Being Extra

When people say that your kid is just like you, usually it’s meant as a friendly joke.  Like, haha, you have to deal with what the rest of us always have to deal with. Even your own parents will go so far as to wish for you a child just like yourself so that you can suffer similarly to how you’ve made your own parents suffer. 

It’s like the trickle-down economy of parental karma or something.

In all the moments this gentle joke been made about me and my own daughter, never did I feel malice or cruelty behind the words; however, they’ve always still managed to pluck at the threads of my insecurities. I’m always internally questioning, is that a good thing or a bad thing?

I deal with a good bit of anxiety, some of which is baseless. I own that. My anxiety over whether or not I’m enough is ironically based deep within the many times in my life that I’ve been told I’m too much. Literally. Those words have often been used to describe me, to my own face, that I once considered getting it tattooed somewhere large and unavoidable on my body. Parents, classmates, teachers…over and over in life I have been reminded that somewhere below what makes me me is a calmer, more palatable me whom people would generally prefer.

And, yeah, when I was a kid or a teenager, that was probably obnoxious to deal with. But I couldn’t help it. I wanted to be involved in life! People needed help, philosophies needed discussing, points needed to be proven, ideas needed to be tested and explored! How could no one else feel the vibrations of the universe calling out for more of our involvement?! It was suffocating at times to be told to stow all that away, to pretend I didn’t feel the earth’s palpitating rhythm, or, worse, to be told to try and ignore it.

I admit that I tried to quell the calls to action. I often failed, but in so doing I grew to adulthood as an exuberant but tempered person who could maneuver through most social interactions without making a total fool of myself.

And then I had a daughter. Who is, as they say, just like me. And that terrifies me.

Currently, my girl is navigating the soul-crushing world of 6th grade. Middle school: the primordial goop that caterpillars devolve into before they can further fully evolve into beautiful, winged creatures who brighten up our sunny days and dreamy nights.

She entered 6th grade prepared to be called out for her differences – primarily noticeable: her very short, rainbow-dyed hair. And if there’s one thing middle schoolers hate more than, well, school, it’s confident individuality. She encountered her fair share of jerks and has learned to do her best to fly below the radar as much as possible. Not hiding, per se, but trying to steer clear of those who would go out of their way to make another person feel bad.

This brings us to today. My daughter rides the bus with a boy who has picked on her since 1st grade. This kid may have some home-life issues and their interactions have never escalated so whenever he throws some words her way, she usually just does her best to ignore him. Until today.

According to her, this boy was mouthing off to the bus driver today, not for the first time, and she had had enough. She tells me that she stood up and yelled at him to cut it out because he wouldn’t like it if someone were to do that to him. Story goes that he told her to sit down and mind her own business, which she normally would have just done, but instead that is when she erupted. She said she was yelling at him for always trying to bring people down all the time and that he needed to stop being so mean and a bunch of other stuff that I cannot specifically remember. And then…the people on the bus clapped.

She had a total teeny-bopper, nerd-gets-applauded-for-taking-down-the-jerk-kid-in-a-movie moment and I thought it was the most amazing thing I had ever heard about in my life! 

And then she said, “well, that’s how you raised me. I was raised to stick up for myself and to stick up for other people. You and daddy taught me to be this way.”

And THAT, ladies and gentlemen, is truly the most amazing thing I had ever heard in my entire life. She was so proud of herself, and a bit surprised by her public bravado as well, but she was visibly thrumming from adrenaline and the surety of knowing she did the right thing (yay for video chatting) and she was grateful to her father and I for showing her this way of life. I am … stunned.

My girl is loud, and cooky, and mouthy, and she often pushes the limits of appropriateness. She argues everything and refuses to ever back down without irrefutable proof that she is wrong (and sometimes not even then). She cares A LOT. She’s not the type to just sit down and shut up. 

She’s too much. She’s extra. And I consider it an honor when people say that she’s just like me.

 

 

Malcontent Cook: Tofu Doesn’t Suck

If you’re looking for recipes for healthy meals and living your fullest, most vibrant food-life…you’re in the very wrong place. But if you want to read about how I cooked (yuck) tofu (double yuck) and actually liked it (whaaaaaaat?), then meet me, your Malcontent Cook.

I never learned to cook. Well, that’s not true, exactly. I was never taught to cook growing up because, reasons. I was…ahem…gifted some cooking lessons as an engagement gift from my mother (part of the aforementioned reasons I never learned to cook) and it was a cruel but useful present. Cruel, because my lack of cooking skills has become a long-running joke, but useful because I did become less frightened about cooking a few meals (it’s a real thing – look it up).

Anyway, now I’m super fat because, again, reasons, and apparently changes need be made. I fear cooking and I fear healthy foods because having Crohns’ disease means healthier doesn’t always mean better for me. Definitely not easier.

This week is our first week of shopping and eating per the guidelines of my bariatric program. This week is also my third week of feeling crappy from whatever germs my loving son shared with me, so I was all ready to wallow in comfort food. But I didn’t want to give up so soon. So easily.

So I rushed home and cooked the below meal: teriyaki tofu with brown rice and steamed broccoli. Long story short: it didn’t suck. In fact, the husband and I both really enjoyed it. My son, who eats very few items, said it smelled like chicken.

So, once again, the hippie/vegetarian friends in my life were correct. Tofu doesn’t suck. Damn those nature-loving SOBs whom I love so much.

PS Thank the gawds for my lovely friend Briana Michaels for talking me through my panic attack while cooking this meal. She writes awesome, paranormal romance novels and you should definitely check her out, buy her books, and send her some love.

WTF is Seitan?!

My main reason for journeying down the bariatric path is to speak frankly with a nutritionist about my diet. As I’ve previously mentioned, choosing healthy foods is difficult for me because:

1. Raw veggies do not agree with my Crohns’ disease very well.
2. I hate/fear cooking so putting together ‘healthy’ meals prods at my anxiety.
3. ‘Unhealthy’ foods are yummy.
4. My taste buds are not very welcoming to foreign visitors (aka, flavor of many kinds).

I was nervous when I arrived at my appointment, though I’m not entirely sure why.  My pride in being a perfect student shined, I believe, in my preparedness and my fastidious approach to following directions. I had taken each requisite quiz about my eating habits (I am an emotional eater – who’s surprised?), signed up for all the necessary classes, seminars, and appointments as instructed, and I chronicled the steps towards my weight loss goals. I even wrote out my pain as requested. I was ready to be teacher’s pet….er, dietician’s pet.

She thanked me for coming, weighed me (awesome, I gained a pound), and continued to thank me for completing each of the above mentioned assignments. But I didn’t want appreciation, I wanted personal attention. However, we spoke very little about my answers to the questions I had been asked, and she didn’t even read my letter of pain (and if I’m not validated for my writing skills am I even alive?).

I was put slightly off, but it was suddenly time to discuss food options and I this is what I was here for. She gave me some handouts with some meal ideas, what a plate of food should look like, and good options for lean protein. I quickly mentioned that I had Cronhs’ and was nervous about the amount of raw veggies of which I was supposed to be eating more. She asked me about cooked vegetables and I didn’t really have a good answer. They are supposed to hurt me less, but I’m not sure if they do. Her suggestion: trial and error.

Okay. Look. I get that maybe this is a difficult problem to figure out, but that’s why she’s the expert, right? The idea of just trying to eat and seeing what hurts me more and what hurts me less is what has framed my current eating habits. Doing this again just to qualify for a surgery did not sit well with me. The fear of certain foods is very real. But that didn’t matter because we were right back to focusing on how I was supposed to be reducing myself to 1,200-1,500 calories a day and really focusing on getting more protein and calcium.

Honestly, it was disheartening. All she could really offer was that “yeah, it may be a bit tricky figuring it all out.” Ya think, lady?! That’s why I wanted help.

So now I’m supposed to start incorporating things I can’t stand into my diet – clams, oysters, salmon, tofu, beans – along with other things I’ve never even heard of.  Seriously, what the fuck is seitan? Or tempeh? My spell-checker doesn’t even recognize these words but I’m suddenly supposed to be able to shop for, make, and/or eat this stuff? And without diet coke to wash it all down?

Honestly, I’m far from thrilled.  I was truly hoping for more guidance and support specific to my health and needs. This affects my whole family; it even affects my work place (those poor, poor people). I already knew this was going to be an uphill climb, but with my asthma and in this heat (oy vey!), I was hoping for a little more hand holding along the way.

The C’mon Mom

There are labels for everyone these days – especially parents.

Are you a helicopter parent? A tiger mom?  Detachment dad? Is your family free range or laissez-faire?  Why am I suddenly craving scrambled eggs?

The bottom line is that we are all parents who do some things wrong, some things well, and some things just because we’re too tired to do some of the other things we should probably do (like when I tell my son “no” a thousand times but end up picking him up to push the garage door opener button anyway just to move the getting-out-the-door process along).  Does this make me a sucker mom?  (Picture those mini-van, stick-figure bumper stickers! Ha!)

I honestly have no idea what my parenting style is, per se, but for the phase of life my family is currently experiencing, I have dubbed myself the c’mon, let’s go, sit down! mom.  The C’mon mom for short.

I so self label because basically that is all I say to my children these days.  Repetitiously.  Ad nauseam.  

But in my defense, it’s with good reason and I think you’ll possibly be sympathetic to my point of view.  It’s because these kids do not effing move!

Every morning, five days a week, I’m saying, “c’mon, c’mon, c’mon,” just to get the kids into their anti-frostbite attire, then it’s “c’mon let’s go, c’mon let’s go,” over and over until we can actually transfer from the house into the garage and remotely close to a car door.  Ahhh, but then the door is open and they are climbing in and you think you’re practically there; practically on your way.  But wait –!

Say it with me now…

No, you’re not on your way.  Because one kid found a wet mitten on the floor of the car and she’s been missing it for, like, ever (translation: since last night) and now it’s wet from her boots and a spilled sippy cup and she can’t wear it and she’ll be so cold that she’ll never be able to go outside again.  And the other kid needs his door closed and reopened again before he can sit down but look his sister just shot-putted her wet mitten into the front of the car while dramatically declaring that no one loves her because we are not addressing her cold hand trauma so the kid who was finally going to sit in his car seat now jumps up to climb through the front seats to retrieve said mitten only to discover yet again that there is a front of the car and he must investigate its wonders but then his sister realizes he is holding her most beloved and prized mitten so she snatches it away, causing the little boy to fall back and avenge the theft by falling over all the other back-seat clutter which causes them both to whine loudly, and most certainly not sit in their respective seats and buckle up.

Some where in all of that I am repeating, “sit! C’mon, sit down! Stop. Go. Sit. C’mon, really?” all to very little avail.  Because nothing I can say will move this scene along; it has to play its aggravating self out naturally.

And that’s just to get one kid to one school.  I have to get one or both of these kids in and out of the car 5-6 more times today, depending on the schedule.  And please let’s not forget that in between the car and our destinations are also hallways, parking lots, other people, school buses, and random-but-necessary button pushing to distract us along the way.  I don’t even have to think the words anymore; c’mon, c’mon has become so automatic to me at this point I might as well start writing it on parenting hello-my-name is labels.

  

But do I worry about my kids picking up my habits?  Absolutely.  And I’m very happy to report that they do copy me on this, and I never want them to stop, either.  I always want them telling me to c’mon because they are excited to to show me something, or do something with me, or communicate with me about something they need.  I don’t want them to lose that, or to ever think I won’t c’mon when they want me to.  I don’t want them to grow up too soon and not want me to c’mon at all. The moment they stop telling me to c’mon is the moment when my parenting style will really need some revamping.  And also probably when that back seat will represent a whole new set of problems for me.  Shudder to think…

 

Volume Control

I swear, the only volumes my 6 year old daughter can hear when I speak are crazy-lady loud and super secret quiet.

And the only volumes I hear when my 6 year old daughter speaks are attitude and more attitude.