Thoughtful Opposition

One morning in my Pilates class, our teacher prevailed upon us to work mindfully against gravity as best we could. Prone on our backs, pumping our arms by our sides while suspending our legs at a 45° in front of us (100′s for you Pilates fans), we were to resist. Gravity wants to tug our legs towards the earth, especially as time lapses, but come on ladies, show the smile lines under your bums as you keep those legs engaged, your cheeks hugging up into your thighs.

She also maintained that while engaging in swan extensions we should think about our front body pushing our spine up and then, conversely, our back body nudging our sternums back to our mats. I found such imagery helpful in keeping proper alignment and maximizing the number of muscles being worked. And simultaneously, I found myself considering  the power and peace possible in such mindful interaction with ourselves and the world.

To thoughtfully oppose something -be it an ideology, a rumor, an opinion, war, gravity- takes self-awareness and control. You must respond rather than react. While my reaction to tired legs or a whimpering core might be to cheat via rest or bent legs, my response could be a recognition that the exercise was quickly coming to an end or an increased focus on proper breathwork. Hanging in and on takes me further, fosters muscular growth, mental endurance and confidence.

In another vein, a wife’s reaction to a husbandly infraction (or one friend’s reaction to another; a parent’s reaction to a child’s demands) could be a terse accusation, but a response might come in the form of a calm query: “hmm, this is how I perceived what just happened; is that accurate, or am I misinterpreting?” Even if she is (probably) right (wink wink, folks), thoughtful opposition leaves open a number of dialogical avenues that tend to snap shut in the face of thoughtless reaction. Respect for the other is preserved, lines of communication show what can happen when you really want to and do listen to one another. You learn more about the other, but also about yourself.

I’m reminded of a course I took during my last stint in grad school: Adult Development. In all my years of psychological study and at all the universities at which I’d studied and worked, never had I heard of a development class focused on anyone beyond adolescents. Yet in thinking for one second about that, you realize it’s rather absurd, or at least sad. We do not grow steadily -physically, emotionally, professionally, and so forth- until reaching the abrupt stop sign of adulthood. No. I might argue that adulthood is when real growth, of a different sort (not physical maturation, cognitive gains seen in young children, etc) of course, begins. Such was the premise of this course, and it was marvelous. I was engaged, about to be married, and found it so apropos of the myriad life changes I was experiencing.

The underpinning theory of psychological development in the lifespan was that of Subject-Object awareness. Ultimately (optimally), one reaches a state in which (s)he is not enmeshed with those whom she shares relationships but is aware of herself as a distinct being, the other in question as another distinct being. Her identity does not rest on the other’s approval or acceptance and vice versa. As a dyad, we can disagree but still be connected. In the spaces of disagreement -in responses versus reactions, particularly- comes growth and connection.

This is not just about verbal communication but also about action, behavior, the ways we treat and teach others, the ways we open ourselves to learn from and be humbled by them. Thoughtful opposition is why I am so particular about the meat I eat, why I engage in the political sphere, why I read and learn about things that are difficult, repugnant, heartbreaking. I feel that to be able to respond thoughtfully and responsibly, I must know why I am doing so. Note: road rage and cursing terrible drivers does not fall into this purview; road idiots deserve to be lambasted (another wink, folks).

So as I worked my legs, defying gravity to the best of my ability but not, necessarily, succeeding completely, I felt more empowered, not only in my musculature but also in the excitement about how thoughtfulness can contribute so enormously to our lives. Food for thought, and happy Friday.

- originally published on 9 March 2012

Thoughts on Parental Overwhelm

There are times, not terribly infrequently, where I feel like I’m looking up at an enormous tidal wave that’s about to rush over me. There’s nothing I can do about, no time to move, no place to seek cover, so I just stand there, anxious and horrified. For the most part, this feeling comes in the context of parenting. It’s not necessarily because of the boys but it is related to them and how much they need. The needing, asking, talking, touching feels so, so constant sometimes, like an uncomfortable skin I cannot slip. On top of what I must provide them is a marriage to maintain, a dog who would be my conjoined twin if that was an available option, friends to see and talk to, volunteering to do, cleaning that never seems to end. Nowhere in much of that is me- the sleep I need to get, the books I want to read, the silence I crave, the cooking I would prefer to do in a patient and quiet manner, the no one needing a damn thing from me. As you’ve probably surmised, my kids wake up early and hit the ground running. By 9am, I feel like I’ve worked an overtime shift herding cattle (children) while also serving as a voice-activated reference book. I know I’m supposed to enjoy these years when they think I know everything rather than poo-pooing my insights as will come as the teen years near, but I really don’t, and I sure don’t know everything, not least about some of the things they MUST KNOW NOW. Without much childcare, I have found that when I expect I’ll get some quiet time (naps, school hours, etc), I depend on it more than I know. When it’s snatched from me (O won’t nap, someone gets sick, there’s a school vacation I forgot about, etc), I realize how little reserve I’m always running on, the proverbial fumes to the nth degree.

Yesterday, I was to deliver two cakes downtown during Ol’s nap. A friend was going to come over and stay here while he slept so that I could scoot out. He didn’t nap, I had to finish frosting the last cake with him underfoot, and then load up the car and him and head downtown. It was all totally fine, but I realized just how much I wish I could count on the little things, like the damn nap. And when last night finally arrived, there was still all the laundry, the Valentine’s treats to wrap and ready, the dog had never been walked and so on. When Tom told me he needed to work late, I was like, hallelujah, take-out and the couch, here I come. I was asleep by 9, and the whole thing began anew today.

I haven’t even begun to put together our dinner, and I know T wouldn’t even care if I didn’t. But it’s Valentine’s Day, and he’s leaving first thing in the morning and won’t be home until Sunday. Remember, there’s that marriage that needs to be maintained- not to mention that making dinner is actually something I want to do. I haven’t walked the dog, haven’t exercised, haven’t seen the paper, haven’t even had a glass of water since our playdate this morning. It’s just overwhelming, you know?

-originally published on 14 February 2012

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Adrenaline is really a fascinating thing- the way it can rev you up and keep you amped, completely obscure the awareness of fatigue, literally make you feel like an Energizer bunny. But when it subsides, the sensation of hitting the tired wall is really intense. I’ve been drawing on my energy and adrenaline reserves too frequently lately and am definitely feeling depleted.

Since the boys started school, I have been repeatedly struck by how insanely busy May and early June always are: end-of-the-year parties/meetings/gifts/presentations/etc; the rush to complete everything before the proverbial bell rings and the summer winds blow everyone around like scattershot seeds. Looking over my calendar for the next couple weeks is nearly terrifying, so while I try to stay on top of things, I also try not to peek at it too often. Oliver appears to have come down with a cold which means the things I thought were on tap this weekend will very likely need to be rescheduled or changed, and the sleep I hoped to get delayed yet again.

I sometimes wonder if the light at the end of the parenting tunnel – when they are out of diapers; when they’re both in school; when they’re X or Y years old;…- is nothing more than a mirage we all persist in believing is there. It has to get easier, right? But if the oft-repeated adage that “the bigger the kids, the bigger the challenges” is true in even a small way, “getting easier” is really just relative. The issue from last month is simply supplanted by a new one.

Around Mother’s Day I wrote (or meant to write) that I felt like a stasis had settled happily in our home. Why do I put those sentiments into the ether? I should keep them deep inside where no jinx or hex can mar them. I swear to you that said stasis went whoosh, whoosh and away not real long afterwards. Oliver, always such an amazingly easy child, has since turning 3, finally reached his “terrible 2s”, a typically standard delay in boy years. I know this too will pass, but jesus, I miss my little honey pie sometimes. He can be so damn bad, so unlikeable in his worst moments. As can we all, but being the one who most often witnesses the ugly AND is tasked with teaching him and Jack to handle themselves in ways that consider and respect others so that they aren’t repellant young adults and grown-ups, well, it sure feels like a shitty deal at times.

Just another thing about parenthood that no one ever really says: that more than you might want to know or admit, you will not like your own children sometimes. Often, you can’t even come close to fathoming loving any human more than you do each of your children; at other moments, you really want to time-share them a bit. And so you reach back in to the reservoir, hoping there’s enough energy or adrenaline for another day, another week, until some stasis settles back over you all like a veil of amnesiac happy dust.

Parenting is such a gamble in some ways. You hope that your good decisions and best moments will outweigh your mistakes; that the kids ultimately realize that you were trying your very hardest even though you stumbled; that when they’re older and in relationships, they’ll understand and respect why you refused to give them absolutely everything because then you’d have nothing left for your own partnership and self; that not making it all about them really was in their best interest; and that when they’re big and grown and gone, they’re never really gone too much or too far because you know you’ll miss them terribly.

-originally published on 1 June 2012

What’s Food Got to Do With It? A lot as it turns out.

In my early twenties, shortly after graduating from college and breaking up with the man I’d thought I’d marry, I moved to New York. Manhattan. The City. I sublet the living room of a terrible, 5th floor, walk-up apartment some acquaintances inhabited. The floor was so slanted that if you closed the door too forcefully  on your way out, the freezer swung open, and the only appliance I really remember was a hot dog toaster, one of those “how did this make it to the market?” fad items in which you could toast two hot dogs and two buns concurrently. It, like the apartment, seemed perennially dirty, crusted with crumbs and grease, though I never actually saw it being used. As I struggled to manage heartache and a certifiably insane boss, I lost sight of the comfort and succor eating well provides. Growing up in Louisiana, food was central: family, traditions, holidays, celebrations, mourning…they all, in some ways, constellated around cooking and eating together. In NYC, however, thin was in, and meals became lonely tributes to the bevy of fat-free fare that studded the inner aisles of my neighborhood Gristedes. I loved NY with a passion, but my life there was imbalanced and hard. After three years, I decided to move back to the South, nearer my family. But then I met the man who would become my husband.

He loved to eat, and he loved me. Though he lived in DC, we spent as much time together as our budgets, work and the USAir shuttle would allow. Our days in NY were magical- long, lazy walks punctuated by meals and libations whenever the mood struck. As I fell in love with him, I slowly reclaimed my appetite, for food, life and love, which had been tamped down and jaded.

Fast forward a few years, and our first son arrived. Nursing him was so elemental and fulfilling. In feeding him, it became clear that I was also nourishing myself. Watching him grow and thrive, I realized how much I’d deprived myself by letting go of my culinary roots, by forgetting all the afternoons spent in the kitchen next to my mom, grandmother and aunts, stirring a gumbo, canning cranberry sauce, making teacakes. In the halo of these memories, I returned to the kitchen, ostensibly on my son’s behalf, but in retrospect I see it was for me, too. I challenged myself to correct the erroneous notions of health and nutrition that had become etched in my brain: how could I give my little boy the best if I didn’t really know what that was? How could I encourage optimal eating habits in him if I didn’t model them myself?

As I cooked and read and learned and ate, we all grew. My husband’s waistline might wish for different, but there is nothing fat-free to be found in our home now. My firstborn is almost 6, his brother is 3, and they eat with the passion and appetite of Mario Batali. We spend every Sunday morning at the farmer’s market- tasting, eating, befriending, supporting. We talk about animal welfare and agriculture in America, and use our purchasing power to try and make our voices heard in these increasingly political and moral realms. Our kitchen is the nexus of our home, the place from which I write my blog, run a small catering business, feed my boys and make yet another batch of fresh ricotta.

Cooking for others is one of the most basic ways of loving them. In taking care of my family, I have come full circle, learning again how to nurture myself. The rough edges of my twenties have given way to the softer contours of my advancing thirties. There’s something about a warm hearth, a canning pot bubbling away on the stove, the smell of freshly baked anything, laughing as my little boys ask for “more cornichons, please” that leaves me feeling whole. I am happy, fulfilled, sated.