FIVE

Today my baby is five. I flip through the pictures of my pregnancy and the early months of being a family of five. I remember feeling so anxious and exhausted, but the pictures are beautiful. The filter of time helps. Even though Joey was my third child, I wondered during the entire pregnancy if I would have enough love/energy/time to go around. I did. I do.

The immediacy and intensity of the animal instinct after childbirth come back to me, that primal honey badger feeling that nothing else matters. Mother nature at her absolute finest. I flipped the baby side to side, examining his perfection, realizing NOT that I might not have enough to give but that something - Joey - was missing from our family all along.

I vow not to baby Joey, but he will always be my baby. He was the final piece in the puzzle, the one that allowed me to stand back and see the whole picture.

I love to travel back as far as my amended memories will take me, but I am glad to be where we are. The metamorphosis is staggering, from "Ronco," so nicknamed because we could "set'em AND forget'em," like the infomercial, to the Chris-Farley-on-coke whirling dervish of a toddler, to the smart and funny little boy he is becoming. I love this guy.

Today is a milestone for us both. For him, a new bike. For me, a pat on the back for making it, for doing the best I could, for creating this life. Happy birthday, Joey. Love, Mom

Oscar Thinks We're Perfect. And Vice Versa.

Now this might be the final straw for you, this Ode on Oscar, and I won't be mad if you promptly unfriend me. "Oscar" of title fame is our family dog. He is not flawless. This guy is a poop-eater, not just the frozen morsels either. This guy would shit directly into his own mouth if physics allowed it. So no, not perfect, but always there, always happy to see me. Trusty, ubiquitous Oscar.

Here is how things were in the beginning:



He was our first baby, a dress rehearsal for the real thing. This was back in the days of actual film, and we had no qualms about taking whole rolls of film of this frisky, naughty beast.

There was much anxiety over what would happen when we brought Jack home from the hospital. My gramzie was sure that the dog would eat the baby. We even did that whole thing where you bring the new baby's smell home on a blanket and let the dog get used to it. Oscar was like, "Bitch, please, get that rag off my couch."

But here is how it actually went down:



The most interesting thing about the baby for Oscar was that he was a whole new magical world of delicious, awful smells, like microwave popcorn/diarrhea/semi-digested sour breast milk/etc. So, yeah, it is safe to say they were fast friends.

The second time around, we didn't do that whole "smell the baby" gig, because trusty old Oscar KNEW what was coming. We brought the baby carrier in and ever-optimistic Oscar was like, "Hey, maybe now you'll stop being a crazy bitch and we can get back to those epic long walks!" I had become the mother of two kind of shipwreck, not the kind that takes her poor dog on long walks, unless it was to sneak cigs, which of course I would know nothing about because what kind of shabby mother smokes?

Cool-as-a-cucumber Oscar, though, took it in stride. Here is how things looked:



Around this time, Oscar became all honey badger about the kids. When other people or dogs came near, Oscar would snarl like he meant it. He did a routine nightly check on the kids before coming into our room. Sniff, sniff, ketchup and nugget boy safe in the toddler bed, check. Sniff, sniff, tiny one in the bassinet, check. Sniff, sniff, baby girl breathing softly in the crib, check.

Brace yourselves, friends; this ACTUALLY happened: On a particularly broken motherly moment, unamusedly musing, "So this is how the fuck it feels to not have not slept in 3 days," I was sobbing on the floor when Oscar came up and licked my tears. LICKED MY TEARS. Think of the symbolism and metaphor in this image rather than where that nasty canine mouth had been. He was thinking, "Pull yourself together, boo. We got this."

And we did. Even when Chad worked long hours, even during the extended barf-a-thons - Oscar particularly liked those - even when there was money trouble, work trouble, and broken appliances, I had my dog and my dog had me.

Fast-forward one more baby, two more moves, good old Oscar always in the mix, even as the rest of the world laughed (and indeed, they did):



I have been known to "get the mail" more than once per day, because even if I have only left for one minute, Oscar is pee-on-the-floor excited upon my return. He is thrilled to run with me even when you know his old bones hurt. He doesn't back-talk. He warms my feet. And heart.

This guy is cool, even if he does eat his poop.




Here we are now. I want this guy along for the ride, even if we need to take breaks.

The Elephant in The Room

I would like to be an athlete, but I am moderately lazy and definitely overweight. I have recently become an avid runner, though, and I sought the advice from a personal trainer on how to become better. She analyzed my gait, determining that I externally rotated at the hips and heel struck, which was resulting in shin splints. I was all like, "Which $180 shoes are going to help me break that 13-minute mile that I consistently run?" My trainer thought probably "something with more padding to insulate the heel strike." She suggested strength training, especially for the core. I was all like, "When does the carb-loading start?" And she laughed, but I was actually serious.

At no time did the lovely Kaitlyn suggest that my running would improve vastly if I would stop being fat. And it didn't occur to me at the time that I externally rotate my hips because otherwise I would start a friction fire between my legs (not the good kind). Or that POSSIBLY I was getting shin splints because it was too much fucking weight being jostled around on them during my "runs." Or that perhaps the shoe wasn't the problem at all.

And then something even more startling occurred to me: Perhaps lovely Kaitlyn genuinely didn't see this as part of the problem. Obesity is so commonplace that we have stopped seeing it as such, but the proof of it is still there in all the places it has always been: knee pain, ankle pain, GI disturbances, fatigue.

I do this all the time in my own line of work. As a massage therapist, I work with clients suffering from all kinds of pain. So often, clients muse, "Do I need to consider knee replacements? Should I try PT? Would BioFreeze help?" The elephant in the room is so incredibly difficult to approach and impossible to sensitively discuss. This is not Jeanne being a dick, this is Jeanne being as pragmatic as a caveman: the problem is too much weight. Our bodies, the most complex of simple machines, are breaking under our weight.

I am not passing judgement on obesity, because if you live in a fat house you shouldn't throw fat stones. Or something. The enormity (if you will) of our cultural acceptance of obesity is causing myriad other problems, not just that we are too sensitive to honestly approach the issue but worse, that we fail to even see it sometimes.

As a bodyworker, I am self-aware. I brought the weight issue to the table to discuss with Kaitlyn. Once the topic was broached she had so much other great advice for me, like diet suggestions, strength training to stimulate metabolism, etc. And when a client opens that door for me, I am able to somewhat delicately agree that YES, additional weight on the knees/ankles/vicera is problematic. Without that invitation, though, both Kaitlyn and I have trouble entering into this dialogue with people. And the problem is HUGE.

Now talk amongst yourselves and report back. I, for one, need to pop on these big padded shoes and break a landspeed record with my fat dog.

Pineapple Cake & Pride

I just love women, everything about them. If it wasn't for this business of sexual attraction to men - generally - and MY man - specifically - I could see living out my days with a nice gal. I could picture us whipping up pineapple upside-down cake and reading "In Touch" together. For a hot minute I was all like "OMG I NEED A SISTER WIFE," but then I watched the show and realized that whole scenario is bogus.

But partnerships, though...those work really well. Men and men, women and men, women and women, etc. A partnership makes us feel secure, connected, protected, loved, giddy, cozy, strong, beautiful, and smart. I am a wonderful person without my man, yes, and I could take on the world without him, yes. But I am a better and more complete person with him. He brings out the purest sense of me and I, him. Man, I love this guy, even despite his total disregard for celebrity news, inability to bake, and disinterest in shoes.

I have chosen a man as my partner. The world approves of our union and the laws uphold our partnership.

I filter everything through my kids' eyes now though, and I try to picture the world when they become adults. I want desperately to know that if my son chooses a man as a partner, his marriage will be legitimate in the eyes of the law. Let's not get all bananas and throw The Lord into this discussion - that is a battle for someone else to fight - I am talking about a legal union, equal rights for gay and straight marriages alike.

We are getting there. Each new state that makes baby steps in the right direction makes me swell with pride. So much PRIDE.

Da Club

This may be the first installment of a million-part series on gym-related pet peeves. I have an extensive list of pet peeves, ranging from the yoga farters to the naked hair dryers, from the grunters to the floaters.

1. I love to lap swim. In addition to the valid posted rules like "Do not remove band-aids in the pool" and "Do not swim with communicable diseases" I would love to see something about snorkel gear and the pool joggers. On a technicality, if you are wearing a snorkel or your feet don't leave the ground, you are NOT lap swimming and you should immediately go back to the warm pool filled with kids' piss. Also, if you don't want to get your permanent wave wet, you MUST return to dry land. I once had a throwdown with a whole pack of angry seahags in Aquasocks because my swimming - in the pool in the lap lane - was too "splashy," which it was not. I swim like a manta ray, all grace. If only I could transfer this grace from the pool onto land OR from the pool to my conversations with angry retirees. It all went sour when I suggested they try Silver Sneakers next time.
If you choose to split the lane as opposed to circle swim - I am SUCH a fan of this concept - a 50/50 split is desirable. The 90/10 split where you actually float diagonally without creating any forward momentum is marvel of physics. It is also NOT lap swimming. Back to the warm pool, Agnes.

2.I am no prude, and I am relatively comfortable with nudity. But sometimes it is absolutely gratuitous. There is no earthly reason you need to be naked for aggressive blow-drying. These wayward breasts swinging around the locker room would just as easily tuck into the towel around your waist.

3.Thou shalt not fart into your yogi neighbor's face during down dog. There is nothing serene or tranquil about your half-digested roast beef being blasted into the crowded room. Namaste.

4.Mild B.O.=sexy. Fecal matter, fungus foot, cigarette smoke=less sexy.

Help me out. What am I missing?

Lady Parts

I ran into a friend recently who was stunned when I told her that I had hit a rough patch. My Facebook page, she reasoned, was all hilarity and fabulousness and thus so must be my life. Aha! I understood her thinking. There are two reasons that I keep it lively on the old FB, I explained. First, there is nothing bleaker than a post like this: “Looks like I have a cold. Meh” or “The snow makes me sad.” What does one do with this type of information? Secondly, I like to scroll back through my page to jokes, positive interactions, pretty pictures, and anecdotes. What you put out there you bring back to you. Say something enough and it becomes true. Etcetera.

And so my story is omissive by design, but maybe that isn’t fair. The feminist in me recoils at the thought that I haven’t shared this struggle because it involves my lady parts. What is this, 1940? I wrote a whole essay about women that skew the bell curve on life, painting it as all giggles and hugs and crafts. Am I guilty of the same thing with this secret? My friend actually begrudged what she perceived as my perfect existence! So I will share to level the playing field, and because the vulnerable part of me could use a little love. Woe is me, yes, but woe is everyone else, too. We all have our battles, some of which are invisible, private, and stigmatized. Here is mine.

My ovaries are on fire - not an adorable contained campfire but an inferno – and they have been for over a year. I get shooting pain into my back, digestive trouble, and fatigue every single day in dizzying combinations. Sometimes I feel like I am being disemboweled. If I don’t talk about it relentlessly, it isn’t because I have been miraculously cured, but because it is futile and depressing to obsess and focus on. Words don’t fix it, but neither does anything else. True Life: I have endometriosis.

So let’s get those dream sequence squiggles and take it back to the beginning: After a few months of abdominal and pelvic pain, I finally scheduled an appointment with my doctor. I explained to her that I just needed a second opinion as my primary physician, Dr WebMD, had diagnosed ovarian cancer. Doctors love this kind of joke! Predictably, I left without an answer.

I began an aggressive, expensive, and frustrating schlep-athon from one specialist to the next, each one with a diagnosis more preposterous than the last. My personal favorite: Constipation. Treatment: Laxative. I was told to increase fiber, cut out lactose, limit gluten, eat raw foods, and bathe in Epsom salts. My blood was drawn and tested for thyroid conditions, anemia, STDS, and cancer. On raged the fire in my loins, and not in the good way.

When I returned to my gynecologist for the third time, she literally threw her hands up in the air. So reassuring! I need options, I said. My new doctor, mayoclinicmd.com, is not forthcoming with painkillers. I asked if she would PLEASE open me up and have a look inside. This is completely empirical, she said, and we may find absolutely nothing. This seemed like a fair gamble, which might give insight into my level of discomfort and concern. I suggested that maybe she could triple knot my tubes while in there, and make the surgery a double whammy.

So we set a date, and on August 21 I was opened up and scooped out like a pumpkin. She found lesions covering my ovaries and attaching to other organs which she was able to remove or burn (pretty!). Still gassed after a surgery that took much longer than initially anticipated, I drowsily pronounced my relief to finally have an answer. I erroneously believed that an “answer” meant an effective treatment and less pain.

Fast-forward six months and several other treatments later: I am in pain, I am sick, I am tired. I give those words credence only when symptoms become unbearable. Like my FB persona, I believe that you create your reality; if you say life sucks, so it does. I soldier on and do things that I know are good for me: yoga, running, massage, and acupuncture. I have simplified my life, working less, resting more. I am no Shirley MacLaine, but my façade is good. We are surrounded by actors and actresses, and I feel their pain.

The Motherhood Marathon Metaphor NEVER Gets Old

Listen up: motherhood is an epic, super-ultra-marathon team event, with set-backs, plateaus, and endless miles of desperate pain. Mothers that tell you otherwise are lying, taking excellent drugs, and also completely skewing the perceived bell curve. You don’t want to blow your wad right off the bat; remember you’re in this for the long haul! Make some good decisions, tempered with judgment and intuition, let go of the mommy guilt for sub-par decisions, and leave those other mothers alone for the choices that they make.


Here is what I want my kids to know so badly. And I want your kids to know. I might be the captain of this team, and I will put in some extra effort and make some extra sacrifices, but I count too. If I opt out of the sixteenth game of Monopoly so I can read a book, take a jog, take a nap, etc, it is the Captain’s prerogative. I will huggle and snuggle like crazy, until it is time for a break."The whole village” includes fathers, grandparents, uncles, and great babysitters. Everyone is better for it. It isn’t privilege or entitlement that allow us to accept help from others; it is just plain good sense.


Know also that not all relay members will excel at all legs of the race and that we cheer them on even when they are ragged and withered and hideous. The mothers that “failed” at breastfeeding (no such thing) will take up the lead in pre-school crafts, or carry the baton to victory as a Scout leader. The colicky babies will become champion toddlers. The science fair winner will become a video game addict. Most likely, the three-year-old will always suck! But you dole out high fives and keep everyone in that race, because there is always a hill – up or down – just around the bend that will change the game.


And when Captain pulls you from the race to ice your knees (or, possibly, though I would not know anything about this, to “Turn your fucking brain off and watch some educational “Super Why” so Mommy can have an uninterrupted shower, cup of French roast and a fucking peek at Facebook so she doesn’t feel so fucking isolated”), you should definitely concede. Just like the race itself, just like real life, it isn’t all triumph and awesomeness. It doesn’t have to be double rainbows all the way.


The jury is still out; my kids may, in fact, become serial killers. I don’t encourage you to shoot for mediocrity, but I encourage you to let go of the anguish, anxiety, and guilt over every minute decision. I am told that my kids are quick-witted, adaptable, and empathetic, with a minor penchant for potty mouth. I like this. I like to think that some of the mediocre – or less – experiences strengthen their independence, sense of community, and courage.


By all means, feed that baby some quinoa or smiley-face-shaped free range chicken and feel good about it. But know that if it is mechanically separated nugget day, you’ll make up for it with that extra round of Monopoly. And you’ll all be a-okay.