Surviving - Issue No. 16
PARENTING IN PARTNERSHIP - LOVE AND LIMITS
I’m officiating my dear friends’ wedding in November, and with it I’ve been thinking a lot about love. When I was younger, I thought of love in terms of passion. It was visceral and all consuming, staying up all night entangled in one another. It was electric witty banter, it was carnal and captivating. In my idea of love, there was no such thing as being touched out, depleted, short-fused, misunderstood, or unseen.
But the reality is, last week my husband and I got into an argument about bacon. What is the etiquette for the consumption of bacon with one’s hands, and does the protocol change based on its flimsiness? This wasn’t a silly debate, it was an actual argument, which had nothing and everything to do with bacon. Later that day, so as to not get our floors dirty, my husband took his shoes off and left them blocking our front door, and then, when my son tripped over my husband’s gigantic shoes which were very much in the way, I did not feel slightly irritated, I felt infuriated. Because being married is like being put into a petri dish with all of each other’s bad habits and pet peeves and not-best-selves and then left to see what grows or, I suppose, molds. This will not go in the speech I give while officiating the aforementioned wedding. But, maybe it should. Because being married with young kids, to me, might be as much about love as about resiliency. According to a study, more than half, or 60%, of divorces involve spouses who are between the ages of 25 and 39, not coincidentally this is the same window of time in which a couple is likely to have children.
Marriage involves combining two totally different people, with two completely different upbringings, different love languages, different personality types, and then expecting them to build one life together. And then you give this couple a kid or two or three, you suck all of the energy out of their bodies, you don’t give them adequate time to sleep or poop or administer self-care, let alone care for each other, and then you expect the seams of this stitched union to stay intact. Sometimes the most intimate moments now are locking eyes when our kid is having an epic tantrum and finding synchronicity in how we handle it, or feeling for each other’s hand over the kids and around the dog who are all piled in bed for morning snuggles. “I love you” sometimes comes in the form of tire rotations, making a meal plan for the week, buying tomato cages, giving the dog a walk, and installing a new filter on a robot vacuum who we’ve affectionately named Trudy. And yet, that I love you doesn’t fill your cup, and your partner doesn’t feel like they’ve got anything left with which to fill it. Our marriage goes weeks operating more like a well-oiled machine than what I imagined as a marriage. And though this is a conversation that has been reserved for my closest friends, I truly don’t think our challenges are extraordinary.
One of my biggest challenges with this newsletter is to be honest about what life with little ones is like without objectifying my family. This is a tricky line to hold, and I suppose one that’s not just tough as a writer. I’ve found that making friends in adulthood also involves walking a strange undefined line between connecting and oversharing and seeking understanding and honest dialogue while not wanting to seem burdensome or bleak. However, when I’ve gone out on a limb and shared, I’ve found rich opportunities to feel connected and seen. So, with that warning, I’d now like to say something that is slightly controversial, incredibly liberating to admit, and yet not news to anyone: even with abiding love, good intention and commitment to one another, marriage is really hard sometimes.
OUR BODIES, OUR HYPOCHONDRIAC SPELLS
According to recent statistics, 100% of people, despite their best efforts, are getting older. I too have fallen victim to this bizarre phenomenon. If we have a third kid, I would have a geriatric pregnancy. I’ve aged out of The Real World cast, a show I’m not sure still exists because somewhere, about five years ago, I lost track of pop culture trends. Sometimes, for pleasure, I look at birds. And, earlier this summer, I strained my back by contorting my body while watching Yellowjackets on my iPad under the covers while my husband slept next to me. This is 36, I suppose. As my parents get older, it is becoming increasingly clear that just like everything else, age can be viewed on a spectrum, and how you get older is contingent on lifestyle and luck. I have been fortunate enough to have not had many health scares in my life, though I have had a great deal of hypochondriacal episodes thanks to Google and my overactive imagination. Because of the nature of childbirth and the sizable gaps in postpartum care, having children has been the impetus for me feeling somewhat powerless against my own mortality.
In November 2020, I gave birth to my son via c-section. I remember laying on the table, arms out, insides exposed, just watching my heartbeat on the monitor and feeling utterly powerless in my own body. This was a feeling we had grown accustomed to during the pandemic. It was 2020 and we had been quarantined for months, full of uncertainty and anxiety. There still wasn’t enough longitudinal data on the impacts of COVID on pregnant women and newborns, the vaccine hadn’t come out yet, and we lived in fear of going to the hospital. My son was born healthy and beautiful and without complication. As we were rejoicing in his arrival, admiring his tiny feet and silky skin, my routine blood draw in the hospital revealed that my white blood cell count was high, a normal consequence of surgery. At my routine follow-up appointment two weeks later, my white blood cell count was still high, which is still relatively normal. However, in order to err on the side of caution, my OBGYN recommended I go see a Hematologist at Emory Winship Cancer Institute. So, at one month postpartum, packed full of changing hormones, breasts leaking with milk, sleep-deprived and feeling incredibly vulnerable with a toddler and a newborn, I had to go to the leukemia floor of the hospital by myself to see if, on top of everything else, I was facing a cancer diagnosis. Retrospectively, while I deeply appreciate my OBGYN making sure everything was okay, having them redraw my blood again in-house before making this foreboding referral would have been invaluable. But instead, I went to the hematologist and then for two weeks, while awaiting the results of my blood tests, I’d cry at night with trepidation in the dim light of my son’s room as he nursed himself to sleep. I received a call two days after Christmas to hear that I had a clear bill of health. While I was so relieved, the great task of holding it all together during my fourth trimester while fearing that I had cancer felt nearly impossible.
This past spring, my now very active two-year old son ran full speed into my stomach, a place that used to be occupied by what I fondly remember as abs. When he plowed into my abdomen, I felt an unfamiliar pain and noticed a lump above my belly button. My previously mentioned Googling concluded that it was a postpartum umbilical hernia. I went to my general practitioner, who referred me to my OBGYN, who after doing an ultrasound recommended I see a general surgeon. For the weeks between these appointments, thanks to my treasured imagination, my undiagnosed lump became a very scary thing. According to the National Institute of Health only .08% of women are diagnosed with umbilical hernias postpartum. However, I didn’t discover my hernia until two years after my son was born and only thanks to a great deal of persistence. Similar to my diastasis recti, I had no idea that these postpartum challenges existed until they became my challenges. So, I went to a general surgeon who was a mom herself and had experienced the same issue postpartum. She pressed my hernia like my kid’s Dimpl pop toy and then confirmed my initial Google diagnosis. To have hernia surgery, you have to be certain you are done having kids, because pregnancy reverses the procedure. You also have to be able to not lift anything heavy for 4-6 weeks - a notion that sounds preposterous to a mom of a 2 and 5 year old. It is not an emergency, and so I am just waiting. Waiting for it to get worse or more painful, or for me to get sick of not being able to do any work on my central core. It is a nuisance, not an emergency. However, it is another opportunity to feel totally unprepared for the reality of having children and for the lack of information and support in postpartum care. As with so much of motherhood, we are often left carrying the weight of our own limitations demurely and with resignation, while remaining an unwavering pillar for our families.
HOW TO LIVE TO 100 - THE IMPORTANCE OF
DRINKING WINE AND SOCIALIZING
My grandma passed away in June, just two years short of reaching her goal of becoming a centenarian. She would want you to know that she wore her age like a badge of honor, she loved watching surprise wash across someone’s face when she told them how old she was. Over the last few years, there was tension between succumbing to aging and remaining hopeful to soon become agile and able-bodied again. I’ve thought a lot recently about what I can learn from her well-lived life. With this in mind, I stumbled upon the research of Dan Buettner on “Blue Zones,” areas of the world which are home to the longest-living and happiest populations. He and his team have been working for over twenty years “to uncover the secrets of longevity.” After analyzing demographic data and interviewing numerous centenarians, they identified five regions: Loma Linda, California (Seventh Day Adventist Community); Sardinia, Italy; Ikaria, Greece; Okinawa, Japan; and Nicoya, Costa Rica. All of them “stood out for their extraordinary longevity and vitality.” In these areas, “people reached the age of 100 at 10 times greater rates than in the United States.”
According to CDC data, the U.S. life expectancy declined to 76.4 years in 2022l that is the shortest it's been in nearly two decades. According to another study, only 20% of how long the average person lives is dictated by our genes; that leaves a lot of room for this “Blue Zone” research to be applied to how we live our lives. In the United States, we often associate health with two factors: diet and exercise. But, as a culture, we connect “diet” with how we restrict ourselves in order to lose weight, and we connect exercise with gyms and challenging workouts. However, there must be more effective ways, considering that, according to the American Journal of Lifestyle Medicine, more than 90% of individuals in the United States give up on their diet after 7 months. Similarly, 70% of individuals with gym memberships will no longer continue with these workout regiments.
So, while their wisdom, knowledge, and lifestyle probably provide endless opportunity for us to learn from and emulate, here are the nine common factors among the world’s centenarians that seem to be most connected to longevity:
Move naturally. Instead of hitting the gym, running marathons, getting ripped at Crossfit or losing oneself in the cultish-enthusiasm of SoulCycle, the longest living people reside in areas that encourage “moving without thinking about it.” Whether this comes in the form of sitting and then getting up from the floor often, gardening, or walking to your village, this natural movement is tied to long-term vitality.
Purpose. Having a purpose is an integral component of a Blue Zone, perhaps even more so than happiness. The Okinawans call it Ikigai, and the Nicoyans call it plan de vida; for both, it translates to “why I wake up in the morning.” Research shows, though I’m not exactly sure how this research is possible, that feeling like you have a purpose can add 7 years to your life expectancy.
Downshift. No matter where you live, stress is likely inevitable at certain times in life, and stress is linked to health problems that have long-term implications on life expectancy. However, the world’s longest-living people have found ways to reduce their stress, whether it is napping, praying, or happy hour; a built-in perspective-reset is connected to increased longevity.
Stop while you’re ahead. One of the biggest surprises when dining in another country is how much smaller their portions are compared to ours. Most people in Blue Zones “eat their smallest meal in the late afternoon or early evening, and then, they do not eat any more the rest of the day.” The mantra repeated before meals in Okinawan culture is “Hara hachi bu” which is a reminder to stop eating when you are 80% full.
Minimize meat. In all of the Blue Zones, “Meat—mostly pork—is eaten on average only 5 times per month.” However, in the United States, “between 63 and 74% of individuals consume red or processed meat on any given day.” Beans, fruits, and veggies were the cornerstones of the diet in Blue Zones. Nuts were snacked on often, and processed food was essentially absent.
Wine O’Clock. Unlike what you might expect, people “in all Blue Zones (except Adventists) drink alcohol moderately and regularly” and have for much of their lives. Most drink between one and two glasses of wine each day, either with friends or with a meal.
Belong. Most centenarians “belong to some faith-based community”, though which denomination doesn’t seem to matter at all.
Family first. Most centenarians in the Blue Zones live near or with family. They often have remained with a life partner and have invested a great deal of their energy in their children.
Tested true tribe. The people who have lived longest have an enduring social circle that also supports a healthy lifestyle. My favorite example of this was the “Moai” (/mo,eye/) in Okinawa. This is a small group, usually around five, that remain in committed friendships throughout life from a very young age. The Moai concept originated as an alternative to a bank: if you ran into financial troubles, these were the people you’d count on, but it has since evolved into a life-long group of people who support each other in all facets of life.
It feels worth noting that these Blue Zones are not war-torn areas, and none of them are facing ongoing racism, poverty, and oppression, or other factors that would make these nine principles of longevity far more complicated. However, it also feels important to acknowledge that these nine principles are totally sensible, and it seems like a missed opportunity to not consider how they can be applied in our own lives.
SOMETHING THAT
DID WORK
My daughter turned five a couple of weeks ago. That means for longer than I was in high school or college, which at the time felt quite extended, I have been a mom. This is an identity I’m now and forever inextricably tied to. It has been a bewildering, humbling and utterly wonderful journey, that has gone both indescribably fast and achingly slow. This is the letter I wrote my daughter on her fifth birthday in reflection of the scintillating human she is becoming:
My tiny swindler of sleep,
Three times in the past week, you’ve busted into our room in the middle of the night, like a tyrannical, nocturnal caterer dispensing birthday demands: the cake frosting must be pink, the cake should be chocolate, and nothing but rose decorations will do. Until I had you, I had no idea what it was like to wake up to someone monologuing next to my bedside without warning or context. Now, it is common, though still quite startling, for me to go from dreaming to quelling the demands of my tiny swindler of sleep.
The other night as I was tucking you in, you looked into my eyes, a mirror of your eyes, and said, “I wish a part of you was inside me, so you could fix me any time something hurt. And a part of me was in you.” My love, you’ve been earthside for five years today, but being connected to you is embedded deeply within me. Being your mom means that even in my treasured moments of solitude, we are never without each other. I am permanently halved, even as you become more whole. And, being mortal and thus unable to always fix your hurt, keeps me up at night when you don’t.
Somehow, you are now five. Which means we’ve been tired and in awe of you for half a decade. Your birthday party is unicorn/fairy/mermaid/ballerina/princess themed despite us being so intentional of not pushing any gender norms in your direction. Because somewhere between five years ago and now, you’ve become this entire little human. You love painting flowers and being absorbed in books and prefer wearing your hair in these goofy antennae-like double buns. You’re happiest with a wand in hand and your haggard Pooh bear in the nook of your arm. You feel things so deeply and are already quite a storyteller. At night, when you should be in bed, I often come in to find you orchestrating elaborate fairy tales with a sloth in a headband and a cat in a tutu.
The other day, you told your brother that you loved him and his entire body lit up, “you love me?” He asked with such eager desperation. When you’re not kicking each other in the shins, these moments of sweetness are everything. Last week, you learned to cross an entire set of monkey bars and when you dropped down to your feet, you were beaming. You can do hard things like finding ways to recenter when you are frustrated or worried or exhausted and navigating your capacity for connection and quiet. Even in the moments filled with the biggest of feelings, we never stop seeing the shining light you cast on this world. Happy birthday, my girl. I love you entirely and forever, from the moment you began to grow within me to all that you are growing into without me. I am and will always be connected to you.
With love and wonder,
Your mom
SOMETHING THAT
DIDN’T WORK
We have an instruction manual for our espresso machine that is more comprehensive than the directions we received when departing the hospital with our newborn. I don’t think my son and daughter have ever even considered the fact that I wasn’t a mother before I was theirs. Faking it till you make it, I’ve found, seems to be the secret of adulthood, and so we proceed as if we know what we’re doing. But, at every step, we are left with the ever-humbling truth that we are just throwing things at a wall and seeing what sticks with our test audience, who also just happens to be the people depending on us for success and survival.
With that, I’d like to pitch the idea of the “Unexceptional Machine.” Controversial? Yes. But stick with me. Parents are constantly navigating the issue of whether the challenges their children are experiencing are age appropriate, part of who they are, or something that needs further exploration and support. From sick days to erratic behavior, to developmental milestones, what if you could insert a slip of paper into a machine, and it would pop out an answer of whether you needed to take action on your concern or just take a deep breath and chalk it up to the unpredictability of tiny humans. It is probably a bad sign for the inventor to then admit to the immeasurable problematic nature of such a device. But, despite it being an indisputably bad idea, I think it would bring me a great deal of peace of mind. Here are a few examples:
My child has a dresser full of clothing and only four outfits that feel comfortable on their body currently. Unexceptional or Cause for Concern?
My child realized that we have a dog this summer. We’ve had said dog since before they were born, but seemingly unbeknownst to them. They went from not caring at all about his existence to “dressing” him daily in a bandana, sneaking treats to him in exchange for a shake or a kiss, and being endlessly amused at how the inflection of their voice impacts the perk of his ears and the wag of his tail. Unexceptional or Cause for Concern?
My child’s tantrum was so bad the other day that they tried to spit in my face and hurled a fire log at me because I didn’t say the words “unicorn, mermaid” while pushing them on the swing. Unexceptional or Cause for Concern?
In the days of yore, people did this child-rearing business in close-knit communities, and from my understanding the “Unexceptional Machine” was just innately built into the village that was helping to raise your children. However, since I don’t know how to mobilize this fabled “village” that we’ve heard so much about, how do we adequately distinguish which inevitable challenges deserve our time, money, and worry and which deserve a deep breath and some patience? A part of me knows we should just trust the process and do what we can to raise empowered, empathetic, strong, capable kids. But, also, would you just “trust the process” with your espresso machine?
SUSTENANCE SUGGESTIONS
This eggplant parmesan is what I ate the night I went into labor. I was nine-plus months pregnant and was so incredibly uncomfortable. While treasuring my final moments without a baby, I stumbled upon several news articles touting the success of this "labor inducing" miracle-worker of a dish from a place called Scalini's. I called my husband and asked him to go out of his way to pick it up for me before coming home from work. Did it sound a little crazy that eggplant parmesan could induce labor? Yes. But, worst case scenario, I would eat delicious Italian food and continue to be pregnant. There really didn't seem to be a downside. Two hours and one devoured eggplant parmesan later, I was in labor. According to this restaurant's website, my daughter is considered an "eggplant baby." The restaurant has since closed, but they did share their famous eggplant parmesan recipe before shuttering their doors. So, if you are pregnant and ready for that baby to arrive earth-side, this recipe is for you. If you just enjoy a delicious Italian meal as the evenings get cooler, this is a good one for you too.
