No more douchebags
As you all know, this past winter I went and got myself into a bit of a “situation.” Yes, I was pregnant.
Had this been 1955, I would have sequestered to my bedroom, asked not to do anything too strenuous and wait until the day came that I lumbered my heavily pregnant body into the delivery room…alone.
But this isn’t 1955 and I didn’t have to go through one minute of labor alone. Thank God. C was next to me from the first contraction during a 9 p.m. showing of “Moneyball” to my brief – but scary – flirtation with a 60/40 blood pressure and on into the operating room where we welcomed a squirmy, screaming baby boy.
Oh boy.
I won’t bore you with the whole I-was-in-labor-for-27-hours-and-pushed-for-an-hour-and-a-half-before-going-to-a-c-section story. Been there, read that. I also won’t tell you that a c-section was quite possibly the worst experience of my life (despite fantastic pain killing drugs, I could feel every tug, twist and pressure applied to my belly region). Nor will I toss in that my little boy is cuter than your little boy but that’s only because it’s so obvious it need not be mentioned.
What I will tell you is that a car was is no place for a mother of 7 days. No, 8 days. No, 7. Crap. I can’t even remember what day this all happened. But it happened. And that’s the important part.
Despite their small stature and inability to articulate any of their needs (God forbid they actually tell you what’s wrong instead of insisting on playing the ultimate game of 20 questions fourteen times per day), babies need a lot of “stuff.” And despite our well-stocked nursery, we found ourselves in need of a few things once we ventured home from the hospital.
On to Target.
Having acquired said baby stuff, we three – C, me and new baby J – collectively decided that a quick trip through the car wash would be a great way to end our first family outing. Big mistake.
Cheery greeting from the car wash attendant? Dry eyes.
Extraction of husband, baby and diaper bag from car? Ocular desert.
Short meander through viewing hallway? Nary a drop in sight.
Offer of freshly popped popcorn while we wait? JACKPOT.
My eyes well. My lip begins to quiver. I turn away from the paper cones stuffed full with buttery kernels and let the rivers run.
What the hell?!
My husband looked at me with concern. The 18-year old cashier looked at me with concern. The freaking air freshener display looked at me with concern.
And so I became one of those people. You know, the people I used to call douchebags who wear their sunglasses indoors.
But now I know better. I just call them new parents.
A Brand New Era
I’m changing my name. No, not MY name. The name of this blog. It just has to be done.
“We Start Our Day With An Egg Toss” was always meant to be a filler title. A name that fell off my fingers when filling out the registration page in an effort not to over think, second-guess or paralyze myself into not starting a blog for lack of a really great name. The result? A really long name. And one that requires too complex of an explanation than really exists.
So here starts my quest for a new name.
Plus, I’m pregnant. Knocked up. With child. So if you’re really bothered by the name change, blame it on the energy-sucking, hormonal seesaw that’s set up shop in my belly.
Thar s/he grows...and grows and grows.
Lizard Brains Unite!
I’ve been hijacked. By my brain. That’s the nugget of wisdom I’ve uncovered during these hours (Liar! It’s been days.) of extreme stress and indecision. My rational thought-producing prefrontal cortex was held at gunpoint and robbed by my frantically screaming amygdala. And I intend to press charges.
This hijacked my brain.
Police Officer: Excuse me, amygdala?
Amygdala: Please call me lizard brain. All my friends do.
PO: Well, lizard brain, it seems you’ve hijacked yet another important decision. Thanks to your last episode, Kristin didn’t get to sit on Santa’s lap – it seems bony butts are bad for circulation. But we’re not going to have any of that this year, buddy. No sirree. We’ve had enough of your shenanigans. You have the right to remain—
A: [screams] OH MY GOD OH MY GOD OH MY GOD [spins in circles, runs into wall, passes out]
Maybe that’s not such a good idea. Besides, I might still need the fight-or-flight instincts the amygdala provides should I get attacked by a bear or asked to cook for Oprah.
It could happen.
Staring Down Forks
I have a problem. A big problem. Like other times when I’m faced with a problem of this sort, I can’t sleep. My forehead cramps. My back seizes tight and my stomach whirls, swirls and sloshes at the mere mention of lunch. Even the snack-sized Kit Kats that prowl my kitchen cupboards this time of year lose their chocolaty luster.
Two years ago, I lost eight pounds in a single week because of a certain stressful situation. This just in: Stress topples Jenny Craig as North America’s most successful weight loss plan! It would have been great but I didn’t have eight pounds to lose. I looked like… well, me minus eight pounds plus dark eye circles and a really, really big problem to solve.
What’s most odd about my reaction to stress and problem solving is that even as it ravages my brain and body, it never seems to carry over to my professional life. My husband may avoid me, my mom may worry but never have I ever let my managers or business know what’s going on. In fact, my last review before leaving a major medical device company provided three paragraphs on my cool as a cucumber response to stressful situations. (“I am consistently impressed at how Kristin calmly and strategically – even happily – responds to difficult situations. She is unruffled by demanding internal clients, tight deadlines and the occasional fire drill.”)
I feel like what I imagine Fletcher felt when asked to pose next to a nearly 200-pound mastiff: Scared sh--less.
What a hoot.
But let’s be fair. I only respond to situations in my lack of appetite, don’t want to get out of bed so don’t even try to make me, head pounding way when they’re personal issues. Business? Pshaw. That can be solved. It’s the life stuff that wigs me out.
Okay, okay. I haven’t told you what my problem is yet. You’re probably annoyed. I’m sorry. I’ll probably lose a few minutes of sleep over that tonight too.
Because I’m not sure whether I want to tell you specifics, I’ll warm up with what my problem isn’t. It isn’t an “Oh my God, I have a zit on my chin and Jimmy’s picking me up for the prom” kind of get over it problem. Then again, it’s also not a “The doctor just called and he found a garter snake growing in my fibula” life altering, medical journal type of deal.
It’s somewhere in the middle. A big deal to me but not so much to you. Though science and medicine won’t be affected, it could change the path of my life. I’m not sure I want that. I like my life just fine, thank you very much.
On the other hand, every life must have change in order to grow. It needs forks in the road (or river, if you prefer nautical idioms). It needs spice. It needs big, hairy, scary decisions. But I just can’t help feeling like this particular fork, flavor and choice that I’m facing – lucrative though it may be – isn’t going to take me where I want to go. It will take me somewhere different than where I currently am, that’s for sure. But whether I want to be at that somewhere is the question.
For now, I think I’ll just lay off the caffeine. Three cups of light roast certainly can’t help a raging stress headache (though they do warm the soul, black and festering as it may be). I’ll push forward on today’s To Do list, get a massage and for god’s sake, try to eat a little something.
And don’t worry, I’ll eventually let you know which tine of fork I choose.
It Doesn’t Have To Be So Difficult
I love coming across a complex idea stripped down to its birthday suit, buck naked except for its essential parts. What starts as an overwrought truth, problem or issue becomes plain, pure, simple. What was once unthinkable suddenly becomes doable. Difficult becomes easy. Imagine that.
Each morning, before I jump in to the day’s work I check in on a variety of different blogs. Some muse on design, others writing, and a few I read simply because they talk about, photograph and share pretty things. I like pretty things.
But among my many blogs is one that has nothing to do with design, writing or even pretty things. It’s the tulip among the onion patch (or the onion among the tulip patch, depending on your perspective). Seth Godin’s blog – sans catchy title or witty description – centers almost solely on making complex ideas simple. A marketer by trade, his posts focus largely on bringing common sense back to business. But most of his lessons are applicable far more broadly than the boardroom or cubicle. They’re reminders that life isn’t nearly as complicated as we’d like to think it is. Our days aren’t as hard as we tell ourselves (and others). And ultimately, we’re capable of a whole lot more than we let ourselves believe.
Check out today’s post. Of my many favorites, this is near the top:
Seth Godin's Blog (9.26.10)
It’s My Birthday!
Every September 23, I start the day by shedding my outer layer of self-consciousness, yelling, “Yay Me!” and then twirling until I topple over into a field of brightly colored feathers.
Of course, I don’t really shout. Or say the words “yay” or “me.” And feathers? Well, now we’re just quibbling over details. But I can tell you the twirling is real. Or at least it was real one year. It was 1979 or maybe ’80 when I was perched on our front steps waiting for a burgundy Cutlass Ciera to appear. I kept my eyes on the corner of Trott Avenue and Highland Road, sure that every motor sounding in my little ears signaled the approach of my grandparents. Their car would be laden with a mountain of gifts – Barbies, My Little Ponies, play makeup and other little girl dreams. But as much as I loved seeing my grandparents and opening my gifts, there was one thing in that car that I ached to see more than anything.
Almost my birthday image: Me on the front steps minus a train cake plus three brothers (and a puppy named Tuffy)
“One” thing isn’t right. It was more like three…or four, depending on the year. You see, my grandma had a secret weapon for making her the most popular part of her grandchildren’s birthdays:
The train cake.
Oh, the train cake. Decorated with myriad candies and icing, her train cakes held as many cars as the birthday child was old. Presented on a thick cardboard platter covered with tinfoil, the train cake was something to treasure. As my brothers grew older, we wondered how grandma could possibly bake an 8 car choo choo. 9? Unthinkable. 10? Impossible!
That year, I waited for my train cake. Three (or four) cars long, I knew it would have red and white mints, pink icing, pink gum drops, red hots, every candy signaling that I was a girl. And that I was turning one year older. I twirled like a maniac the moment my grandpa pulled it from the backseat.
My excitement (and twirling nausea) over that train cake is still so palpable. But somehow I don’t remember when my grandma stopped baking her train cakes. Maybe my brothers and I grew too old and too cool. Maybe her arthritic hands and bad back ended the run.
Either way, it doesn’t really matter. Because this year, with the memory of my grandma, the pink gum drops and a whirling, twirling happiness, I’m getting that train cake all over again.
What Do I Know About Growing Old?
I’ve only been young. What do I know about fine lines and slowing metabolism and tricep chicken wings? No one told me how to age. No one told me about a crisp fall morning when I would look in my hair stylist’s mirror and see wispy fine lines splaying out from my eyes. No one told me my under eye circles would morph from simple bags into cross-Atlantic luggage.
Don’t misunderstand; I don’t think I’m old. This Thursday, after the dinner plates are cleared and the gift-wrap discarded, two small-ish numbers (a meager 3 followed by a slightly heftier 4) will be blazing atop my birthday apple crisp. It’s not the years that have my feathers ruffled. It’s that for the very first time, I’m seeing myself age. Before last week’s revelation of crow’s feet, my mental passport photo always looked a bit like my freshman college ID.
I guess I should have seen this coming. I didn’t believe the anti-aging serum commercials. They were for people with wrinkles. I didn’t believe the calcium supplement ads. They were for people on the downslide of the bone density arc. I didn’t believe the weight loss drug plugs cataloging victim after victim of decreased metabolism. They were for people who didn’t work out. I didn’t believe the adult education and second college degree calls to action. They were for people without purpose.
Or were they?
After all, I made a career change. I went back to school for a second degree. But that’s different, I told myself. I followed a passion. I went after a life dream. I…
Wait. Wait just one furry dog in the rain stinking second. I made this change in my thirties. After scooting through my twenties on a hazy path with the hope of “some day” dangling like a carrot in front of my face. I never thought that “some day” would require me to be older. To be wiser. I couldn’t have done this – this massive, scary, heart wrenchingly perfectly imperfect thing – without aging.
Four days after seeing my fine lines for the very first time, the fight-or-flight lizard part of my brain that had screamed “OH MY GOD. I’M OLD. WHERE IS THE BOTOX?!” has finally quieted down. The other part – the rational, good thought-producing part (yes, that’s it’s scientific name) – stepped in and reminded that scaly adrenaline-loving freak that nothing I am today would be possible without the years that caused those lines. And for one of the first times in my life, I’m beginning to love who I am.
But those wrinkles? Signs of wisdom or not, I’m still going to fight ‘em.
