Wingaersheek Relief

My weekend started out shaky. I hurt my back last week, and it was the kind of strain Roseanne used to get, you know, where she'd go to bed for a few days and milk it for a few more, and her whole family would wait on her and Darlene would try to do the laundry and Jackie would keep her company. But for me, with kids ages four and under and no sociable sister readily available, it didn't work out that way.

I also suffered a setback to my six-week-somewhat-successful-diet streek (never let them tell you it's not a "diet," because it is). The lobster roll and French fries my mother and I guiltily enjoyed at Pub 99 led to one Chinese lunch buffet, one Chinese takeout lunch, and a few instances of ice cream and/or pizza before bed.

By Friday, my back felt better but I was at P minus 6, peak PMS day. I also realized that my hairdresser so overlayered my hair that every percentage of humidity in the air led to another piece sticking up in another direction, and I look like my fourth grade school picture.

Friday was also our babysitter's last day. She told me a few weeks ago that if she found a job working 10 or 15 hours a week, she could stay on for 10 hours a week. There was still hope! So as I handed her money over Friday afternoon, I asked with forced casualness whether she'd found anything. She said, "No, but I've signed up for a temp-to-perm placement service." Just like that, the dream was over.

By the time I listened to the message from our contractor, telling me he had to reschedule again for another four weeks in the future -- the contractor whom we hired to help address the 4-foot-by-7-foot hole in my family room wall, now boarded up with plywood -- all I could do was go for a walk. Apparently my warm, accommodating nature has done nothing to put a fire under his ass.

When I got downtown, at only 6:30 pm, the sun had set so that only the steeple of the Maple Street Congregational glowed warmly, leaving the rest of downtown in shadows. The air had chilled too, like it does at dusk when summer's almost over. It reminded me that I'd seen Halloween decorations at Stop and Shop. That did nothing to lift my mood.

Saturday I went to a baby shower for a dear friend who is due the same week that I was. She and her husband work part-time at Williams-Sonoma and LOVE to cook, so I ATE. And I laughed. Unlike when I was in high school, I love to hang out with women. I no longer "So prefer to hang out with guys because they're, like, so easy to get along with!"

That afternoon, Brian had a great idea (which happens every so often). We packed up the kids and headed over to Wingaersheek Beach in Gloucester, arriving after they'd stopped charging the steep $25 fee and enjoying a good two hours of warm sunshine. We had so much fun that we packed a picnic dinner (PB & Js and Pop Tarts) and went back Sunday night.

Wingaersheek has a narrow sandbar that extends at least a quarter mile out from the beach, almost to the light house on the other shore and with boat traffic on the right. It was low tide, so we walked it with the boys.

What was haziness at our house thickened to downright fog on the beach, making the sun look like a smooth, luminol-filled disk. The further out we got, the more surreal it became. Visibility was about 20 feet, so that I couldn't see the beach behind us or the boats blowing their foghorns before us. Other walkers seemed to appear out of nowhere only to disappear again.

The rippled sand sparkled, and shimmering waves rolled in on boths sides of us. Brian chased Ben, Ben bellylaughed and chased him back, kicking the water up in wide arcs. John marched along, challenging the ocean then getting scared and running back toward me.

In the most picturesque sense, it looked as if we were walking to "the other side." Perhaps that's why I kept envisioning my future self, lying on my death bed, playing this scene back in my morphine-hazed mind. I was in awe of the beauty around me, but watching my guys there made it feel like a defining moment in my life.

Then I remembered an exercise I did from The Artist's Way about seven years ago: Write a description of your ideal day. I pictured myself, out in the hot sun at 2 in the afternoon on a Tuesday, pulling weeds and listening to my kids playing with eachother. Back then, I had no house, no garden, no kids. I spent each and every Tuesday afternoon trying not to fall asleep at my desk.

I don't know if gardening in the summer heat would be my ideal today. But I can't help realizing that, as far as my life is concerned, the dream is now, and I'm so thankful to be living it.

http://photo.vespera.org/wingaersheek_beach/dscf0023

Dodging the Mullet

Yesterday I went to my hairdresser, who everytime I've seen her for the last two years has offered to give me a shorter cut. And every time I've told her that short hair makes me feel like a man. I've got precious few years left to feel "sexy," and short hair doesn't cut if for me, so to speak.

Last month, when she saw me sitting in the shampoo chair waiting my turn, she actually yelled, "Kris, today's the day I'm going to cut your hair off!" I escaped with shoulder-length hair in tact, but last night, reflecting on two months of humid-frizz-head, I thought, maybe ...

So I asked her, "If I give you carte blanche, what will you do?"

She talked about the latest trends and what she's seeing, then she uttered the most frightening word: "Mullet."

Shivers ran up my spine and images flashed before my eyes, such as:

http://www.ratemymullet.com/show.php?id=35

We compromised. I decided to let her cut my hair even after her horrifying suggestion, and she thinned out the sides without "mulleting" me.

This morning in the bathroom, as I finished putting on my makeup and fixing my hair, my two-year-old John hung over the sink, brushing his teeth (or, repeatedly wetting and sucking on his toothbrush). Then he looked up at me and said, "Whoa, he's a lady!"

For today, I'll assume that means it looks good. Tomorrow, maybe I'll start looking for a new hairdresser.

They Keep Me Humble, Sort Of

Ben put a sock on his hand, so I asked, "What's the puppet's name?"
"Marshmallow," he replied. "It's gonna be a fire story!" Remind me to make sure the matches are well hidden.

Then, as I was doing laundry:
"What's this, Mom?"
"My bra."
"No, it's too little. That's my bra."

Later, sitting at my desk, I feel a jerking pressure against my left thigh. I turn and see John pushing feverishly, and he says, "I'm gonna lift up this big butt!"

Now that we have established that I have no boobs and a fat ass, let me add that tonight Ben came to me and said, "Mom, you're the best!" as he threw his arms around me.

Who needs a big chest or bikini-ready butt cheeks? I am The Best.

How to Make a Simple Thing Difficult

My husband and I are trying to have another child. We have two boys, ages 4 and 2 ½. Brian’s an only child, but he has aunts on both sides of his family with four children, all boys. We are the last hope of Brian’s 80-year-old Mémé, who loves her five grandsons but has six bags full of lace, floral fabrics, and pink and lavender yarn in her closet gathering moth eggs. None of her other grandchildren are married yet, and the pressure's on.

For my part, I do wish for a daughter. My mom has been so nurturing and has given me much sage advice over the years. I'd like to pass some of what I've learned from her on to a daughter of my own.

So, with our chances of having a girl looking to be about 2 percent, I ordered the book How to Choose the Sex of Your Baby, by Landrum B. Shettles, M.D., Ph.D. After reading hundreds of pages of studies and evidence, statistical and anecdotal (and ad nauseam), I became convinced that we could increase our chances of conceiving a girl to at least 75 percent.

The catch? Persons wanting to conceive a girl must stop having sex two to three days BEFORE ovulation. Also, to increase the chances of conceiving a girl, the woman should not enjoy herself during intercourse. Is this irony?

So for the three months that we were advised to wait before trying again after my miscarriage, I carefully took my temperature every morning and monitored (brace yourself) my cervical mucus. Have you learned all about cervical mucus? It’s fascinating stuff.

I determined that I ovulate on day 12 or 13, but can’t figure any closer than that. We’ve tried and failed for two cycles now. All this trying and failing makes me realize that I want a baby, boy or girl, I just want a baby. This is a good thing.

But my husband, being the scientific and technical brainchild that he is, thinks we’ve finally got it all figured out, so why not try again? So this is it. We moved our last “try” in 12 hours closer to my estimated ovulation time, and now all we have to do is wait.

If it doesn't work this time, I think I've got to relinquish my illusion of control and just get on with the making of this baby. I can't wait for her, or him, to be here.

This Indecision’s Buggin’ Me

In February, I knew what I was going to do this fall: Have a baby. But in March, I had a miscarriage. Then in May, I lost my newsletter job, which took me about four hours a week and paid well. About the same time, by babysitter told me that she has to quit in September, when her daughter goes to first grade.

Deciding to take the summer “off,” just worrying about me, my house and the kids for a few months, was easy. Deciding what to do this fall, not so much.

My four options are:

• Work at Williams-Sonoma. My friend works there during her summers off from teaching. I stopped in to see her, and mentioned that, in 11 years of marriage, my husband and I have not accumulated one piece of silver or china, table linens, or what one might term “serving ware.” She said I could work there for the holidays, and that Williams-Sonoma gives their employees a 40 percent discount(!).

Pro: The job would be stress free. No babysitter required, I'd work nights and weekends.
Con: I’d be working at the mall, and might run in to former high school classmates.

Pro: I love the stuff Williams-Sonoma sells.
Con: I’d spend all the money I earned on the stuff Williams-Sonoma sells.

• Write at home for a healthcare marketing firm. My former boss has been offering me writing work for YEARS. And I would be writing, professionally even.

Pro: I would earn a decent hourly wage.
Con: I would have to hire a new babysitter. I HATE hiring new babysitters. Someday I’ll tell you all about it.

Pro: Since the firm has so much work, it could be a steady and varied writing gig for months or years to come.
Con: Since I’m new at this type of writing (and since I have to hire a new sitter), the job could be stressful, with weekend-erasing deadlines and sleepless nights wondering if I can schedule my 10-year-old neighbor to watch my kids so I can work a few more hours. In terms of “no stress,” this would be a step backward.

• Work as a writing coach for an online writing program. One of my “dream lives” is to teach writing and write fiction myself. This would be a step in that direction.

Pro: Since I’ve never coached or taught or tutored writing before, this would be a resume builder.
Con: Since I don’t own Adobe Acrobat, I would have to spend $350 to buy it before I could start work. I don’t have $350.

Pro: I could work from home for as little as five hours a week.
Con: I could make, after taxes, as little as $6 an hour.

• Do nothing. Just take care of the kids, the house, and myself.

Pro: I’ve been debating home schooling, so this could be an opportunity to try it out.
Con: We’ve already decided to send my oldest to school through kindergarten, to see how he does. So I could be losing my last few years to work before beginning home schooling.

Pro: I could spend a lot of time -- Monday to Friday, 7 am to 6:30 pm – with my kids.
Con: See above.

These options are overshadowed by three things:
• We’re broke.
• I will most likely become pregnant sometime in the next six months.
• I want a decent quality of life. I realize life can’t be no stress, but I don’t want to do something that will create unnecessary stress.

What I really want is for my babysitter not to quit, and for things to stay just as they are now. But since that’s just a dream, I’ve got to make a decision. The more I mull the options, the more I realize I have no idea what to do. And the longer I take making up my mind, the fewer options I will have.

Where Has the Self-Love Gone?

Recently, my friend Gina (www.mom-blog.com) wrote that she doesn’t have a nurturing instinct, or much of one. Sure, she soothes and mothers her baby girl. But nurturing her family does not come easily to her.

It doesn’t come easily to me, either.

When Oprah does a show on “Women Who Can’t Say No,” I turn it off, because I have no problem saying no. When my husband asks me to drop off the dry cleaning and I can’t, I say no.

In other words, I put myself first. Yet I still feel crappy, anxious, guilty... not as happy as I could be. I don’t like to play with my kids as much as I expected to. My husband and I have been, a little tense. Just the usual ups and downs.

But, I’ve had this nagging feeling that something is wrong.

I pulled a book off my shelf during No-Stress Week, Self-Nurture, by Alice Domar, Ph.D. Domar heads Harvard Medical School’s Mind-Body Center for Women’s Health at the Mind-Body Medical Institute. Her mentor is Herbert Benson, M.D, author of The Relaxation Response and a pioneer in the field of mind-body medicine.

In our stressful lives, Domar says, women “don’t have to stop soaring – in our creative imaginations, careers, sex lives, relationships, or spiritual endeavors. To take flight though, we must develop ... a ‘fierce and tender concern’ for every facet of our being. That,” she says, “... is what I call self-nurture.”

When we nurture ourselves, she claims, we become balanced among the chaos, more in control of our stress level, happier in life. As a byproduct of this inner peace, our nurturing of others flows more freely.

But when we’re chronically stressed, our levels of stress hormones stay high, giving us high blood pressure, a weakened immune system and “other imbalances that eventually lead to symptoms or even full-blown diseases.”

As low-key as I try to be, during a day with the kids my nerves get jangled. I get about 30 minutes of time to myself during the day (Thank God for TiVo). Nap time is key. John sleeps, Ben watches a video, the laundry’s in the dryer. But, what if John doesn’t go to sleep? Instead, he’s yelling, “Mommy! I got a POOOPEEEEE!”

Of course, I’ll recover. John will get up, and the dinner rush will commence. However, must I feel as if a tiger nearly attacked me just because John’s not going to nap today? Why do I get so stressed when Brian works late? I’ve learned being home with kids that you’ve got to roll with the punches. The pace is fast and priorities change minute-to-minute. If you asked me if Brian working late or John missing a nap stresses me out, I’d say no. Intellectually those things don’t bother me. Yet physically, they do.

Domar says the reason is chronic stress. She has counseled hundreds of women, from all walks of life, with similar complaints about their stress levels. She points out that, even among women who know about or use stress-relief tools like meditation, guided imagery or yoga, many still lack a “commitment to themselves that is rooted in compassion.”

Too often, my commitment to myself is rooted in perfectionism. I thought I’d beaten it (thanks to www.flylady.com). Yet, I’m still yearning, for a sense of peace and enjoyment -- heck, just a stable anxiety level. Now that I’m grown up, I know I cannot control events. Bad things happen every day, and some days life seems like one big dodged bullet. I’ll grow old fast if I keep worrying about it all. But on some level, I can’t stop.

I realize that all I want from life, all I’ve ever wanted, is to enjoy my day-to-day. Maybe this book holds the key.

Domar organized the book by seasons:

• Winter: Primal Self-Care
• Spring: A Time for Renewal
• Summer: Free Time for the Soul
• Fall: Auspicious Beginnings

I started in Winter, even though it’s hot and humid here in New England. Somehow winter seems to fit. I guess anxiety has chilled my soul, and I need a big fluffy sweater.