Staying Healthy Is Making Me Sick

I've said before, I'm petite.

Friends of my 11 year old daughter stand next to me to make themselves feel grown up - that kind of petite.

And I'm healthy. Barring my parents' generous gifts of high cholesterol and low thyroid, I'm doing ok for a gal in her mid-40's.

I exercise (though my husband would diagree with me), I eat well (wine and dark chocolate are soooo good for you), so why is it that I'm choking these down each and every day?



Can you say GAG REFLEX!!!! INDIGESTION!!!!! HURRRRLLLLL!!!!!!

Because these pills packed with fountains of youth are going to keep me from biting everyone's head off during menopause, from becoming a hunchback post-menopause, from shriveling up like an over-ripe nectarine, and from growing a big, fat front tire where my tight, flat abs used to be.

At least that's what I'm told!

Sure, I might be pretty and I might live longer but what's the point if I never get out of the bathroom?

Girls Will Be Girls: Except When They’re Boys

“Here she is,” announced my doctor as my baby took her first breath. I held her, secretly relieved my first was a girl. I grew up one of three sisters so females were familiar. I did my share of dating, and was married, but I was no expert on the opposite sex. Venus...Mars. Tomato...To-mah-to.

But a girl’s life I did know. The good, the bad, and the vicious. I knew it well and was confident my daughter would benefit from my battle scars hard-earned wisdom.

Are you laughing yet?
Like my daughter would listen to any advice I had to offer.
If you believe that, I've got a gas-guzzling Hummer you might like to buy.

The fantasies of intimate mother/daughter chats about puberty, introducing her to my generation's bible, “Are You There God, It’s Me, Margaret, explaining the mystery of mean girls, social cliques, S-E-X ... I get none of that. Any hint that I am about to broach the subject of periods or pubic hair and my daughter is all “Lalalalalalalalala, I can’t heaaaarrrrr you” and out the door faster than I can say "but I'll buy you a video IPod....." And she needs no advice from me on handling cattiness and cliques - she manages them just fine on her own.

When I found out the sex of my second child, I freaked out. The thought of a penis growing inside me was just – ewwww. The things I knew about penises I assure you were not going to come in handy with a baby. I am not into competitive sports, I don’t like playing them or watching them on tv. I don’t have many close male friends, so what, other than being his mommy, was I going to have in common with my boy?

More than I ever thought possible. You see, my son, despite his gregarious and often inappropriate personality, is super sensitive. Those intimate talks I dreamed of having with my daughter, the ones about bodies maturing, where we go when we die, what our souls look like, I have those with my son. He can't get enough. He has all the machismo of a boy: he loves sports, balls, guns (he can turn a benign piece of buttered toast into the meanest rifle) but the slightest drop of blood makes him queasy, diarrhea turns him into Chicken Little, and the slightest affront causes his body to stiffen and his upper lip to quiver.

The dreams of guiding my daughter through teenage angst are coming into play... but with my eight year old son. To make matters more surprising, he plays for the opposing team. He is, I fear, a mean boy. Decades ago, I might have been his victim. I shudder as he recounts how he and his friends ousted some boys from their group because they cry, they cheat at handball, or, they’re just annoying. Hearing him deliver haughty commentary about peers who scored poorly on tests and who wear the wrong kind of undergarments (apparently boxer-briefs are in), I feel as if I'm fraternizing with the enemy. I'm disappointed and scared for him knowing that bad karma will, one day, swing in his direction.

I offer the requisite parental wisdom...

“If you don’t have anything nice to say…” “
Treat people the way you want to be treated”
“Keep your hands to yourself”
“Don’t pick your nose in public”

...but my boy has me stumped. I'm convinced he tells me all that he does because he knows his behavior is wrong and wants me to tell him so. But when I oblige, his chest puffs out with testosterone and he becomes steely and impenetrable.

Life throws you curve balls and I’m a lousy catcher. I never expected my boy to behave like this. All these years I've been coaching the wrong player. I love my son. He is smart, charming, funny, and sensitive. He is, as all mother’s say, a good boy. But I’m not in denial. He’s attracted to the movers and shakers, the boys with older siblings who have their fingers on the pulse and command the playground. He’s in awe of the older kids who skateboard in front of the local Starbucks. He emulates their style. He leans toward danger.

When my son was born, everyone said boys are easier. Where are you people? I have a bone to pick with you.

The Day After

Yesterday afternoon's baby shower was lovely. The mother-to-be looked radiant. It was everything a baby shower should be (no game were played, yay.) Watching the expectant couple open gift after gift, it was fun to see their faces as they realized the baby was indeed real, coming soon ... and bringing with her a whole lot of baggage.

The visit at the hospital that followed was tough. My emotions got a workout having both events back to back. In the span of a few hours, I was joyful, sad, hopeful, angry, bewildered, curious, and frustrated. My head was reeling.

For my sick friend, there are no easy answers. No wonder drugs. No magic potions. Just, very possibly, a Sophie's choice of who should live and who should die. It doesn't get more difficult than that.

Thanks to all of you for your advice. Your suggestions helped me make the visit less about my apprehension and more about her comfort.

A Difficult Day Ahead - Suggestions Welcome

I'm going to a baby shower tomorrow.

I've never been a big fan of girl parties that don't include multiple rounds of mixed cocktails and raucous laughter. At my baby showers, I insisted the hostesses ban games of any sort like those where you guess the baby's name, it's sex, or the size of my bulging abdomen. No, no. Not for me. Having said that, hanging with the girls and getting gifts - lots o' fun.

Since I don't know anyone going tomorrow except for the mom-to-be, I have been apprehensive about the party. But tonight I got an email that changed my outlook toward these proper, girly celebrations. I've been told that my friend, who was in remission from lung cancer, newly married and six months pregnant, has had a recurrence which has spread to other organs as well as her brain.

She is taking visitors tomorrow. The immediacy of the invitation frightens me. I want to be positive but I can't help considering the worst.

So after the baby shower, for which I will show much more respect and gratitude, I will go to the hospital.

It will be an emotional day visiting two pregnant friends. One in a beautiful garden accented with icy pitchers of lemonade and a procession of party dresses the other in a spare hospital room with a lifeless pitcher of tap and a show of hospital scrubs. Though both scenes are filled with the anticipation of life, the two couldn't be more different.

I'm struggling with what I am going to say to my sick friend. It's bad enough that she has cancer but with a baby on the way? I have so many questions, so many concerns, so many fears. What to ask? What not to ask? I'm worried what the look on my face will convey when I walk in the room.

If anyone has any suggestions, I would greatly appreciate them. I want to make her feel loved and cared for. I don't want to try too hard, put my foot in my mouth, and make her feel worse.

Thanks.

Summer. Nice If You Can Get Some

How is it that all of you are done with school or days away?

I read your blogs about lazy afternoons spent in the pool, adventures in Disneyland, car trips with ice cream destinations and I think that should be me!!!! how nice for all of you.

Really. Nice. For. You.

I, we, are still deeply entrenched in the hallowed halls of education. Our feet stuck in the muck of discipline and structure. My son had a test EVERY DAY this week. Math, social studies, science, spelling - you name it, he's had it and with one day's notice! My daughter just finished a major video project that took two weeks and brought her stress level, and ours to new, heart-stopping heights.

Our bodies know it's summertime. The sun doesn't set until 8:30 beckoning us out for evening walks, soccer games, or kickin' it late in front of the tv. Our schedules are sorely out of sync with the lunar cycles and causing equal opportunity P.M.S.

No one can get up in the morning. No one can go to bed at night. My son screams when you ask him to brush his teeth, when you ask him to get dressed, when you ask him to shut the f**k up. My daughter whines and shoots poisoned darts out of her vocal chords.

For the rest of the country, summer has officially begun.
For us, hell.

Really. Nice. For. You. Really.

Wherefore Art Thou Inspiration?

I remember the moment I decided to become a writer.

I was in fifth grade and my teacher, Mr. Gelman, told us to write a story which incorporated all twenty of our weekly spelling words. Across the room, Julie, the mean girl who all year had spelled girl "gril" looked stricken. Her face went pale. Mine flushed with excitement.

At home, I observed my surroundings: the Betty Crocker cake mix box on the counter, the broken color tv that only played in black and white, the musty smell of our unfinished basement. I did nothing extraordinary except to take notice of the ordinary. I used these elements of my life and combined them with the spelling words to write a story about the daughter of Betty Crocker who lived in a house with a broken television set, a musty basement, and two sisters.

I felt joy as the words spilled onto the page and elation as I reviewed the final product. I didn't tell anyone, didn't want to brag, but I knew it was good. I knew.

Mr. Gelman knew it, too. He gave me a gold star and read my story to the class.

That year, I started a novel. Praise from Mr. Gelman inspired me to be a writer. I was good at something I enjoyed. (The holy grail as I would discover in my adult life.) I carried a cream-colored looseleaf binder with me everywhere. Inside was a title page and five chapters, each one labeled and separated neatly by dividers, about a little girl living in the country. (My inspiration was James Herriot's, All Creatures Great and Small.)

My 6th grade teacher was a different sort. In me he saw no spark and cared little about nurturing one. My fire quickly burned out and the cream-colored looseleaf was buried along with my dreams. It later disappeared, carelessly thrown away with other childhood keepsakes.

My passion died out without a fan to it's flame.
It took decades to return.

It eludes me again today. These past few days.
I want it back.

Menage A Trois: Sex and the City, SJP and me

Before Friday's SATC movie release, I refused to read reviews, interviews, blogs, anything that might risk plot spoilage.

I saw the movie Saturday night - now I can't push the characters and their stories out of my mind.

I have my thoughts on the film, faves and flaws, but I'm spilling nothing. For better or for worse, I love these gals and seeing them again felt like a reunion with long lost friends. (I wish I had friends like these when I was single in NYC.) So when I sat down at my computer this morning, ready to catch up on the day's news and write a post, it should be no surprise that upon seeing a link to an interview with SJP, I clicked.

One hour later, I surfaced from my SJP rendezvous, mesmerized and infatuated. Each time I see her interviewed I like her more. Her humility, compassion, intellect - I'm a teenager with a crush - I want to be her!

Did I mention that I had a HUGE crush on Matthew Broderick before SJP met him? I spent an entire lunch hour stalking him as he circled Washington Square Park. Poor thing was still limping from the car accident he had in Ireland. He was gaunt and pale but that didn't stop me! I remember thinking, like any stalker worth her weight in psychosis, that I looked just like his girlfriend, Jennifer Grey, and dreaming that he'd turn around, ask me out for coffee, and dump the stale Dirty Dancing bitch for some fresh meat. (Hey, no one puts baby merlotmom in a corner.)

He did eventually go for the girlfriend switcheroo, but he picked Miss Sarah, not Miss Merlot- so she and I have something in common - which is nice. (Caddyshack reference - anyone? anyone?)

So readers, for today, rather than a pithy post or a profound presentation, you've been to merlotmom's and as the t-shirt says:

... all you got was this lousy link

(scroll down for the video of SJP)

Or maybe you'd rather spend an hour with your kids or something. Pffffft!

If you've seen the movie and want to talk, contact me! I'm dying to spill.