I think I've lost a few pounds. It's kind of hard to tell, because I have a Hello Kitty scale and while it's super cute, it's just not all that accurate. Yesterday morning I pushed it around with my foot to different places on the floor and weighed myself a few times just to make sure. It looks like I'm about four pounds down. This makes me happy. I would get a new scale that actually works well, but I'm not sure it's worth it. The scale belongs to the girl child. She got it for a birthday gift when she was ten or so. I immediately appropriated it and hid it under the bed. We would have none of that. The girl child doesn't really know how much she weighs, and I like that. I know how much I weigh though, and I don't particularly like that. I don't think I really want to have a scale in the house that works.
If you look online, you can find a bunch of blogs by people that are doing the same purification I'm doing. Most of them are way more organized than I am. Some of them actually post every day with pictures of their food. I don't have pictures today. My food just isn't exciting enough to take pictures of, although some of it has been pretty tasty. I've discovered that for the last couple of weeks, a lot of my time at home has been spent foraging for food. It's not like I've become a hunter/gatherer or something. I'm not doing paleo for crying out loud. It's just that I didn't plan ahead very well. I dove right into the purification, and while I have a lot of good, healthy things in the fridge, I didn't plan how they could go together to make meals. I've eaten a bowl of guacamole standing at the kitchen counter more than once. Not the best way to go about this. Next time, I'll be planning it all out ahead of time.
I've discovered that the incentive for staying on the plan for twenty-one days is in direct proportion to the amount of money I spent on the product. The Standard Process Purification Program cost me 200 bucks. Every time I pass that big bag of Cape Cod chips that my kids have left on the kitchen counter, I think, "Really? You're gonna blow $200 for a chip? I think not." And I pass it by. Which is not to say that I didn't cheat a couple of times. On Saturday, I cheated twice. With soup. Yeah, soup. I know what you're thinking. If I was gonna cheat, it would have been with something better than . . . soup. Well, probably, but that's what I wanted. It was cold out. The girl child was shooting a film for her digital video class, and I was the location van driver. And the craft truck caterer. And the set photographer. I deserved some soup. And a credit in the film. I'd better get a credit. Anyway, the only kinds they had were cream of tomato or chicken noodle. I figured the tomato was the lesser of two evils. Then, that evening, the girl child and the husband ordered Chinese food for dinner from a local takeout place. I got vegetable bean curd soup, and I took out the bean curd. What could be wrong with that? I found out about an hour later. Every joint in my body ached. My knee was killing me—I had to put a heating pad on it. And then I got the headache. It was all gone by the next morning, but I learned my lesson. When it comes time to re-introduce foods, I'm going to do it very slowly. There is definitely a connection here that I've been missing.
I'm not sure how much credit I should give to my change in diet and how much is due to my regular acupuncture treatments. I have had six in the last three weeks. I don't really care what's doing it, as long as it's working. And this weekend I'm adding a Feldenkrais class. A friend of mine teaches it locally and has a beginner class starting Sunday. I'm really looking forward to it. Look it up if you haven't heard of it before. It's very cool, and it works. It took some hunting, but I've also found a local place that has tai chi and and aqua tai chi at a time I can actually go. Aqua tai chi? Sounds uh, interesting, but I will give it a shot. Water exercise is good for people with limited movement. And the best part is, all of these classes are drop-ins. Because I have a commitment problem.
But, I think I will commit to this: I plan on doing the purification again. I think every January, to start the year off fresh. I actually feel pretty good. I even stopped taking the subway and started walking to the office from the bus again. OK, part of that has to do with the weather warming up slightly, but my knee doesn't hurt as much and I have more energy. One thing that's important to tell you is that I haven't gone hungry. Not in the least. I find the veg/fruit/shake combination very satisfying, and I don't need to snack. I was allowed meat for the first time yesterday, and it wasn't really all that tempting. Even the smell of bacon in the city in the morning isn't getting to me. I think that my body is telling me something. Not that I plan on becoming a vegetarian—I like a good steak or a burger. But perhaps I'll be cutting down on my intake. With all of these changes in habit, while my fibro symptoms are still there, the inflammation is less. My moods are better. I've been sleeping better. I may even have stopped snoring. I'll have to ask the folks on the bus.
Thursday, January 31, 2013
Saturday, January 26, 2013
Classics
Roots was on TV the other night. It was one of those rare occasions that I actually had the remote in my hand, and I was channel surfing. I got all excited. "Roots! Aw, it started a half hour ago. You wanna watch it anyway?" The girl child and the boy child were both sitting on the couch, laptops open, which is basically why I was holding the remote. One was doing homework. The other was playing Minecraft. The girl child looked up, stared at me blankly and said, "What's Roots?" I sat there open-mouthed for a moment. Seriously? How could she not know what Roots was? Everyone knows what Roots is. Who has never heard of Kunta Kinte, or Chicken George? And then it dawned on me. Probably most people born after 1973. If you were born later than that, LeVar Burton is just the guy you kind of remember from Reading Rainbow.
I can't believe I never had the kids watch Roots. I've done a pretty decent job of introducing them to the "classics." You know, everything John Hughes, Ferris Beuller, The Princess Bride, Fame. The girl child can recite Dirty Dancing. She makes her mama proud. But some of my favorites from childhood did not hold their interest, like the Hallmark Hall of Fame production of Cinderella, starring Leslie Ann Warren and the guy who played Alan Quartermaine on General Hospital. The kids could never get into my favorite Friday night lineup of The Brady Bunch, Partridge Family, Welcome Back Kotter, or Happy Days. And looking back at those shows now, I kinda understand why.
When the kids were little, the husband and I had a love/hate relationship with television and were always pretty careful about what the kids watched. I didn't totally understand its allure, but I let the girl child watch Teletubbies. We liked the way Tinky Winky was secure enough in his masculinity to carry a purse. I'm wondering now if this is the source of the girl child's fascination with gay men. I never thought of that. But Cartoon Network was off limits. I must say, I caught a little flack from a couple of the preschool moms. They couldn't seem to understand why I wouldn't let the kids chew gum, drink soda, or watch Scooby Do, but I let them watch SpongeBob. How inconsistent. Well, there was a reason for that. SpongeBob was actually . . . funny. Well, at least it used to be. And not to dis Scooby—we had no qualms with him. It was just that some of the other shows, like Power Puff Girls, were kind of obnoxious. Sure, the girls were "strong," but we preferred Cyberchase. I mean really, there was no contest. Power Puff Girls solved problems by beating everyone up, but the Cyberchase crew used their brains. They did math. It was educational. And, Christopher Lloyd was in it. How could you compare?
It's amazing how much of what a person becomes you can trace back to their early years. The girl child, for example, was always a great photographer. When she was two or three, we gave her one of those flat Poloroid cameras that came with sticker film. It fit perfectly into her tiny hands. She had a blast taking pictures of the baby boy child, the kitten, the stuffed animals, the husband. There are even a couple of shots of me without my hands covering my face. The miniature girl child had an eye, and she still does. Sure, she put the camera down for a few years, replacing it with various drawing implements and ponies, but she always came back.
Last year, the girl child applied to a Blue Ribbon high school in our area that is all about communications: radio and TV, graphic design, filmmaking. The only AP class they have is art. Perfect. She loved the place the first time she set eyes on it. The girl child wants to be a film director and this was the place that could give her a head start. Waiting to find out if she got in was miserable. They pick kids only by evaluating test scores and grades. If she didn't get in, she had to go to the local high school. It's OK, but I heard from a good source that they run their Macs with Windows software. Criminal. She got in, thankfully, because if she hadn't, I had her resume all put together and ready to go to shoot off to the superintendent of the school system as soon as we got the letter. I can be a little crazy when it comes to the kids' educations. I think I have a little rep for that. I may possibly be one of those moms.
I like to be on top of things. If there's something going on that's suspect, well, I've been known to, uh, get involved. I helped catch a chronic online shoe shopper. I caught some flack from some of the other moms for that, too. They liked her. Yeah, she was nice, but she wasn't really doing her job well. And her rewards for the kids included collecting gift money from the other teachers. Or getting snacks for her. Or cleaning out another teacher's bookshelves. I think that at the time, if the girl child could drive, she would have been picking up that chick's dry cleaning. She was out of the classroom a lot. Unacceptable. Needless to say, some people won't be sorry when my kids leave the system. But conversely, if someone's doing a great job, I've been known get involved as well: I shoot them an email, I call a supervisor or two, or make a donation of books to a classroom. And everyone gets homemade cookies. You see, there are no do-overs when it comes to a kid's education. Maybe it's just a holdover from my experiences when I was a kid, an artist forced to take calculus because I was "college prep." I got to where I sort of eventually wanted to go, but in a roundabout way. But there are just a few too many "what ifs" in my life.
We have seen to it that our kids will not have too many "what ifs." They have goals and we try to help them achieve them. When the boy child was little he wanted to be a pizza delivery guy. We liked the way he set the bar high. Then, he got it into his head that he wanted to be a professor of ancient studies at NYU. OK. We're not actually sure NYU offers such a course, but anything is possible. He used to keep the History and Military channels running non-stop. My coffee table looked like a war zone, full of toy soldiers. Or lego. There has always been a lot of lego building going on. The boy child does not seem to be as focused as the girl child, but he actually is. It's just a sort of "scattered" focus. He wants to be an engineer. Or a teacher. Or a teacher of engineering. He's a history buff and a mathematician. He recently applied to a school that specializes in marine science and technology. In one of their classes, they build vehicles with lego. That actually work. At this school, they wear military uniforms and have drill team and Jr ROTC. If he gets in, the boy child will be as happy as the girl child was when she got into her school. I am keeping all my fingers and toes crossed. And so we wait. I have no resume waiting to go this time. We hope he gets in. This is where he needs to be.
This October, I went crazy trying to piece together a costume for the boy child for Halloween. He wanted to be Gengis Khan. That one does not come in a box. We told him that no one would know who he was, but he didn't care. We can attribute the boy child's interest in Gengis Khan to an episode of Time Warp Trio he watched when he was little. He loved Time Warp Trio. Turns out we didn't have Halloween this year because of Hurricane Sandy. The boy child thought that was OK, because he'll wear the costume next year. If he gets to go to the school he applied to, he thinks the kids might actually know who Gengis Khan is. Those kids probably liked Time Warp Trio, too. And Cyberchase. As for the girl child, she is at an age where she now appreciates that the dad on The Wild Thornberrys was voiced by none other than Dr. Frank-N-Furter. You've gotta love that. Talk about classics.
I can't believe I never had the kids watch Roots. I've done a pretty decent job of introducing them to the "classics." You know, everything John Hughes, Ferris Beuller, The Princess Bride, Fame. The girl child can recite Dirty Dancing. She makes her mama proud. But some of my favorites from childhood did not hold their interest, like the Hallmark Hall of Fame production of Cinderella, starring Leslie Ann Warren and the guy who played Alan Quartermaine on General Hospital. The kids could never get into my favorite Friday night lineup of The Brady Bunch, Partridge Family, Welcome Back Kotter, or Happy Days. And looking back at those shows now, I kinda understand why.
When the kids were little, the husband and I had a love/hate relationship with television and were always pretty careful about what the kids watched. I didn't totally understand its allure, but I let the girl child watch Teletubbies. We liked the way Tinky Winky was secure enough in his masculinity to carry a purse. I'm wondering now if this is the source of the girl child's fascination with gay men. I never thought of that. But Cartoon Network was off limits. I must say, I caught a little flack from a couple of the preschool moms. They couldn't seem to understand why I wouldn't let the kids chew gum, drink soda, or watch Scooby Do, but I let them watch SpongeBob. How inconsistent. Well, there was a reason for that. SpongeBob was actually . . . funny. Well, at least it used to be. And not to dis Scooby—we had no qualms with him. It was just that some of the other shows, like Power Puff Girls, were kind of obnoxious. Sure, the girls were "strong," but we preferred Cyberchase. I mean really, there was no contest. Power Puff Girls solved problems by beating everyone up, but the Cyberchase crew used their brains. They did math. It was educational. And, Christopher Lloyd was in it. How could you compare?
It's amazing how much of what a person becomes you can trace back to their early years. The girl child, for example, was always a great photographer. When she was two or three, we gave her one of those flat Poloroid cameras that came with sticker film. It fit perfectly into her tiny hands. She had a blast taking pictures of the baby boy child, the kitten, the stuffed animals, the husband. There are even a couple of shots of me without my hands covering my face. The miniature girl child had an eye, and she still does. Sure, she put the camera down for a few years, replacing it with various drawing implements and ponies, but she always came back.
Last year, the girl child applied to a Blue Ribbon high school in our area that is all about communications: radio and TV, graphic design, filmmaking. The only AP class they have is art. Perfect. She loved the place the first time she set eyes on it. The girl child wants to be a film director and this was the place that could give her a head start. Waiting to find out if she got in was miserable. They pick kids only by evaluating test scores and grades. If she didn't get in, she had to go to the local high school. It's OK, but I heard from a good source that they run their Macs with Windows software. Criminal. She got in, thankfully, because if she hadn't, I had her resume all put together and ready to go to shoot off to the superintendent of the school system as soon as we got the letter. I can be a little crazy when it comes to the kids' educations. I think I have a little rep for that. I may possibly be one of those moms.
I like to be on top of things. If there's something going on that's suspect, well, I've been known to, uh, get involved. I helped catch a chronic online shoe shopper. I caught some flack from some of the other moms for that, too. They liked her. Yeah, she was nice, but she wasn't really doing her job well. And her rewards for the kids included collecting gift money from the other teachers. Or getting snacks for her. Or cleaning out another teacher's bookshelves. I think that at the time, if the girl child could drive, she would have been picking up that chick's dry cleaning. She was out of the classroom a lot. Unacceptable. Needless to say, some people won't be sorry when my kids leave the system. But conversely, if someone's doing a great job, I've been known get involved as well: I shoot them an email, I call a supervisor or two, or make a donation of books to a classroom. And everyone gets homemade cookies. You see, there are no do-overs when it comes to a kid's education. Maybe it's just a holdover from my experiences when I was a kid, an artist forced to take calculus because I was "college prep." I got to where I sort of eventually wanted to go, but in a roundabout way. But there are just a few too many "what ifs" in my life.
We have seen to it that our kids will not have too many "what ifs." They have goals and we try to help them achieve them. When the boy child was little he wanted to be a pizza delivery guy. We liked the way he set the bar high. Then, he got it into his head that he wanted to be a professor of ancient studies at NYU. OK. We're not actually sure NYU offers such a course, but anything is possible. He used to keep the History and Military channels running non-stop. My coffee table looked like a war zone, full of toy soldiers. Or lego. There has always been a lot of lego building going on. The boy child does not seem to be as focused as the girl child, but he actually is. It's just a sort of "scattered" focus. He wants to be an engineer. Or a teacher. Or a teacher of engineering. He's a history buff and a mathematician. He recently applied to a school that specializes in marine science and technology. In one of their classes, they build vehicles with lego. That actually work. At this school, they wear military uniforms and have drill team and Jr ROTC. If he gets in, the boy child will be as happy as the girl child was when she got into her school. I am keeping all my fingers and toes crossed. And so we wait. I have no resume waiting to go this time. We hope he gets in. This is where he needs to be.
This October, I went crazy trying to piece together a costume for the boy child for Halloween. He wanted to be Gengis Khan. That one does not come in a box. We told him that no one would know who he was, but he didn't care. We can attribute the boy child's interest in Gengis Khan to an episode of Time Warp Trio he watched when he was little. He loved Time Warp Trio. Turns out we didn't have Halloween this year because of Hurricane Sandy. The boy child thought that was OK, because he'll wear the costume next year. If he gets to go to the school he applied to, he thinks the kids might actually know who Gengis Khan is. Those kids probably liked Time Warp Trio, too. And Cyberchase. As for the girl child, she is at an age where she now appreciates that the dad on The Wild Thornberrys was voiced by none other than Dr. Frank-N-Furter. You've gotta love that. Talk about classics.
Sunday, January 20, 2013
Before [Insert Picture Here]
The girl child is going to take a picture of me today. This is a big deal, because generally I hate getting my picture taken. Don't get too excited, though, because you may never get to see it. It will be my "before" picture, and I'm not so sure I'm going to want to post it. I know something about "before" pictures. When the boy child was a newborn, I had a makeover in American Baby magazine. I looked like crap in the "before" picture; I had a 20 month old and a newborn, after all. But I must say, I looked kinda hot in my "after" picture. They used really nice lighting and had a team of makeup artists and stylists work on me. I would like to look like that again. I imagine my new "after" picture won't come close, but you never know.
Months ago, after I finished physical therapy, I started regular massage sessions and they definitely helped. I don't have to explain this to you. Massage = good. But now that you know I go, I don't want you to be concerned that since I've got photos on the blog now, I will post one of me getting a massage. Because I won't. I promise. That would be scary. My acupuncture treatments just started last week. I promise that I will never post a picture of me with needles sticking out of my body, either. Not to worry. Anyway, I'll admit, not much happened after my first acupuncture treatment. But I didn't expect miracles. This week, however, the doctor switched something up. This week, my knee feels better, and I can touch my elbow without feeling any kind of pain. I suppose it could be my imagination. And to be honest, that would be OK.
Imaginary relief would be cool. This whole thing is really about feeling better, after all. It's about having more energy, feeling less fatigue, less pain, and less symptoms all around. And it's about doing it without drugs, because as I mentioned in the past, drugs make me loopy. I rarely endorse drugs, except during childbirth. Childbirth is a major exception to that rule. But I feel grateful that my fibro is just chronic. I count my blessings every day. It could be worse. It could be much worse.
Not to sound ominous, but last night, after my visit to the doctor, I asked the family to go out to dinner with me for my last meal. Well, not really last meal. I started my "purification program" today. The husband wanted to know if there were any recipes that he could make for me. The girl child, of course, wanted to know how the program would affect her. The boy child didn't say much of anything. This was to be expected. At dinner, I had a burger. And fries. And wine. And French Onion Soup with cheese melted over the side. And it was good.
This morning I hit the grocery store early. Boy my shopping cart looked colorful. Lots of fruits and veggies. As I write this, I'm trying to down my first shake. I put in mixed berries and banana, carrot juice and flax seed oil. It's not bad, but I made it too thick and the texture is a little gritty from the powder. Don't ask me what's in the powder. I don't want to know. I glanced at the ingredient list and I'm pretty sure it said brussel sprouts. Don't get me wrong—I like brussel sprouts. Just not in powder form. I also had to take ten capsules of stuff (again, don't ask me what's in it) and I suck at taking pills. I have to do this three times a day. I suppose it will help me get through the half gallon of water I'm supposed to drink, though. Besides the shakes, I can eat most fruits and veggies, some wild or brown rice, and lentils. After 10 days, I can add some lean protein. I'll get back to you and let you know how this goes. Twenty one days is a long time. I believe that I will be done prior to Valentine's Day, however. This is a relief, because I'm not positive, but I don't think that chocolate is in any of the food groups I can choose from. And neither is wine.
I also have to figure out how I'm going to make this work . . . at work. I can't make shakes in the morning at home—the blender will pretty much wake the entire household. Well, the boy child. He's the only one still asleep. And exercise—can I do that in the morning? I bought a Yoga DVD, and it came with a CD that I'm going to load into my itunes at work. Relaxing. The DVD stars Bob, the trainer from the Biggest Loser. I love Bob. I used to sit on the couch, eat chips, and watch him make those suckers exercise. It's got three levels of difficulty, including beginner. I figure if the Biggest Loser folks can do it, I can too. I just hope no one sneaks in and takes a picture.Sunday, January 13, 2013
Beginners
Why is it that "beginner" yoga classes are never really for beginners? I know, they say they're for beginners, and they're called "beginner yoga," but you know those course descriptions are lying. Once you get to class, there are all these really cute in-shape women set up in the front row wearing these adorable yoga outfits. And you know that they can make themselves levitate. They just can.
It's hard for me to find classes to fit my schedule. I've tried going to the gym before I get on the bus, but that's at like 4:30 in the morning and no one has classes then, although there are gyms that are open. I don't like the machines. I've tried going when I get into the city, but that means bringing everything in on the bus and then getting dressed for work at the gym. It's not easy—the stuff is heavy. Lunchtime isn't good because the classes are packed and they're really hard. And then I can't get back to work—I'm distracted and no good for the rest of the day. After work, I just want to get home and hang with the family. You know, if I wait too long to get on a bus there's traffic and it's crowded. I tried taking classes at night when I get home, but by then I'm tired. I know, excuses, excuses.
A long time ago, I used to go to the Himalayan Institute at East-West Books on 5th Avenue and 14th Street. In the basement there was a carpeted room where they held Hatha yoga classes. They didn't even have a mirror in there. Everyone would show up wearing sweats and loose fitting clothing, and a not so adorable but very well trained instructor took you through the poses, one at a time, until everyone in the room got it right. I'm sure there are still places that do that. I know there must be some around. I have friends who teach yoga so I could ask them. Or I could take a "beginner" class and then just work to my ability. But for me, it's hard to know when to stop.
You see, I can't do what I used to do. In April of 2011, I was diagnosed with fibromyalgia. I think I've had it way longer than that, but just didn't know what it was. I kind of thought it was a normal part of aging. You know, things start to hurt, maybe ache a bit. But in March/April of 2011, I had what I'm understanding now to be a "flare." That's when it hurts so bad, you feel like it would be really helpful if you could somehow get out of your body, because being inside your body really kind of sucks. And if you could get out of your body, then maybe you could think clearly. Or wash dishes. Or sleep, or something else that's fun and exciting like that. So now, if I feel OK I sometimes think that I can do things, and then I do them, and then later I really pay for it. Even getting a massage can be bad. I found out the hard way that deep tissue and fibromyalgia don't mix. The next day, you feel like you've been run over by a mack truck.
I first found out that I might have fibro when we were visiting my cousin, who is a healer and really smart and earthy crunchy and jappy all at the same time—she is a study in contrasts. Anyway, when I told her my symptoms, she told me that what I had sounded like fibromyalgia. I know that the worst thing to do is look up medical conditions on the internet, but I couldn't help myself. I went home and looked that puppy up. Yup, that's what it sounded like. I went to see my doctor, who pretty much brushed me off, and was pretty nasty about it, too. You see, some doctors don't believe in fibromyalgia. Like they think that fibro is an imaginary friend or a gnome or a troll that lives next door to the tooth fairy. She told me in no uncertain terms that I didn't have it, and acted like maybe I wanted to have it. Like who would want to have it? Seriously. But she did send me to a physiatrist to find out what I had. And the physiatrist said? Fibromyalgia. Of course she did. And so what does my doctor say now? I don't know, because right after that we broke up.
Physical therapy helped me get through the flare and back to my "new normal." The physiatrist prescribed drugs for me but I only took them once. They made me "loopy." I didn't realize I wasn't supposed to operate heavy machinery. Like my car. It was a problem. So, I've been living this way since then. But I think I've made a New Year's resolution. I'm tired of my elbows hurting when I turn the steering wheel of the car, and my legs taking forever to "unstiffen" when I stand to get off the bus. I want to remember things again and be able to focus. I was going to start another blog about getting myself together with the help of exercise, acupuncture, diet, and other stuff like that. But the thought of writing two blogs was just too much, so I'm combining them. Occasionally, there may be a post about it. So now I'm a mom with fibromyalgia who commutes. And who maybe takes yoga. And possibly Feldenkrais. I like Feldenkrais. There's a "community class" on Wednesdays that's cheap. It might be good. I think it's for beginners.
It's hard for me to find classes to fit my schedule. I've tried going to the gym before I get on the bus, but that's at like 4:30 in the morning and no one has classes then, although there are gyms that are open. I don't like the machines. I've tried going when I get into the city, but that means bringing everything in on the bus and then getting dressed for work at the gym. It's not easy—the stuff is heavy. Lunchtime isn't good because the classes are packed and they're really hard. And then I can't get back to work—I'm distracted and no good for the rest of the day. After work, I just want to get home and hang with the family. You know, if I wait too long to get on a bus there's traffic and it's crowded. I tried taking classes at night when I get home, but by then I'm tired. I know, excuses, excuses.
A long time ago, I used to go to the Himalayan Institute at East-West Books on 5th Avenue and 14th Street. In the basement there was a carpeted room where they held Hatha yoga classes. They didn't even have a mirror in there. Everyone would show up wearing sweats and loose fitting clothing, and a not so adorable but very well trained instructor took you through the poses, one at a time, until everyone in the room got it right. I'm sure there are still places that do that. I know there must be some around. I have friends who teach yoga so I could ask them. Or I could take a "beginner" class and then just work to my ability. But for me, it's hard to know when to stop.
You see, I can't do what I used to do. In April of 2011, I was diagnosed with fibromyalgia. I think I've had it way longer than that, but just didn't know what it was. I kind of thought it was a normal part of aging. You know, things start to hurt, maybe ache a bit. But in March/April of 2011, I had what I'm understanding now to be a "flare." That's when it hurts so bad, you feel like it would be really helpful if you could somehow get out of your body, because being inside your body really kind of sucks. And if you could get out of your body, then maybe you could think clearly. Or wash dishes. Or sleep, or something else that's fun and exciting like that. So now, if I feel OK I sometimes think that I can do things, and then I do them, and then later I really pay for it. Even getting a massage can be bad. I found out the hard way that deep tissue and fibromyalgia don't mix. The next day, you feel like you've been run over by a mack truck.
I first found out that I might have fibro when we were visiting my cousin, who is a healer and really smart and earthy crunchy and jappy all at the same time—she is a study in contrasts. Anyway, when I told her my symptoms, she told me that what I had sounded like fibromyalgia. I know that the worst thing to do is look up medical conditions on the internet, but I couldn't help myself. I went home and looked that puppy up. Yup, that's what it sounded like. I went to see my doctor, who pretty much brushed me off, and was pretty nasty about it, too. You see, some doctors don't believe in fibromyalgia. Like they think that fibro is an imaginary friend or a gnome or a troll that lives next door to the tooth fairy. She told me in no uncertain terms that I didn't have it, and acted like maybe I wanted to have it. Like who would want to have it? Seriously. But she did send me to a physiatrist to find out what I had. And the physiatrist said? Fibromyalgia. Of course she did. And so what does my doctor say now? I don't know, because right after that we broke up.
Physical therapy helped me get through the flare and back to my "new normal." The physiatrist prescribed drugs for me but I only took them once. They made me "loopy." I didn't realize I wasn't supposed to operate heavy machinery. Like my car. It was a problem. So, I've been living this way since then. But I think I've made a New Year's resolution. I'm tired of my elbows hurting when I turn the steering wheel of the car, and my legs taking forever to "unstiffen" when I stand to get off the bus. I want to remember things again and be able to focus. I was going to start another blog about getting myself together with the help of exercise, acupuncture, diet, and other stuff like that. But the thought of writing two blogs was just too much, so I'm combining them. Occasionally, there may be a post about it. So now I'm a mom with fibromyalgia who commutes. And who maybe takes yoga. And possibly Feldenkrais. I like Feldenkrais. There's a "community class" on Wednesdays that's cheap. It might be good. I think it's for beginners.
Saturday, January 12, 2013
Getting Religion
Last night I went to Friday night services at our synagogue. It was a special night: family dinner and a service led by the primary grades. Family dinner started at 6:00, so I raced home from work early. I'll bet some of you are probably wondering why the heck I was doing this. I must admit that there were moments during the cacophony that is also known as "tot shabbat" that I was wondering that myself. My kids are thirteen and fifteen, and started their "formal" religious educations at the age of around two, so for many years my husband, mom and I sat in the pews, alternately giggling behind our hands and kvelling, while watching our miniature people sing songs and read from the prayer book, and ultimately, the Torah. But now the boy child, you see, is a madrich, a sort of "teaching assistant," and these were his kids leading the service. And he asked me to come. So I did.
My husband is Filipino and Catholic. He grew up in a large family that kneeled together each evening, praying the rosary in front of an alter in his living room. My family is Jewish. I grew up in a family that ate lox and bagels almost every Sunday morning, and if you whined enough, you didn't have to go to Sunday school. Occasionally we attended services at the Reform synagogue on the high holidays. So, it was pretty much a no brainer that when my husband and I got married, we decided to raise the kids . . . Jewish.
It's not as strange as it might sound. We knew we wanted to raise the kids some religion. We both felt it was important. From my standpoint, I felt that if my kids were going to reject religion, they'd better have a reason for it, and it wouldn't be out of ignorance. And maybe they would like it, would feel like they belonged somewhere. My husband, on the other hand, just wanted to raise good people, and he felt that a religious foundation would contribute to that. He thought that since my family was close by, and since religious education often winds up with the mom, he would hand the responsibility over to me. Our religions are based on the same fundamental principles anyway, so it wasn't really that much of a stretch.
So yes, it's true that as a teen I spent most of my time in the train station underpass or in the temple ladies room smoking cigarettes while I should have been at services. But in my late 20s and early 30s, I was living in New York, I was single, and with a little prodding from my modern orthodox girlfriend, I did a bit of a crash course in orthodox judaism. My girlfriend was a baal teshuvah, (someone who returns to a commitment to Judaism) and she and I had spent many a Friday night in high school eating pepperoni pizzas and cruising the circuit made famous by a very popular rock 'n' roller. I agreed to go with her to a couple of "learner's services" at an Upper West Side synagogue that shall remain nameless simply because I can't remember its name, a few religion classes for women (which I must admit I found about as informative as the Catholic pre-cana classes we were "encouraged" to take prior to getting married, but that is for another day), and more than a few Shabbat dinners, some at the home of a guy that I wound up kind of dating for awhile. I know, hard to believe, right? I was also dating a pagan at the same time. He was an artist and he used to read tarot cards and astrology charts at a little shop on 9th Street. He was in a band, too. It was an interesting time. Boy, I used to have fun.
Anyway, the kids started Jewish preschool at the age of around two. We wanted to take advantage of that time in a kid's life when "magical thinking" comes naturally. When they could easily believe all the stuff that becomes way more difficult to wrap your head around when you become older. And they also got to learn their aleph bet right alongside their alphabet. And how to pray. You wouldn't think that's something you would have to learn, but you kind of do. Especially if you have to do it in another language. We also lit the Shabbat candles and had dinners on Friday nights like I did with my orthodox friends. OK, maybe not exactly like those dinners. It's possible that pork products might have been involved. But similar.
So now, at fifteen, my girl child tells me that she doesn't believe in God. OK. And she also tells me that she is going to probably marry someone who's not Jewish with short hair who wears a suit and keeps regular work hours. (Fact: my husband has long hair and works at home in jeans or sweats. She's a rebel.) But when I ask her how she's going to raise her kids she says "Jewish, of course." And she still attends religious high school, even though she doesn't have to. Uh, OK. And the boy child? He's the king of comparative religion. I think he's contemplated trying at least a few of them on for size, including Pastafarianism. You know, the Church of the Flying Spaghetti Monster. Go ahead. Look it up.
It was for the boy child that I rushed to services last night. My husband couldn't come, busy chauffeuring the girl child to her first winter formal. I must admit, Mom and I sat in the pews and giggled a little behind our hands as the boy child shooed the little ones up onto the bima. And, I also have to admit that I'd be lying if I said I didn't kvell just a little bit when he went up to recite the kiddush, the blessing over the wine, at the beginning of the service. Even if he is already a teenager.
My husband is Filipino and Catholic. He grew up in a large family that kneeled together each evening, praying the rosary in front of an alter in his living room. My family is Jewish. I grew up in a family that ate lox and bagels almost every Sunday morning, and if you whined enough, you didn't have to go to Sunday school. Occasionally we attended services at the Reform synagogue on the high holidays. So, it was pretty much a no brainer that when my husband and I got married, we decided to raise the kids . . . Jewish.
It's not as strange as it might sound. We knew we wanted to raise the kids some religion. We both felt it was important. From my standpoint, I felt that if my kids were going to reject religion, they'd better have a reason for it, and it wouldn't be out of ignorance. And maybe they would like it, would feel like they belonged somewhere. My husband, on the other hand, just wanted to raise good people, and he felt that a religious foundation would contribute to that. He thought that since my family was close by, and since religious education often winds up with the mom, he would hand the responsibility over to me. Our religions are based on the same fundamental principles anyway, so it wasn't really that much of a stretch.
So yes, it's true that as a teen I spent most of my time in the train station underpass or in the temple ladies room smoking cigarettes while I should have been at services. But in my late 20s and early 30s, I was living in New York, I was single, and with a little prodding from my modern orthodox girlfriend, I did a bit of a crash course in orthodox judaism. My girlfriend was a baal teshuvah, (someone who returns to a commitment to Judaism) and she and I had spent many a Friday night in high school eating pepperoni pizzas and cruising the circuit made famous by a very popular rock 'n' roller. I agreed to go with her to a couple of "learner's services" at an Upper West Side synagogue that shall remain nameless simply because I can't remember its name, a few religion classes for women (which I must admit I found about as informative as the Catholic pre-cana classes we were "encouraged" to take prior to getting married, but that is for another day), and more than a few Shabbat dinners, some at the home of a guy that I wound up kind of dating for awhile. I know, hard to believe, right? I was also dating a pagan at the same time. He was an artist and he used to read tarot cards and astrology charts at a little shop on 9th Street. He was in a band, too. It was an interesting time. Boy, I used to have fun.
Anyway, the kids started Jewish preschool at the age of around two. We wanted to take advantage of that time in a kid's life when "magical thinking" comes naturally. When they could easily believe all the stuff that becomes way more difficult to wrap your head around when you become older. And they also got to learn their aleph bet right alongside their alphabet. And how to pray. You wouldn't think that's something you would have to learn, but you kind of do. Especially if you have to do it in another language. We also lit the Shabbat candles and had dinners on Friday nights like I did with my orthodox friends. OK, maybe not exactly like those dinners. It's possible that pork products might have been involved. But similar.
So now, at fifteen, my girl child tells me that she doesn't believe in God. OK. And she also tells me that she is going to probably marry someone who's not Jewish with short hair who wears a suit and keeps regular work hours. (Fact: my husband has long hair and works at home in jeans or sweats. She's a rebel.) But when I ask her how she's going to raise her kids she says "Jewish, of course." And she still attends religious high school, even though she doesn't have to. Uh, OK. And the boy child? He's the king of comparative religion. I think he's contemplated trying at least a few of them on for size, including Pastafarianism. You know, the Church of the Flying Spaghetti Monster. Go ahead. Look it up.
It was for the boy child that I rushed to services last night. My husband couldn't come, busy chauffeuring the girl child to her first winter formal. I must admit, Mom and I sat in the pews and giggled a little behind our hands as the boy child shooed the little ones up onto the bima. And, I also have to admit that I'd be lying if I said I didn't kvell just a little bit when he went up to recite the kiddush, the blessing over the wine, at the beginning of the service. Even if he is already a teenager.
Saturday, January 5, 2013
Riding in Cars with Boys
My family and I like to play a game.
It's fairly simple. One of us spots someone lurching down the street, gesticulating wildly. Perhaps he's muttering. Or laughing hysterically. Or maybe he's shouting. Before we get too close, we have to guess. Crazy? Or on the phone?
You see, in the olden days, back before bluetooth, it would be pretty safe to assume that this guy was out of his mind, probably having an animated discussion with his demon friend Balthazar who lives in his head about where to get lunch. But now? Well, now it's likely that he's having an animated discussion with his girlfriend. About where to get lunch.
Sometimes it's really hard to tell.
I wind up talking on the phone a lot when I'm on the street. In the morning, I'm checking in with the kids, and in the afternoon I grab a few minutes with mom or the husband. I don't have a bluetooth, though. I want people to know that I'm not crazy. You know, that I'm on the phone.
Since there is a "bus commandment" about not talking on the cell, I usually wait to get off to talk to the kids. When they were in elementary and intermediate school, I used to talk to both of them, but now that the girl child is in high school and she gets up earlier, we actually pass each other in the hallway. That's kinda nice. So now, each day between 7:00 and 7:15, I call the house and speak only with the boy. The conversation goes something like this:
"Son!"
"Mother!"
"Did you sleep well?"
"Yes!"
"What are you doing?"
"Eating breakfast."
"Do you have any tests today?" (I already know the answer to this one.)
"It's Friday. Vocab."
And so it goes.
Talking to the boy child is different from talking to the girl child. We have already established that without prompting, the girl child will tell me everything to the point of TMI, but the boy child is not as forthcoming. I know all about girl children, about how to talk to them. I was a girl child once, after all. But I had no brothers, and a father who didn't really "chat." I was intimidated by talking to boys, and sometimes, I think I still am. My girl child has never been intimidated. She gets it. But she doesn't get it from me.
The boy child talks to me about Minecraft. He explains math problems. He talks to me about a battle that took place in WWII. He talks about grammar. He is a nerd. Occasionally, he'll describe two girls in his class having a girl-fight. I perk up when he does that. He is funny but has a very adult sense of humor. It's often a male adult sense of humor though, which is actually right for his age, thirteen. He and my eldest child can really crack themselves up. I ask the boy child questions about school, what his teacher said, what his friends did, who he ate with at lunch. Sometimes I get answers. Sometimes he tells me things that happened in fourth grade that I can't do anything about anymore. Sometimes he gets annoyed. He is a boy child. I think this is normal. I'm not sure. I have books about boy children, but I haven't read them yet because I am lazy. Maybe I'll read them one day, but I suspect that by the time I do, it will be too late.
Unlike some others I've met (like my girl child), my boy child is very sensitive. He is the one who comes to me when I'm not feeling well and rubs my shoulders, tucks me into bed, gives me a favorite stuffed animal to hold. He is the first to apologize when he thinks he's done something wrong, the first to hug me, the first to cry. He makes dates with me, because we don't get to see each other enough, and sometimes they get broken. I feel badly about that. I make promises I can't keep because I'm tired, or we run out of time. That makes me sad. It's just not right.
And now, he likes to hang out with his friends. The boy child has taken up with some kids that he's known for years. They didn't jell as a group until recently. I am one happy mama. I used to worry that the boy child didn't click with anyone. His interests were different. He had a weird sense of humor. He was small for his age. One night I was driving home with him and one of his friends, a boy twice his size that he's known since pre-school, and one of the gentlest, most genuine souls on earth. They were talking about high school, and how they might wind up at different schools, and then college, and then beyond. And his friend made him promise that even though they might go to different schools, they would always be best friends. And he promised. And I have no doubt that they will.
Lately, I've learned I can't force the conversation. If I do, the boy child gets cranky and won't tell me anything. The girl child does that, too, but it usually only lasts fifteen minutes and then she can't contain herself. They are different people, the girl child and the boy child. She may tell me everything, but although he may not, I've discovered I can still learn a lot by riding in cars with boys.
It's fairly simple. One of us spots someone lurching down the street, gesticulating wildly. Perhaps he's muttering. Or laughing hysterically. Or maybe he's shouting. Before we get too close, we have to guess. Crazy? Or on the phone?
You see, in the olden days, back before bluetooth, it would be pretty safe to assume that this guy was out of his mind, probably having an animated discussion with his demon friend Balthazar who lives in his head about where to get lunch. But now? Well, now it's likely that he's having an animated discussion with his girlfriend. About where to get lunch.
Sometimes it's really hard to tell.
I wind up talking on the phone a lot when I'm on the street. In the morning, I'm checking in with the kids, and in the afternoon I grab a few minutes with mom or the husband. I don't have a bluetooth, though. I want people to know that I'm not crazy. You know, that I'm on the phone.
Since there is a "bus commandment" about not talking on the cell, I usually wait to get off to talk to the kids. When they were in elementary and intermediate school, I used to talk to both of them, but now that the girl child is in high school and she gets up earlier, we actually pass each other in the hallway. That's kinda nice. So now, each day between 7:00 and 7:15, I call the house and speak only with the boy. The conversation goes something like this:
"Son!"
"Mother!"
"Did you sleep well?"
"Yes!"
"What are you doing?"
"Eating breakfast."
"Do you have any tests today?" (I already know the answer to this one.)
"It's Friday. Vocab."
And so it goes.
Talking to the boy child is different from talking to the girl child. We have already established that without prompting, the girl child will tell me everything to the point of TMI, but the boy child is not as forthcoming. I know all about girl children, about how to talk to them. I was a girl child once, after all. But I had no brothers, and a father who didn't really "chat." I was intimidated by talking to boys, and sometimes, I think I still am. My girl child has never been intimidated. She gets it. But she doesn't get it from me.
The boy child talks to me about Minecraft. He explains math problems. He talks to me about a battle that took place in WWII. He talks about grammar. He is a nerd. Occasionally, he'll describe two girls in his class having a girl-fight. I perk up when he does that. He is funny but has a very adult sense of humor. It's often a male adult sense of humor though, which is actually right for his age, thirteen. He and my eldest child can really crack themselves up. I ask the boy child questions about school, what his teacher said, what his friends did, who he ate with at lunch. Sometimes I get answers. Sometimes he tells me things that happened in fourth grade that I can't do anything about anymore. Sometimes he gets annoyed. He is a boy child. I think this is normal. I'm not sure. I have books about boy children, but I haven't read them yet because I am lazy. Maybe I'll read them one day, but I suspect that by the time I do, it will be too late.
Unlike some others I've met (like my girl child), my boy child is very sensitive. He is the one who comes to me when I'm not feeling well and rubs my shoulders, tucks me into bed, gives me a favorite stuffed animal to hold. He is the first to apologize when he thinks he's done something wrong, the first to hug me, the first to cry. He makes dates with me, because we don't get to see each other enough, and sometimes they get broken. I feel badly about that. I make promises I can't keep because I'm tired, or we run out of time. That makes me sad. It's just not right.
And now, he likes to hang out with his friends. The boy child has taken up with some kids that he's known for years. They didn't jell as a group until recently. I am one happy mama. I used to worry that the boy child didn't click with anyone. His interests were different. He had a weird sense of humor. He was small for his age. One night I was driving home with him and one of his friends, a boy twice his size that he's known since pre-school, and one of the gentlest, most genuine souls on earth. They were talking about high school, and how they might wind up at different schools, and then college, and then beyond. And his friend made him promise that even though they might go to different schools, they would always be best friends. And he promised. And I have no doubt that they will.
Lately, I've learned I can't force the conversation. If I do, the boy child gets cranky and won't tell me anything. The girl child does that, too, but it usually only lasts fifteen minutes and then she can't contain herself. They are different people, the girl child and the boy child. She may tell me everything, but although he may not, I've discovered I can still learn a lot by riding in cars with boys.
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