila!*, you are now facing the other direction.

Somehow, somewhere between childhood and adulthood, pivoting became taboo. Changing your mind became flaky; switching directions became an indication of failure. Forward momentum was the only way towards success. And I, like many others, became anxious about breaking my momentum or moving backwards to "go back to the drawing board" because it seemed to signal some sort of character flaw or personal shortcoming or -- worst of all -- a bad omen for all future endeavors.

If you've been reading my blog this month, you've seen my many fits and starts and restarts of a memoir piece about parenting my daughter. I took it on last-minute and have exhausted myself trying to plow through the process in a foreshortened timeline. If I just worked hard enough, spent enough butt-in-seat time, I could churn something out. Right?

This is classic Caroline: she doesn't take no for an answer. She will do the impossible; bear down and move mountains; she is unstoppable, a force to be reckoned with. I've lived my whole life harnessing my stubborn will and turning it into the brute force with which I will plow through any obstacle before me. But an entire lifetime of playing a more intimidating version of the Kool-aid Man has left me battered and bruised, physically, intellectually, and emotionally. Living life like this has taken its toll. It is not tenable and I am unlearning value judgments based on productivity and "success" and relearning the values of patience and humble acceptance.

This piece is not some assignment for a class that only the teacher will see.  This piece is extremely personal and high-stakes: I'm putting a piece of writing -- about some of the most personal aspects of my daughter's history -- out into the world and I don't want to do it half-assed. It's more important than just "get it done".

So, I have decided to pivot. My drafting of this piece (the "elfin girl child" pieces in this blog) has revealed itself as so many experiences that cannot, at this point in my journey, be turned into a narrative. I haven't even put together the past decade+ of parenting my daughter into any sort of mental narrative because it is not logical. Everything about it has been illogical, out of order, and counterintuitive. It's definitely not something I can shoehorn into a five-minute read-aloud for the Listen To Your Mother audience. I must honor this story for what it is and what it's becoming. I'm pivoting.

And I'm okay with that.

Hey Kids, YOLO!

I have a confession to make. Despite being a somewhat cool rockandroll scenester back in my day -- what I lacked in coolness I made up for in DGAF spirit -- I have been cultivating my Embarrassing Mom status throughout my daughter's 9th grade year.

I thought I had reached my pinnacle a few weeks back, when my daughter and I pulled into the school parking lot and I exclaimed "Hey look, it's Whatshisname!"* out of partially rolled down car window and pointed in a most indiscreet manner and smiled maniacally at her ex-boyfriend as we rolled by. "Ohmygod Mom, STOP. He heard you!" I widened my eyes, smiling, "What? He knows I'm a weirdo, it's okay. I mean, your friends know I'm a teacher -- they won't pay any attention to my antics." 

She rolled her eyes and shook her head smiling slightly and began telling me some funny school story as she climbed out of the car, retrieved her ginormous backpack (who my husband has named Hershel because it's the same size as our daughter) from the back seat, and slung it over her shoulder. She said bye and closed the door before I could wish her a good day, so I rolled down the window to call to her -- as one does -- despite Ex-boyfriend sauntering about ten feet ahead of her. "Have a good day! YOLO!" I yelled. I then began laughing maniacally as I realized my most-excellent improvisational prowess, sure to be cringe-worthy to any teen not attending high school in 2014. "YOLOOOOOOOO!!!!!!"

Ex-boyfriend continued walking, pretending to he unfazed by the middle-aged woman yelling YOLO out of her minivan window and cackling. My daughter hunkered her shoulders down in a move I thought for sure would signal her ignoring my hilarity, but she turned back to look at me and she was cracking up! "YOLO!" I proclaimed at the top of my lungs and then puckered my duck lips as I flashed a sideways peace sign before pulling out of the parking lot.

Mic drop.

Meme Design by Embarrassing Dad

_______________________________________________

*Names have been changed to protect the identities of teenage ex-boyfriends.

Legacy of Grief (a poem)

 I became an orphan 

aged forty-two

Mother gone too soon

and stayed too long

Her limbs, trees bent at impossible angles

each joint unmoving, marked by gnarled knots

She clung tenaciously to this world, stubbornly rooted 

fear photosynthesized into obstinate will 

digging into earth turned soft 

Flooded by tears of pain, exhaustion, loss

Her sturdy scarred trunk waivered

as the ground she grew from eroded 

Sadness washing away the firmament

Worried winds of what-ifs and need-tos whipped through her leaves

pushing her crown askew and pulling her limbs

down and away

Come with me, they whispered

I held her hand 

bent my head down to rest on hers

my lips to her ear, I breathed

"Mom

It's okay if you need to go"

"But

I don't want to go," she said

"I'm not ready yet"

My proud tree of a mother

stood solidly rooted in this world, unwavering 

against the whims of nature

So the winds, now wailing

tired of waiting

heaved her over 

roots and all, mercilessly 

Torn from the tendered ground she lay

solid

branches still stretching out, beckoning

roots still clinging to earth

for life

Only Fate could fell this towering woman.

The groans of twisting wood 

the howls of angry wind

the suck of grit and strength 

wrenched from the slippery mud

are my legacy 

to remember and

to relive.

No longer a sapling

I possess wisdom in my rings

My branches have already begun to bend

in odd directions

mapped by small scars

always growing bigger

Until one day, when

the ground gives way and

the winds wail for me

"Come daughter,

it is time."

Haiku

Better some days to 

Reflect and feel, instead of 

Meeting the word count.

Springtime Whispers Awakening the Garden

For the past few weeks, spring has been whispering in my ear. I've found myself studying my back garden, mentally pruning here and clearing dead brush there, painting early blooms with sunshine. I imagine our three chickens pecking their way through my raised garden beds, keeping the heirloom tomatoes, little pickles, and sweet basil safe from pests.

Today we emerged from indoors, rebirthed after a long winter and a fallow summer. I hoed weeds from the garden pathways. My young son raked dead crispy leaves into a large crevice we will later plant with sunflowers. My husband puttered about organizing old lumber and picking up strewn trash. Even our teen daughter pitched in, scooping an entire season's worth of dog poop in exchange for some spending money. The family dog sat regally in the beam of sunshine beside the compost bin, keeping watch over our tasks as the chickens roamed the yard picking at bugs and weeds.

As we hoed and raked and pruned, I found signs that our garden is waking up. Fresh daffodil stems pushing out of the ground, their golden buds beginning to form. Tiny green fingers sprouting from the weathered clematis vines twisted about a rickety old arbor. A tender curled leaf, striped in shades of red, reaching up from decomposed rhubarb leaves like the hand of a small child.

Spring in the garden is much like nurturing a young child, waiting to see how she will thrill, delight, and surprise us next. We will tend to her needs and care for her with affection and patience until she is established and blooming, rooted deep in our love.

Voice, Ownership, & Breaking the Silence

I haven't made any official announcements here on my blog, with the exception of a badge, that I am participating in the March Slice of Life Challenge -- so, consider this my announcement; Or maybe a warning; Possibly a proclamation: I am writing with my pants down, so to speak, and it is drafty in here!

My friend Sioux invited me to submit a story to the annual Listen To Your Mother St. Louis Showcase and I've been mulling over what I'd like to write about, especially after my 2019 essay about my mom entitled "Flipping Death the Bird". Mom passed away in the summer of 2020 and I'm not yet ready to write about it... and her death is THE thing I have to write about her first when I decide it's time. My husband suggested I write about my grandma, but my memories of her feel like amorphous ink blots floating in my mind and seem a bit too far away (for now) to gather together and shape into a relatable picture. And then there's my daughter. 

My beautiful, complicated teenage daughter whose role in my life is a story begging to be told. For years I hemmed and hawed about writing this story. Just a few years ago, as I wrestled with the issue of voice and story ownership, I wrote:

Today I am the observer and the thinker. Maybe even the scribe. Because, while my daughter was most definitely the victim of her biological parents’ narcissism and willful ignorance and this is a story about her, this is also the story of me and our family and how we tried to shepherd her from victim to survivor and the toll it took on us. When she is grown, she can choose to tell her own story; but I am here to tell you that this didn’t just happen to her, it happened to us, too.

But even then, I still had reservations and I was never able to throw myself into telling our story. I wasn't comfortable putting all of that personal information about her -- my daughter -- out into the world for anyone to consume. I worried about her reputation and how people would judge her, I worried about her biological parents' reactions and retribution, I worried about her being disenfranchised from her story. 

I still worry about that. 

But, then I read this snippet from "Invisible Heaviness" by fellow Slicer, Amy, featured on the Two Writing Teachers site:

Our stories are our own.  They happened to us and they formed us into who we are, for better or for worse.  Our stories are all that we have.  When we feel the pull to diminish their importance or to dismiss the thing itself, we also diminish the impact that it has on us.  But the impact is really what matters, and it is not for anyone else to determine if it is valid or not.  In the telling of the story, we find an audience –sometimes an audience of only one–  and we are able to clear the air just a bit, releasing the tension and lightening the load.  In the telling about the heaviness, the veil drops and the truths are revealed.  And, ultimately, once that happens, the air thins out and the darkness recedes, at least for a time.

I am ready to break my silence. 

Service with a Song

 The sunlight streamed in through the neighborhood coffeeshop window and warmed my back as I sat a bit awkwardly on the hard and too-tall bench seat. I endeavored to gracefully hunch over the too-short cafe table in front of me -- a comical scene, I'm sure -- as I sipped my chai tea latte and munched on a chocolate sea salt scone. The man sitting next to me had just departed, introducing himself as he waved goodbye. We'd had an interesting exchange about mining in the Midwest, black lung, solar power, dead trees on city property, and the inept and corrupt state of our city's board of alder-people. This is why I love local coffeehouses: they are places where people connect.

Bad, Bad Leroy Brown came on the radio and the man across the aisle from me sang along to the first few bars before settling into a hum. An old memory came to life in my mind. 

It was pushing 4:00am and I was with some friends at Courtesy Diner. The service was predictably slow and surly, but the food was the perfect stomach putty for a bunch of scruffy scowly twentysomethings sweaty from rocking out at whatever local show we'd just stumbled out of. The diner guaranteed interesting characters around the clock, but the 2:00-4:00am crowd was probably one of the liveliest and concerning groups. Made up of truckers and bikers, drunk couples who'd just left the dance club, clutches of punks, and a very animated group of "bros", the Courtesy Diner clientele was primed for hijinks. There was always a line at the jukebox and that night was no different. A melange of classic rock, top of the pops, and the occasional hip hop jam pumped through the speakers. Slumped in our booth and too tired to make any decent conversation, my friends and I stared hollow-eyed at the cups of ice water in front of us as we fiddled with the straw wrappers and patiently waited for sustenance. And then the song switched, the first few notes of guitar meedled out and what started as a low but excited murmur of ohs and yeahs burst forth as a collective cry of anticipation when, suddenly, a dude jumped up to standing on the bench in his booth and air drummed the distinctive double snare hit along to the kick/hi-hat rhythm of AC/DC's "You Shook Me All Night Long". One by two, customers began to tap their feet, nod their heads along, sway in their seats, and dance in the single aisle behind the bar stools as Brian Johnson sang about "the best damn woman that I ever seen". By the time "the walls start shaking and the earth was quaking" the entire diner was ready to burst into song and let loose "You shook me all night long!" in what I can only liken to being witness to a 1980s John Hughes film come to life in South City, St. Louis, Missouri. The waitress rounded the corner of the counter with four plates of steaming pancakes stacked up her arm, wielding syrup with the other, swaying her hips and stepping to the beat as she sang her heart out "walking double time on the seduction line, she's one of a kind". Service with a song.

As I walked along the sidewalk admiring the cerulean skies I remembered something Sandra Cisneros once wrote, "You can never have too much sky." Usually March 2nd is a cold and dreary day, frequently overcast and often sleeting; but not today! Today it was 80 degrees and sunny, blue skies everywhere. Happy birthday to me. Like that odd night at Courtesy Diner, this was a special gift from the Universe; not for me in particular, but I was certainly happy to enjoy it! 

Fat Folx: You Are Not Responsible for the Re-education of Health Trolls

Last month I wrote a couple of blog entries about my experience living in a larger body, specifically about dealing with my somewhat clueless doctor and a ridiculously out-of-line massage therapist. These experiences resonated with many of my readers and I received quite a bit of appreciation from people who have experienced or witnessed fat bias and health trolling. Among such wonderful feedback, I also received this public comment from a somewhat estranged family-friend that was rather troubling. 

I love you and we are miles apart on this topic. I agree with much of what you say regarding the bias, but my training in Exercise Physiology (and my own history with weight gain and loss) is not on the same page with much of what you say on the physiology side of things. This topic and your history are complex, but I think we should chat sometime, so I can better understand your perspective and also offer you another viewpoint. 

I could hear the swish and flap of red flags waving as he breathed these words of concerned curiosity on my Facebook post. His commentary smacked of self-importance and the politely repressed anticipation of proving me wrong in the name of Science and the spirit of Dialogue. 

I was almost tricked into thinking this person actually cared about what I had to say and was interested in dialoguing further because while we may not see eye to eye, his response ended with an invitation to discuss these differences further. But if he was truly interested in understanding my perspective, wouldn't he have privately messaged me instead of very publicly performed his dubiousness surrounding my thoughts on being fat? Why perform this public display of dissent among so many affirming comments and shared stories?

As I composed my message to him, I realized that I had absolutely no interest in discussing any of this further with him nor to educate him about fat bias, mental health, and Health At Every Size. If my assessment of his personality and this situation was correct, he just wanted to tell me that I'm wrong and he's right and prove to me that he knows better than me. Here is how I responded:

I appreciate your offer and hope it will hold until I have the emotional energy to have that conversation. To be completely honest, I am just not in a place to fairly listen to the other side right now. Also, I feel like I've had the other side crammed down my throat for my entire life. However, if you can offer any readings you find helpful, I'd probably better be able to digest those. If you're truly interested in the viewpoints I mentioned, I'd recommend reading Anti-Diet and looking up the Minnesota Starvation study, as well as the 4th edition of Intuitive Eating. I also have an academic paper that has been recommended for sharing with health professionals. 

I figured if he was dedicated to showing me his truth, he could point me in the direction of the readings he found the most informative and maybe I would take a look. I doubted very much that he was as interested in understanding the work my perspective is rooted in; nonetheless, I offered him titles of the texts I've found most influential in my 2021 quest to deprogram myself from body shame and Diet Culture.

I sidestepped his passive-aggressive demand that I defend my experiences and I called his bluff on wanting to understand my viewpoint. I've been doing the work; if he wants to dive deeper into the beliefs, history, science, and studies of weight, diet, and exercise, then he is going to have to do his own work. So when he responded that he does not have any specific readings or research to recommend and that he does not have the desire to read anything, I was not surprised. A little disappointed, but not surprised.

It's so easy to fall into the trap of defending our experiences as people living in larger bodies in a world that is designed for those living in average bodies. 

But how can we begin to explain the isolation we feel when we have to wedge our substantial hips and bottoms between the constricting arms of waiting room chairs, wait as nurses search for the bigger blood pressure cuff that will actually fit around our biceps, and wince when we see the markings in our charts labeling us as "morbidly obese"? 

And how can we convey the frustration and anger we feel when we are constantly told that everything that ails us would be cured if we were not fat: that our pain, injuries, and illness are our own fault; that character flaws like weakness and lack of willpower are the reason we are fat.

We are constantly told that, if we just tried harder, we could fix all of our problems by shrinking ourselves. 

But we are people, not problems to be fixed. 

We are not broken, our healthcare system is.

We don't need to be fixed, the healthcare system does.

We don't need to be fixed, our society does.

My Massage Therapist Went Too Far (but not like that)

This past December I booked myself a 90-minute massage to help with muscle tension and swelling due to chronic illness and, of course, the stress of pandemic-life, parent-life, and just general life-life. I've had a monthly membership to a massage chain since I began my teaching career in order to help me manage stress and tension; over the years, my needs have changed some to deal with injuries and chronic pain, including some membership hiatuses due to finances, surgeries, and the pandemic. Suffice to say that this was my first massage in quite some time and I no longer had a go-to therapist, so I booked with someone new to me.

Historically I have been a fan of deep-tissue massage, but since being diagnosed with RA I've been rethinking this and wanted to try a firm massage instead. I hoped that it would be less painful in the moment and more emotionally relaxing, with the same longer term effects. My therapist was a very friendly man, tall and living in a larger body, who happened to be blind. I was intrigued to experience his massage, hoping he would be better able (than a sighted therapist) to use his sense of touch to respond to my body's tension (and writing this I have to pause and acknowledge that this assumption of mine may have been ignorant and driven by stereotypes that assign sensory superpowers to those who may have a single diminished/missing sense). Also, the fact that he is blind is relevant because he could not see me and therefore could not automatically judge my appearance.

He began the pre-massage consultation by asking me about my body history (surgeries, injuries, and whatnot) and what areas of my body needed the most attention. Once I was on the table and the massage began, he figured out pretty quickly that I am very tall and living in a bigger body. He worked his way down my back and found the extreme tension in my lower back and was surprised at how bad it was; he asked me if I wear properly fitted bras. His wife, he told me, was a 34 HHH, so he knew all about the importance of well-fitted bras and the necessity of replacing them frequently and so on -- for back health. I tried to take his mansplaining in stride; despite my knowledge of bras and having my own boobs to take care of, I also realize that there are many women in the world who do not know what to look for in a well-fitting bra or that larger breasts can put increased stress on back muscles. At the same time, I am also aware that bras are often designed for the male-gaze with no concern for comfort, as well as the arguments against wearing bras at all. Like many women during the pandemic I have eschewed bras almost altogether and, when I want to wear a bra, I exclusively wear bras without underwire or molded cups. But I didn't tell him that because I didn't want his opinions on my choices and I know that my back issues have nothing to do with my fairly average-sized boobs. Instead I let him prattle on about his wife, their marriage, and their little spats over the course of the pandemic.

Have I mentioned that I do not like to converse during massage? I'm one of those uppity bitches who is happy to exchange pleasantries and information and then I just want to enjoy the peace and quiet of not having to care for anyone else intellectually, physically, or emotionally. I just want my own time. Of course I will speak up about my massage needs, if pressure is too light or deep, that sort of thing -- but I really don't want to chat about personal things. 

Then he hit my sacrum and hips where I carry much of my weight and so began his many stories about his own experiences with diet, depression, weight loss, weight gain, and gastric surgery. I was polite and tried not to engage. I told him that I'm recovering from disordered eating. You would think that would be a signal to end or at the very least redirect the conversation, but it was not. He just kept sharing.  Obviously what worked for him -- a man with his own particular health history and genetic background that has nothing to do with my own -- should work for me, right?

We've all met these people. Maybe we were those people once. "I did X and lost Y weight and now I feel great and so much healthier and happier." The thing is diets don't work; people always regain the weight unless they restrict their food for the rest of their lives. Diets and gastric surgery work great, until they don't. And then people end up gaining more weight than they lost because their bodies are fighting against starvation and want to make sure they're prepared for the next famine. I learned all of this throughout 2021 during my personal quest to deprogram myself from Diet Culture, also known as Wellness Culture. As I lay there, I endeavored to tune out all of his well-meaning bullshit and enjoy my massage.

Later that day, my husband asked me how my massage was. I responded that it was one of the best massages I ever had, but the therapist talked way too much and was super focused on weight and Diet Culture and I now knew way too much about his marital relationship. 

But that night, as I was going to sleep, I could still hear his voice in my head.

And the next morning, when I looked in the mirror, I didn't look as good as I did the morning before.

And later that next day, I caught myself calculating how much of what I'd eaten to determine if I "deserved" to eat again.

And then I considered passing on a dessert treat that I really wanted, all because I didn't like how my body looked in my clothing.

And over the course of several weeks, one of the best massages I'd ever had turned into one of the worst massages I'd ever had. It reactivated that insidious voice of Diet Culture judging my worth and attractiveness based on the flatness of my stomach and how streamlined my figure appeared. My curves and rolls again became something wrong, problems that needed solving, totems of asexuality, proof that no one could possibly desire me. Over the course of a 90-minute massage, an entire year of personal growth had been called into question. An entire year of healing had been two-thirds of the way undone. The voice of Diet Culture had been re-amplified in my internal dialogue and it was devaluing me, belittling me, making me second-guess my hunger signals, ruining the pleasure to be found in food, and robbing me of the joy my body holds.

What a bunch of bullshit. How had I let some guy mansplain to me about boobs and my own body? He doesn't have boobs. He doesn't live in my body, he hasn't birthed children, he doesn't have my same chromosomes and hormones, he doesn't have chronic pain and illness. What the actual fuck?

Why didn't I stop him in his tracks? When he didn't get my hint when I mentioned disordered eating, why didn't I tell him point-blank that I don't want to talk about this stuff, that I do not agree with his thinking, and that it is doing the very thing a massage should never do: stress me out! 

At first, I thought that once he voiced his opinion, he would be finished; his point made. I tried my best not to engage while still being polite (because I, like many women, were taught to be quiet and polite and non-confrontational by my foremothers -- problematic!). Then, when he continued, I just hunkered down and tried to focus on getting through it. And when it became clear that this emotional assault wasn't going to end until the massage did, I tried to escape by completely checking out and retreating into my own mind. But the emotional assault didn't end when the massage did because my own toxic inner-narrative was unleashed and it took me weeks and weeks to get back to peace with my own body.

Never again will I allow someone to tell me how to live in my own body. It may come
in the form of voicing their own opinions, relating their "success" stories, or giving me "helpful" advice, but I know now that I must be very careful with my body-love as it is a fragile babe in its infancy. I owe it to myself to nurture and protect my body-love as fiercely as I would one of my children. Next time I will say, I am in a vulnerable place when it comes to loving my body, and I do not want to discuss matters of size, diet, or exercise. Period. End of story.

Let's Get [A] Physical: Anti-fat Bias & Medical Professionals

on my way to the doc

I'm not the first person living in a larger body to leave my doctor's office feeling anxious and icky. Doctors are well known for their lack of understanding and empathy when it comes to matters of size. Diet Culture is so pervasive, so insidious, no one is immune to anti-fat bias -- even health professionals, no matter how good their intentions might be. 

I chose my doctor, nurse practitioner, and office staff because they are women of color working in a racially and socioeconomically diverse community. She was also cited by Noom (more on Noom another time, suffice to say I no longer support or recommend Noom to anyone because 1. They are a diet, no matter what they say and 2. My views on size and shrinking the self have changed drastically since then) -- which I was using at the time of my GP search -- as a fat-friendly doctor (not Noom's term, whatever they said I can no longer remember). This means that the office provides chairs that my ass can fit into and has large blood pressure cuffs in each exam room, things that make people living in larger bodies feel like normal people. 

At first, she and her NP were pretty decent about not overtly harassing me about my weight; however, as I have gained weight the past few years, there have been more suggestions about food restriction, exercise, and so on, including last week when I had my annual physical.

The past two times I have gone to my GP, both times for my annual physical, I have opted out of the weigh-in portion of my visit. Did you even know that was an option? I didn't until my 2020-2021 quest to deprogram myself from Diet Culture. I was so tired of overtly and covertly being told that there was something inherently wrong with me, something broken that needed fixing, because I am living in a bigger body. I learned that BMI is sham science and to question causation versus correlation when weight is blamed for health issues. Okay, so keep in mind that my doctor has no idea what I've weighed the past two years. She has no data, other than last year's bloodwork, upon which to base her conversation with me. And yet, she brought up food choices and intake -- not because of my health, mind you -- but because of my appearance. 

As she talked at me about lean meats and portion sizes, avoiding "junk" foods, and not buying these things so they're not in my house, I gritted my teeth. Has it ever crossed a doctor's mind that people are not necessarily fat because they eat like pigs at a trough (dehumanizing) or keep fun foods in their homes (weight is not about self-control)? I am overweight because of genetics, a history of food restriction since early childhood that messed up my metabolism and the always-accompanying disordered eating that comes along with that, poverty in my youth and access to food, trauma and the resulting influx of cortisol and other hormones, as well as several injuries/surgeries and chronic illness that have made it extremely difficult to engage in physical activity.

I am fat. I don't need to be fixed. I am still an awesome human worthy of love and respect.

So, I took a deep breath and defended myself: I'm a vegetarian (it's been twenty years); I am deprogramming myself from Diet Culture and disordered eating, I do not restrict my food and as a result I am not eating entire packages of cookies when I'm sad or stressed; yes, I have fun foods in my house because I like them, I eat them, and I have children who like and eat them; I will not restrict my eating ever again, I spent years doing that and it's done more harm than good, like disrupting my hunger signals; I am following the Intuitive Eating model and, yes, have met with a dietitian and am currently working through the IE workbook; I am newly diagnosed with RA and we're still figuring out my treatment, so I'm dealing with painful flares and swelling that make it impossible for me to engage in movement and activity with regularity -- especially because I have a history of pushing myself too hard and rendering myself unable to do anything for days after.

I now remember having a similar discussion with her last year after she suggested "weight loss" surgery, not stomach amputation but the gastric sleeve which is maybe a little better but also NO. I explained to her then that my issue was in my head, not in my stomach. That I was working with a therapist to deal with childhood trauma, unhealthy relationship paradigms, and the sudden loss of my mother. Why was I having to revisit all of this, and then some, again now at this visit?

No one should have to defend themselves and their actions to their doctor to prove themselves free of fault when it comes to their appearance and deserving of care when it comes to their health.

I left my physical feeling exhausted. It's exhausting to feel attacked. It's exhausting to feel the need to defend myself. It's exhausting to explain the effects of trauma, food restriction, and chronic illness to a person who has Thin Privilege and doesn't know what it's like to deal with chronic pain and mobility issues.

I think it may be time to find a new doctor. Again.

Levity in Marriage

Husband: I wish I had a personality [beep beep boop]

Me: ...uhhh, you have a personality.

Husband: Does flatulence count as a personality?

Me: Your asshole does have more to say than your mouthhole.

/scene

Progress v. Perfection

How many of you out there came out of this past year thinking to yourselves if I could just stick with X or I did great doing Y until Z happened and then all bets were off or why can't I just get it together and [fill in the blank]?

I've spent most of my adult life raking myself over the coals for these sorts of "failings". Why can't I just put my ass in a seat and write more? If I could just consistently plan my grocery shopping and meals ahead of time each week, I would eat more nutritiously. I was doing a great job attending water aerobics classes until the kids took turns being sick and I was home with them for 2 weeks, now I just can't get back into the swing of things. Why can't I keep my fucking house clean and tidy?

Well, I've got news for you and me: this is life! 

If your life is at all influenced by family, friends, colleagues, etc, it is never, Never, NEVER going to be simple, consistent, or without interruptions and roadblocks. These inner attacks (as my therapist calls them) do us absolutely no good and invalidate any progress we make in the name of imperfection. All we can do is strive towards our ideals and do the best we can.

Ideally, I want to write every day. I restarted this blog in January 2021 to gather an audience of readers to help keep me accountable. On January 1st, I came up with this idea.  On January 2nd I wrote, published, and shared my first entry. On January 3rd, I ran errands and then slept like the dead for the most of the day before dinner and family time and then slept like the dead again for most of the night until 6 woke me up this morning bright-eyed and bushy-tailed and ready for "mama school" (that's what we call it when I teach him and I'm keeping him home this week because omicron AND let me also say here how awesome his teacher is for sending me home scripted instructions for his daily lessons and activities). And here I am, on January 4th, post mama-school, writing this entry. Have I written every day? No. Am I about to publish my second entry of the year? Yes! That's progress and that's awesome!

Ideally, I want to buy groceries weekly in preparation for a well thought-out weekly menu. This probably happens half of the time. The other half of the time, we do not starve. Those weeks, we fly by the seat of our pants and rely more heavily on simple meals and partially prepared foods.

Ideally, I want to hit the pool three times a week: twice for classes and once doing my own thing. Lately, I've been getting to the pool once a week; but hey, once a week is more than no times a week (which is how often I was going last January-May). Progress! And looking on the bright side, classes are now being offered three times a week at a more convenient time for me, so maybe I'll graduate to being a twice a week regular. More progress!

Ideally, I'd like to keep my home clean, tidy, and company ready (don't worry, I have fairly low expectations for what this means) at all times. In the past I've done Apartment Therapy's January Cure, Clean Mama's daily cleaning rhythm, among other things to help me stay consistent. I've got news for you, people. I could be as consistent as the sun and this place would still be in shambles 40% of the time because I have two teenagers who live so far up in their own heads they wouldn't notice if rats ran across their feet let alone that they leave a trail of clothes and other crap in their wake no matter where they are in the house or what they're doing. I've got a designated "landing pad" in my entryway, coat hooks and cubbies for each kid, routines aplenty for putting everything in its place during transitional times after breakfast, after school, after dinner, and before bed. So long as I have a husband with ADHD and enjoyment of my own sanity, I will never have the house in the shape I want it to be and that is okay. I'm a mom, not a maid. It's not worth my wrath and resentment to micromanage every living being in my home to keep my house in tiptop shape. NOT. WORTH. IT.

Instead, I lower my expectations and leverage my power. 

When I began my stay-at-home-mom gig, I learned quickly that a good day consists of keeping my family alive and feeding said family. If I am also able to keep up with the dishes and do a load of laundry, it's a very good day. Now that my kids are older, a good day consists of keeping everyone alive, getting them all to school, and providing them with tasty strength and growth food. If the dishes are washed and put away, the counters are clean, and a load of laundry has been done, it's a very good day. All of this plus doing something for myself (writing or swimming or napping or reading) is my definition of success. These are simple expectations and they are a challenge for me to meet, and I'm okay with that!

As I stated earlier, I am a mom -- not a maid. As we know, moms carry the heavy mental load of care for those we take care of, including our partners. I take the lead on almost everything in our household: food, clothing, childcare, education, play/entertainment, child-related communication with school/parents/friends, behavior expectations and discipline, household management and assigning of domestic tasks, healthcare oversight and appointment scheduling, oversight of petcare/grooming/veterinary, and on and on and on. My partner works many hours and provides for us (we can discuss how squicky this antiquated setup makes me feel at a later time) and makes a real effort to support our household by endeavoring to do anything I ask him to do. I expect my kids to do the same; frequently, 14 and 17 do not feel the same way. Therefore, it is necessary for me to remind them that we all have our parts to play:

Mom, I need clean clothes. When are you doing laundry? Well, I asked you to sort and deliver your dirty clothes and linens to the laundry room three days ago; you did not. You need to do that before I can wash your clothes. And, by the way, your problem is not my emergency, so I will not be ruining my Christmas holiday by doing four loads of 14 and 17's laundry. Thanks, bye!

Mom, what time is my playdate with Best Friend? It's at noon, but we can't leave until your room is cleaned up. Come on, you pick up your toys and I'll vacuum.

Mom, why am I locked out of my phone? Why do you have missing assignments in your classes? OR Why isn't your room picked up yet; I told you to do this two days ago. OR Because you're acting like an idiot and texting with people you don't know in real life and dude is trying to be slick using a shared Spotify playlist to show you a penis pic. OR whatever because the power of the electronics are strong in this generation, grasshopper. Let me also say here that you can similarly leverage hangouts with friends, money requests, and fun non-necessities to which said child feels entitled.

Mom, have you seen my [earbuds, hoodie, book, whatever]? Look in the Box of Doom.  The Box of Doom is a sanity saver. That trail of stuff my teens leave behind them like a snail's trail that I cannot convince them to pick up despite asking a million times? I don't have to pick their things up and put them away, but I also don't have to suffer with their junk all over my house and in my way and harshing my vibe. Any of their crap that's in my way or bothering me, I just throw it in the Box of Doom. They can be inconvenienced -- not me! -- by losing their stuff and having to dig through the box to find it. Then, whenever I feel like it, I demand they clean out the Box of Doom; leftovers will go straight to the Goodwill.

Despite all of my talk about lowering expectations and leveraging power, it is my goal to raise my kids to be -- as Michaeleen Doucleff writes in her book Hunt, Gather, Parent -- "accomodido": I want them to notice the things in their surroundings that need to be done and then help out by doing them without being asked. That is going to require me to approach things a bit differently with my kids. I need to better figure out my boundaries, limits, and higher expectations so that I can narrate and demonstrate noticings of what needs to be done before we are in a crisis situation (i.e. me freaking out or the dogs without water or 14 without clean clothes) and then providing my kids with the opportunity to demonstrate their agency.

I'm still working on this from my own end and, you know what? That's okay.

OHHHHH(micron): Here We Go Again!

I have been looking forward to sending my kids back to school now that the holidays are over. We enjoyed our time together, but I'm ready for us all to get back into a purposeful routine in which I can enjoy a modicum of time to myself and a less-trashed house. 

Oh, Omicron, you sneaky little bitch. You almost ruined our first family holiday since the pandemic began and, due to the teenage stupidity of 14 and 17, gave us a post-Christmas scare. We required 14 and 17 to isolate in their room and mask in the shared kitchen and bathroom space; it was a long-suffered time between Christmas and New Year's. 14 tested negative on Friday morning; 17 went on a trip to Chicago with their exchange program and today -- their last day there -- their host tested positive for covid. Now 17 will quarantine (for a second time) with their chaperone until they're cleared, hopefully by their school's mandatory test on Tuesday. 14 and 17's school is using the test-to-stay model, which I'm satisfied with as the best of both worlds: the safety of avoiding covid and the sanity of my kids staying in school.

6's school is another story, in that they have not yet shared any sort of return-to-school protocol in light of the recent omicron spread. Usually the school holds classes outdoors as much as possible, but with the below-freezing temperatures that will not be possible upon return. Combine that with the small but vocal anti-mask contingency and I am not feeling secure sending 6 back at the moment.

Our entire family is vaxxed and we adults are boosted, but I have two major issues with this Omicron outbreak:

1. Even though this variant is supposedly milder for those of us vaccinated, going about business as usual will only exacerbate the spread and its deleterious effect on:

• those who are high-risk or unvaccinated
• healthcare workers 
• the already-diminished healthcare system, which will be unable to meet general public need during another serious outbreak

We need to be thinking about the greater good here and not just how contracting Omicron will affect ourselves and our immediate families. "I'll only get a mild case of Omicron" is a short-sighted and selfish response.

2. I've been recently diagnosed with a chronic auto-immune disease and am being treated with cancer drugs (immuno-supressants). I struggle with day-to-day caretaking of my kids and household chores as it is, the last thing I need is another chronic illness like long-covid as a result of Omicron or any other variant. I want to be able to show up for my kids and myself without any more roadblocks; I don't want to deal with anymore setbacks when it comes to my ability to parent or eventually go back to work. So, I'm not messing around with omicron.

I'm freaking out a little bit here because -- like you -- the last thing I want is to go into 2022 like we did 2021. Things were just beginning to look up: I could see friends, I went out for drinks once, we even went out to dinner a couple of times, my kids were back in school and relatively safe. I don't want to go back to the way things were, self-isolating and feeling like we're on top of each other day in and day out. I want time! I want space! I want quiet!

But wanting, hoping, wishing, does not make it reality. So please, act accordingly.