major life FAIL

I had quit my job at a luxury active travel company.  Life was miserable.  I couldn’t cope with anything.  Newly married.  Newly minted MBA degree.  Sweet loft, downtown.  Awesome husband.  I was trapped.  Couldn’t breathe.  I knew that people loved me, but would they miss me? Would the beat go on?  What would they say?  How would they feel?  I didn’t really care, because I knew how I felt and I couldn’t stand it another minute.  It’s so clear to me.  The sun was shining right through our huge vaulted windows.  Our king- size bed was made up to look like a W hotel.  The white sheets were crisp and cool.   I was in my requisite yoga pants and t-shirt and the feelings were getting worse.  If only there was a way to end the pain.  A way to kill the misery.  I ran down to the kitchen and opened the cabinet under the sink.  Dishwasher soap? Was I kidding myself?  I’d land up with a clean belly, but I’m sure that wouldn’t quell the sickness.  What else could I take?  How could I obliterate the hate?  The pain.  The darkness.  The me?

In my closet I had tons of plastic bottles of old pills.  I had been secretly saving them for just this sort of moment.  Unused portions of Wellbutrin, ativan, celbrex and lithium.  I had pinks, blues, yellows.  A colorful assortment of treats to soothe the hurt.    For someone who despises pills as I do, this would be quite a cocktail.  But what would my family think?  Thinking about my baby sister made me the saddest.  She was my life, my love.  I adored her more than humanly possible.  I just hoped she’d understand.  I knew she wouldn’t.  Who would?

SO I grabbed some water and started swallowing.  It was so violent and so awful.  I don’t remember if I cried, but I think the Ativan kicked in first, because I remember lying on that sweet bed and closing my eyes.  I left no note.  I said no goodbyes.  I wore my beautiful wedding ring and what I thought was a little smile.  Finally I’d be done with this world and I could go forward.  Finally I’d find the happiness I so badly coveted. This was the best I could muster.

And then, just like that I woke up.  But I wasn’t in my luxurious loft.  I wasn’t in my soft bed.  I was in a cold and bright large room.  The floors were a yucky shade of dark orange linoleum.  I hate linoleum.  I do, however, really like orange.

And there was a disgusting dripping sound.  What in the world was that—and could someone please make it stop.  Oh there.  It stopped.  Oh gross.  It was coming from me.  OMG. Where was I? 

Oh look, there’s my lover.  Hi you.  What’s up? Where are we and when can we leave?  I’m cold.  I don’t feel good.  I need to throw up. 

This white and light blue robe was not flattering.  Was my hair straight?  What were we doing here?  What time was it?  This large man came over and asked me how I was feeling?  Was he stupid?  I was feeling awful.  I was a mess.  Surely my hair was not straight and I was in desperate need of my cherry lip-gloss.  Could someone please help me and pass me my hoodie while they were at it?

David pleaded with this large man, who turned out to be an MD.   David begged him to let me stand up and dance.  Somehow, my husband knew this would mean I was better.  He was sure this was all an accident. SO they unhooked me from the most disgusting tubes I’d ever seen and I held David like I’d never held him before.  And we danced.  And danced.  I’m not sure if there was any music playing, but strangely it didn’t matter.  David was right.  I was better.  At least for now.  Look at us go.  Those dance lessons were worth it after all, now weren’t they?  Oh the irony was not lost on me.

And strangely the pain did end.  I felt good.  I felt free.  It was almost as though the extra medicine stayed in my system for a short bit.  Almost as though my cry for help seemed to work.  For now I was ok again.  My parents, of course, ran to Toronto as fast as they humanly could.  They rushed out of their delicious Passover dinner and never did get to finish their matzoh ball soup.  Guests would have no idea why they ran from the table.  Their baby needed them.  And by needed, I meant big time.  I was lucky.  Super super star lucky.  I left that crazy dirty hospital in the city with no record.  No one wrote me up.  I left no file behind.  Why, I have no idea.  Therefore and with god go I.   And there I went. Totally lucky and ready to embark on a new life.  Maybe a new attitude.  Perhaps a bit of perspective. 

My psychiatrist, a cool man from New Zealand questioned me only once.  And only once.  What the HELL was I thinking he balked?  Just about the dumbest move of my life.  He let it go when the tears started pouring and we then turned to our favorite “well” topic.  The guy loved to grill me about my love of restaurants and my minor obsession with good food.  We talked about tiny gems and swanky spots.  From donuts to grilled fish, the more I talked the more well he knew I was.  What an ideal barometer to measure the mind.  And my what a crazy thing mind truly is.  Gracias adios.  I’m grateful now for each breath I take.  And slightly more grateful for the sweet and steady breaths of my husband and two angels. 

Maybe those kids were sent down from heaven to keep me whole.  Yeah, I’m pretty sure that’s their mission here on earth.  I need to respect and nurture that fact.  Even my 6 year old asks me often if I’ve had my ritual (otherwise known as my meds) She knows well that I can’t swallow the bunch without a glass of ice water and a tiny savory snack.  I favor crackers and I for some reason cannot use cookies.  It’s quite a burden for a kid, but she takes it in stride.  Oddly enough, she’s never asked me why I take medicine.  Maybe once, a long time ago, I told her it was to “make mommy smile”.  Thankfully that answer stuck.  She’s never asked again.  Once again, I’m grateful.  It’s the little things.  You know, like clipping into your spin shoes or zipping up a pair of your favorite jeans.  Nothing feels better.  Nothing.

And this is called thinking, he said.  At least this is what I thought he said.  Well I’m not thinking rational. This kind of thinking is unfashionable.  Don’t want to walk away yet, not safe to stay.  Honestly.  All this thinking made me afraid.  Totally friggin petrified. 

 Sometimes it scares me that they allowed me to be a mom to two.  No tests.  No studying. Nothing.  I just have two of the most awesome gifts.  No return receipts.  No manual.  Pretty terrifying if you ask me.  Pretty darn scary.  Take a deep breath.  Try to think.  Maybe go for rational if you can.  If not, just give them your best smile.  When that doesn’t work, bust out the salty tears.  Nice work. Try to lose the predictable.

  As I look in the mirror, I begin to stare.  What in the world has happened.  How has all this time gone by? What did I do? What will I do?  Where will I go?  Clearly I can’t manage to get myself out of this world.  Nothing more depressing to a depressed person than failing at THAT.  Man, does that SUCK.  Wow.  Talk about blatant failure.  And so I digress.

or fly with me to INDIA?

There was a time when I couldn’t leave the house.  Like I seriously couldn’t step out my front door.  Why?  Mostly, I believed,  because I had nothing to wear.  Honest.  Ask my dad.  I had nothing to wear.  Yes, I had a massive walk-in closet full of clothes, but nothing to put on my body.  My perfect and lean size 6 body. Funny enough, at the time my body was truly and actually  perfect. Did I actually just say that?  My dad would question why everyone else in the city managed to find clothes to wear, but I just couldn’t make it happen.  I couldn’t get myself into anything other than what I had slept in the night before.  I also couldn’t managed to find that small tiled room where water pours from the ceiling.  For some reason, I couldn’t seem to make it to the shower.  Hardly ever.  Therefore, I kept myself out of sight.  And hoped to be out of mind.  Weird how that goes.

So many months caught in this cage.  Un jaula.  Como un avion.  I was dragged to doctors and given tons of different meds.  Finally, my dad had come up with yet another remedy.  We’d go away.  Far away.  Somewhere where I could wear the same thing everyday and shower very little.  And no one would care.  Or notice. 

And so on November 5, we climbed on board AIR INDIA (read: hell) and headed for Bombay.  Sight and sensory overload.  The noise, the dust, the dirt, the begging children.  The COWS.  It was nearly too much to absorb, but as my dad promised, no one cared that I was dressed in the same grey shirt.  Everyday.  It was gross.  It wasn’t even a nice shirt, just a jersey long sleeve crew neck from Old Navy.  It didn’t matter on this side of the world.  NO one was looking at me.  Dreamy.

Aside from traveling to photograph a major camel festival (more on that later), my dad smartly believed this trip would heal me.  No longer would I be the girl who walked out of her plum job and dipped out of life. Thank you Mr Butterfield.  I wouldn’t be that freak who hid in her loft all day and night.  I’d become the girl who was taking some time off to “travel” as they say.  We weren’t hitting the beaches in Miami or the vineyards in Napa, but rather the jungle in Nepal and that long trans-boundary river (the Ganges) people speak about.  After three week in this crazy country, I’d be armed with more cocktail chat than any sane person had.  I’d have a book full of photos and stories to match.  My dad was right.  This time away would heal.  And it totally did.  Thank you my daddy.

You caught me.  I didn’t mean to be reminiscing this time around, but I was trying to prove a point.  I used to be a hermit and now I’m not.  See, presently I do leave the house.  I even get dressed.  Everyday.  Showering? Now that’s a whole different story.   It’s easy now.  Just throw on a pair of yoga pants and a t-shirt and head out the door.  Doesn’t really seem to phase me.  I get out when I feel like it.  I remember a time that not only did I not feel like it, but I thought I’d never go out again.

Join me in Spain...

So staying at home to be a mom was quite a job.  Definitely not one for the weak of heart.  The mornings were long, the nights were longer and there was no one to say thank you or please.  Obviously there was no one to cut a paycheck.  There were other rewards.  Catching your nine month old’s first steps. Hearing that first word (invevitably dada!)  Sharing a lunch with your toddler.  But then there’s the laundry which is never-ending.  And that dishwasher that seems to just re-fill on an hourly basis.  Not exactly sure how there is never enough room to put back the dishes when they all came from the same cupboards.  Strange how that happens.  That and missing odd socks?  Who knows what evil lurks in a home.  I was definitely not built to be domestic.  Did I mention the MBA?  Yeah, not a diva in that regard for sure.  I didn’t really relish staying at home.  I didn’t even know why I did.  There were so many jobs that I could secure.  Why was I busying myself with the mundane and facebook?  My favorite question was, “what do you do all day”?  What did they THINK I did all day?  Obviously I sat around watching the food network munching on modern day bon bons.  Yep.  All day long.  The only time I stand up from the couch is to refill my wine glass.  As if.  Guaranteed that if you counted how many hours a day I worked, it would be more than someone who actually went to an office.  What with all the coffee breaks and chats, there is no way those souls work more than 5 hours every day? And now with the internet and googling and linkedin…not a chance.

Okay, so my daughter is obsessed with the YouTube video Peacock.  This is wrong on so many levels.  Come on baby let me see you---what you hiding underneath.  Are you brave enough to let me see your peacock.  Hearing her and her 2.5 year old brother chanting the chorus is haunting.  Truly and strangely scary.   Jaw dropping. Are those Katie’s words or mine?  Spare me my little one’s teenage years.  How will mommy deal with that unexpected pressure.  Oh dear.  Now I see why so many take to the bottle.

Speaking of bottles, there was a time when I took to the bottle a bit more than I cared to admit.  The bottle was called a PERON—and the drink was good old Calimocho.  Calimocho (from the Basque Kalimotxo) is a drink consisting of approximately 50% red wine and 50% cola-based soft drink.

In some areas of Spain, calimocho is served in bars in short glass tumblers.  We preferred to slug it right out of a peron.  The porron wine pitcher is a festive way to serve wine or sangria. Just pick up the porron and tilt it so that a thin stream of wine pours directly into your mouth! It takes some skill, but it is fun at a party to see how well you and your friends master the technique. Believe you me, I had it down pat. 

 Plenty of ice is added, then the red wine and cola.  We drank it every night.  Right from this glass jar.  It wasn’t good, but it was cold.  And wet.  Strangely it helped get the night going.  Then we’d head off into the brisk Salamanca night.  Clavel Ocho was a favorite among the under 22 set.  The music pounded, usually in English and we danced until our feet cried.  Then we’d slip off our heels, have another drink and dance some more.  The final song often went a bit like like, “wise men sing, only a few can see, why I can’t help falling in love with you.  And of course, he just couldn’t help it.  Every night.  In the sweltering heat. It was divine.  To say the very least.  Que bien mi amor.

I’m sure by now I should have mentioned that I truly consider Spain, more specifically, Salamanca, my homeland.  I’d take it over Toronto anytime.  Salamanca is small city located about an hour and a half Northwest of Madrid in the Castile and Leon region of Spain. Local population typically rests around 150,000, but experiences a large jump in revelers whenever school is in session. Why? It's because Salamanca is home to one of the oldest Universities in the world.  Christopher Columbus was even at Salamanca University to lecture about his world explorations.. With such rich culture and deep roots in the history of academics, it makes sense why this town still thrives off the young and eager to learn.

I’d say that the nightlife scene in Salamanca is the best in all of Spain.. When the sun sets behind the Plaza Mayor in the city center, a different kind of buzz begins to roll in, and it only intensifies until the next morning. The nightlife in Salamanca is not a weekend affair, but instead every night of the week.  Man oh man is it every night of the week.  Between the high influx of international students, cheap drinks and good music, Salamanca is the place for anyone who's not afraid to watch the sunrise in last night’s attire.  Talk about the major walk of shame.  Night after sweet night.  Sunrise after pink sunrise.

I spent part of my sophomore time in Salamanca, having more discussions with bar owners at 5am than with any professor. After roaming these delicious streets for quite some time, I feel slightly obligated to share my two favorite hot spots .

La Chupitería

Plaza de Monterrey

Literally translated, it's name means "The Shot Shop". And that is all they serve.  Can you imagine? It was our favorite place to drink before the drinking began. My favorite?  The banana cream and the apple pie chupitos.

Cum Laude

Calle del Prior, 7

One of the more popular spots in Salamanca.  Lines were not uncommon. The dance floor was beautiful.! As the once great explorer, 'founder of America' and Salamanca city dweller Christopher Columbus once said, "if you're not boozing, you're loosing."  Man, did we ever take that sentiment to heart.  Time and time again.  Lord help our tired bodies.

The mornings came quickly.  Six am and it was time to dance back to our residence hall.  After all, we had class starting at 8am.  The first stop was always churros y chocoloate.  That was local speak for donuts and hot cocoa.  It was greasy and sweet and sadly hit the spot.  Every night.  How I managed to stay skinny is still a mystery?  And how I learned to speak Spanish is even more of an enigma.  Gracias a dios…

But there I go thinking about that crazy past again.  Even my sister complains that I need to stop thinking that grass is always greener.  But once again, the past was just so super.

Dare I cut back to the present? 

T

and then we were 4

And then there were two.  Or four.  Depends on how you want to look at it.  Regardless, there were more mouths to feed and more diapers to buy.  And change.  Oh dear.  But so he went.  He was as dreamy as dreamy coud be and he literally, quite literally, completed their family.      Life was adorable.  Totally frigging cute.  A million dollar lot, so it was said.  Thankfully, 2 healthy babes, one boy and one girl. 

When she thought about writing, so was torn.  She felt anyone could do salacious.  Seems that Chelsea Handler and EL james were already killing it in that genre.  Did she really want to start writing smut? Detailing erotica for the stay at home ladies? Probably not.  She wasn’t going to sell it to those less fortunate.  She was going to continue to write about everything else.  Leave the gory details to the pros.  

So she stuck to the story, minus the ick factor and the ideas just flowed.  She’d always been a natural storyteller.  Everyone told her so. 

In her free time, she caught herself daydreaming.  Relaxing.  Thinking.  Writing.  Why confess?  Not that anyone was listening, right?

There were two annoying parts of every day.  Seven days a week, the kids had to get ready in the morning and then they had to be convinced to sleep in the evening.  WHY they needed to be convinced to do something that I’d do in a heartbeat was beyond me.  I think that mornings were a touch worse.  I have the only kids in north America who sleep in at age of 2 and 6 respectively.  This joy means that I have to wake them at 8am and they’re as bad as teenagers.  My daughter begs for 2 more minutes.  Six times.  After the battle, she stays in bed and begs me to chose her clothes for her.  Black leggings and a pink sweater.  Declined. Pink leggings and a black tshirt.  No way.  A purple, sparkly dress.  Negative.  Okay, fine mom.  I’ll choose.  And out comes the leggings and the floral tunic.  Her outfit is complete with suede mocosins and a glittered head band.  Oh we are so screwed for high school.  My son isn’t as horrendous.  When he does wake on his own at 6am, he shouts, “mama!  I need you!”  Secretly I let him shout that at least 3 or 4 times.  Hey, you got to hold on to something.  One day he’ll be someone’s husband and he won’t be screaming for me anymore.  A mommy’s gotta do…

Choosing his clothes is equally ridiculous in the precious morning hours.   First of all, as a toilet trained two year old, he usually refuses underwear.  This I’ve decided to allow, provided he’s allowed me to peel off the hot pink robe he’s borrowed from his big sis.  In pjs, monkey costumes and nightgowns, I shove him out the door by 10am.  Only then, and after a $1.00 McDonalds ice coffee, does my day truly start.

And by start I mean that I rush home to clean the breakfast dishes.  Finish tidying from dinner last night.  Throw in a load of dirty towels (made dirty from cleaning the entire box of cereal and organic milk that the boy dropped on the kitchen floor).  Make a few beds.  Work on my music.  Get dinner going.  Usually by 3:30 I’m looking forward to the distraction of chatting with other SHMs at the playground at pickup.  As this is my main form of sociailziation, the moments on the blacktop are usually relished.

namaste?

This last one was a real doozy.  No one was able to fix it.

Riley had turned one in December 2006.  We threw her a big birthday bash.  I should have known something was going on.  I felt anxious.  I felt my heart race. I forgot to order the cake.  (repeat: I forgot to order the cake). I over planned the loot bags.  I couldn't lose the

weight (all 75 pounds of it).  

Panic set in. Big time.  January 25th was the official date I lost

focus.  Suddenly I had to bow out of obligations.  No longer could I plow

head first into my little business.  The women's think tank I was working

on took a back seat in my life's schedule.  Young President's

Organizations' obligations suddenly seemed insurmountable, and I sent my

sobbing resignation.  That letter took me all day to draft and sounded

juvenile at best.  Life was falling apart.  The shake up was rapid.  Cut to

New Jersey, land of my parents.  My mother stepped in and took over.  Fear was that my daughter would be neglected. Fears were correct.  If I

couldn't feed me, how could I feed her. Forget organic, I forgot the

basics.  Then I spent February in the guest room at my parent's.  It was

more like a chalet.  Three meals a day, laundry service.. Who wouldn't want to check in for the winter months.  Then March through June my mommy moved in with us.  She was an angel and my husband a saint.  I was going to hell in a hand basket.  And quick.

 Oh boy.  Again, light boxes galore, multiple doctors in many

countries.  Nothing worked.  I couldn't get dressed.  I couldn't talk.

TEXTBOOK.  Non-functioning thirty-two year old female.  Not working. Not

talking. Not doing much of anything except hating those who were enjoying. Then one day at the end of June I woke up and I've been spinning ever since.

 It's almost December and we're off to the sunshine in a few weeks. I bought a 2-piece bathing suit last week.  I want to lose the rest of the weight.  I never want to see Missouri again.  I still take pills.  I eat many fish oil pills a day.  It still makes me sick with each swallow.  Lately, I've been reading that the fish oils help to burn fat.  I think I'll up my dose. I'm happy.  

  Thank the lord.  I think I'll stick to one kid. As my good friend once

Said, “One child is an accessory, and any more you're implicated”.  Breathe and drink water.  A fish pill here and there doesn't hurt either. Namaste...

Postpartum SUCKS!

After having spent many months working in the “baby industry” I obviously imagined I’d be the “perfect mother”.  It was going to be easy.  I seemed to know as much as,  if not more than the average person regarding child rearing.  After all, working from home had afforded me the luxury of time to read every pregnancy book ever printed. If I ever truly counted, I think I read close to 30 books.  In addition, since I was already in the business, I knew about every fun and unique product and I was aware of every mommy/baby program in the city.  I was probably the happiest pregnant person I had ever met.  I adored every minute and kept a daily journal on my (and my baby’s) every move. I didn’t mind the weight gain and to be honest, I had never felt better.  Full of energy. Full of life.  I counted the days (literally) until my baby girl’s arrival.

Delivery was as smooth as can be and I was gifted with the most spectacular and healthy baby girl.  A few hours after she was born, I was already feeling great and I secretly wondered why everyone made having a baby out to be so tough.  We left the hospital the next day and life was fantastic.  New Year’s day (my daughter was 2 days old) my husband and I took the baby to her cousin’s first birthday.  Everyone was shocked to see us.  I was the proud new mom and I was thrilled that I could be out so soon. I was sure that this new baby was going to become my best buddy and my perfect accessory.  She’d accompany me everywhere.

I guess by day 7 or 8 the epidural wore off and suddenly my life took a turn for the worse.  I was totally overwhelmed.  While I thought the baby was nursing beautifully, her pediatrician kept complaining about her weight loss.  By day 10 I hadn’t had more than 1 hour of sleep combined.  I felt fat.  I was irritable.  This beautiful baby doll was becoming more of a nuisance than a pleasure.  I had no interest in seeing visitors. I wanted no one to enter the house.  I lost interest in photographing her every breath.  I was MISERABLE…Sad to admit, day after day, it just got worse.  Lucky for me, it was the dead of winter, and I sort of had an “excuse” for staying in…. Friends tried to help me.  Everyone was so supportive: calling, cooking, sending gifts, flowers, cards, prepared foods from Pusaterris  and Whole Foods.. . I hated everyone.  What a disaster.  My dream of a baby doll was turning into my worst nightmare.

I knew all about Post Partum Depression.  I had read Brooke Shields book…. when I was about 5 months pregnant.  While I knew all the signs, I was in complete denial that this could be happening to me.  Remember, I knew everything… I had read every book…

I guess all the readings in the world wouldn’t have helped me… I was depressed in such a way that my thoughts were inexcusable.  Postpartum sucked and I was not impressed with the new baby bit either...  (to be continued)

post kid FAT

I never thought twice about the two complete breakfasts I enjoyed every morning before 9am.  Having a slice of pizza and the contents of the breadbasket at Terroni wasn’t a strange thing for me during those nine months.  I relished my whole-wheat bagels with regular cream cheese.  I was fairly addicted to Iced Caps from Tim Horton’s.  A cookie from Whole Foods never really hurt anyone.  Same goes for the delicious biscotti from Starbucks.  Bread was my best friend.  I adored butter.   And I was never been happier.

Sure there’s a certain expectation that when you’re pregnant you’ll gain a sizeable amount of weight.  I never seemed to let it bother me (all 75 pounds of it).  Everywhere I went, people commented on how fantastic I looked.  I wore the same skintight black dress to every occasion and reveled in the flattery and accolade.  People said my big belly was gorgeous.  Strangers wanted to touch me on the streets.  I had been given the license to eat and the world was LOVING me for it.

So, baby girl was born on Dec 30^th, and now 6 months later I have a good 25-30 pounds to lose.  After a bit of self-loathing and destruction I actually think I’m on my way back to sexy again.  After all, I can fit in a Diane Von Furstenberg medium, and the compliments are starting to flow again.

I know I’m not waif skinny yet (nor am I sure I ever want to be so little again) but I’m comfortable and healthy right now.  I’ve hired the most wonderful trainer, Kate, who is my friend, support, advocate and relationship counselor.  She pushes me at 6:30am to run, lift and crunch as hard as possible.  My baby and I pound the pavement daily, usually about 17,000 steps a day (I bought a pedometer).

So while I think things are going just peachy, I have one person who is not quite as impressed.  He’ll find a Twix wrapper in my diaper bag and look at me with disgust.  A ½ eaten cupcake found in my bag was near grounds for divorce.  There’s nothing better than your husband walking into the bathroom where you’re finally relaxing in the warm tub only to say, “lay off the peanut butter and honey sandwiches, I thought you were on a diet”.  Or to receive a text message at 7:30am after you just got back from a great run that says, you’re not really a fat person, just start your diet.  Or I love you I just think you lack self-control.  Ughh…is he kidding??

Well, a great trip to NYC always cures things for me.  His good friend tells me I should UP the training sessions and see a nutritionist. Spend his cash to shut his mouth?  I think I’ll head south.  See a few friends who still think I’m FAB, cupcakes and all…At least they can appreciate that it took me nearly 10 months to grow my gorgeous daughter and it might just take that long to lose the penthouse I so lovingly built for her.