I found out this week that my divorce was finalized. I forwarded the email and information from ecourts to my ex with the message “You and __ can get married now ❤ ”
His response included the sentence, “I know you wanted this over with too so I’m glad.”
When I was in group therapy for an eating disorder, if I or anyone else wandered too deeply into intellectualizing, we were encouraged to share how we felt even if it didn’t make sense. Acknowledging that feelings didn’t always make sense, that they could even be contradictory to the objective facts of a situation, was an important step in learning to tolerate our feelings.
The “rational” me knows that all he meant by “this” was “this last phase of the process.” He’s been having a rough time lately, so a response from me would be petty at best and a manipulation at worst. The rational me says “so what if he thinks I’m doing just fine, getting what I want, and my life is hunky-dory?.” I act on what rational me says; I don’t bother to correct him.
I keep thinking about this, though. I don’t understand how what I wanted figured into this whole situation. I mean, yes, my daughter sleeps at my house five nights a week, and I got the cats. But most everything is what I “want” only in the sense that once I found out that he was cheating, I operated in reality and accepted that my best option was to actively pursue something resembling “a very close second.”
Rational me knows that the end justifies the means, because I have a good life and we are kickass coparents. Rational me can’t even picture how today would look if he’d never left or if we had reconciled, maybe because I stopped fantasizing about the latter once I found the missing piece (his fiancee). Rational me knows that I shouldn’t be any less sad that, for example, the summer of 2012 (maybe the happiest period of my life) is over than I would be if we were still together, because divorcing doesn’t change the past.
Irrational me screams HOW THE FUCK HAVE YOU MANAGED TO CONVINCE YOURSELF THAT YOU’RE GLAD FOR ANY OTHER REASONS THAN (1) YOU’RE GETTING WHAT YOU WANTED–TO MARRY THE WOMAN WITH WHOM YOU CHEATED ON ME AND (2) THIS MEANS YOU HAVE LESS THINGS THAT YOU HAVE TO DO IN ORDER TO DEAL WITH THE REALITY YOU CREATED BY RUNNING TO SONEONE ELSE INSTEAD OF WORKING ON YOUR MARRIAGE?
I just have to tolerate/integrate this and keep moving forward, whatever that means.
I can’t even remember what it was that I said to my daughter this week referencing having been married to her daddy in the past, but she had such a non-reaction to it that it made me pause. I had this moment of realization: not only does she not remember us being married, the fact that we were married is absolutely meaningless to her.
I kept my engagement ring, because it’s pretty, it has diamonds, and I want her to have it when she’s older. I’ve gone back and forth about my wedding dress–keep in case she wants to play in it, or donate it to somewhere like Angel Gowns?
I still have my engagement ring, our wedding album, and all of our letters. I’m not ashamed to admit that that’s for me–my daughter will probably never ask to see the pictures. But that’s okay, it doesn’t mean I’m not “over” him. It’s just better for me to acknowledge that it was a huge part of my life than it is for me to avoid seeing the evidence. It’s in a container in my attic–I can look or not look. I do want to donate my dress (although what would really be helpful would be if I were a skilled seamstress to make a gown, because that’s a lot harder to find).
I wanted some sort of “mourning” ritual, though, and I’m enough of a witch to need to do it when the moon is waning. Last night, I went into the attic and threw out some things from our past that I don’t need to keep because I’ll never use them again. Then, I put on my wedding band one last time and drove to the beach.
Driving on the narrow bridges that lead to the barrier island reminded me of a funeral procession, but I was the only one on the road. I listened to “The Bride” by Bat for Lashes and cried. It took a while to figure out how to get close to the beach…all of the fields were barricaded off. Eventually, I found a broken barricade and made my way to the beach. It was so dark that I couldn’t see where the ground went from concrete to sand, but the lights that were on in the building that housed bathrooms were this horrible, lurid yellow.
When I saw the video for “In God’s House,” the lights inside the car reminded me of something from a morgue, but I never matched it with an exact scene.
Maybe time is flexible, because the lights in the bath house matched exactly with the scene from the video.
The walk was so silent that it was frightening.
I tried to take a picture of the water, or at least the stars in above me where the clouds had opened up, but the only useful picture I got was behind me.
I stopped futzing around, walked a little bit into the water, and tossed my wedding ring. I didn’t feel it leave my fingertips.
I turned around and walked away.
As I was making my way back onto the road, I saw a stag, and I stopped. I’d never been so close to a deer before. He was right next to my car, eating. After a few seconds, he got shy and backed up, and I moved on.
I know that deer live down there, but I had never seen one, so the egocentric part of me that wants to believe in something magical or spiritual thinks there is a meaning to it. I saw three last night (the other two were on the side of the highway). Do you know how some people interpret seeing the number 11 as a sign from above? My number is three. Three is a number of completion, but that’s too tidy for me. If throwing my wedding ring into the ocean meant I’d stop feeling sad because of my lonely heart and failed marriage, I’d have tossed it years ago.
Then again, thinking that there is meaning in seeing a deer up close to pretty tidy, but I find comfort in magic until I’m positive it doesn’t exist.
In my little bubble, this election boils down to two things:
(1) the fear that the people I love who will not have insurance if the Affordable Care Act is repealed as promised by Trump, and
(2) Trump’s whole campaign is based on a complete lack of compassion and the promise of increased systemic discrimination for anyone who is not white, not a natural-born American, not christian, not straight, and not male. I’m still reading up on his social welfare policies, ACA aside, but I’ve never met a republican who regarded the poor with anything but suspicion and contempt.
(I haven’t even been able to process the whole “denial of climate child” issue yet, to be honest).
So far, the only affect a Trump presidency will have on me directly is that I’ll pay more in taxes, because he wants to eliminate “head of household” status for single parents. But I don’t vote based on how things will affect me personally; I vote based on what I feel is right. “What is right” is guided by what will create the most level playing field possible.
“Nice” people who voted for Trump falsely believe that we’re done and everyone has the same shot at a good life.
Okay, fine. Let’s say you honestly believe that, that you’re just naive.
There is so much that I oppose about Trump, but I’m going to make my case the way I would for someone who is much more conservative than me. I’m going to hone in on race and religious discrimination because there is at least a social pressure to not be viewed as racist. Although I think that institutional racism (a ban on muslims entering the country, for example) is the root problem, your average person is going to be most appalled by instances of individual racism. A very “nice,” but super-conservative christian may oppose abortion and gay marriage, but the chances are that they would denounce the use of the n-word.
So here are some articles and collections of Trump quotes on race:
And then, of course, we have his newly-appointed chief strategist, who is openly anti-Semitic:
This is not even like his “pussy-grabbing” talk, which 53% of women dismissed as normal locker room talk. It’s not just vile talk. These are the beliefs on which he is building policy changes.
In a nutshell:
There’s only one time in my life I ever remember seeing my dad cry. It wasn’t at his mother’s funeral or his father’s, though I knew he was sad then. It was on a couch in a therapist’s office at an eating disorder treatment facility.
He was crying because, after trying everything else for two years to treat my anorexia, this was our last resort – and he didn’t know what we’d do if it didn’t work. He was crying because I’d graduated high school with the highest GPA in my class and four awards, and I may not even be able to go to college.
And he was crying because he knew that if it weren’t for his own actions, we might not even be there. Because he was the one who put me on my first diet at age thirteen.
I don’t mean to imply that eating disorders are about food. People with eating disorders use food to deal with larger problems.
My eating disorder was a coping mechanism to deal with the disempowerment I felt in my household, the constant criticism I received from my parents, the anxiety and depression I was innately prone to, and the sexualization my body received before I was even a fully sexual being, to name a few things.
But it was also about the toxic messages I’d received around food and weight. These messages came from the media, my peers, and, perhaps most influentially, my parents. They were many and varied, but they all stemmed from and encouraged fatphobia – the idea that fat is bad and fat people are below thin people.
There must have been a time when I didn’t do any calculations before I ate. When I ate what I wanted. When I could tell what I wanted.
But I don’t remember it.
I do remember being five and playing princesses with my best friend and rejecting her offer for a snack because “princesses don’t eat.”
I remember being six and sucking in my stomach because it looked “too big” after I ate – whatever that mean to a skinny kid who grew up to be a thin adult.
I remember being eight and calling my rival (for the title of most popular girl in the class) fat and passing around drawings of her with a huge, bulbous stomach.
I remember being eleven and turning down my brother’s invitation to join him in front of the TV because I was scared his bowl of popcorn would tempt me.
I don’t remember where I learned the beliefs that led to these choices, but I sure as hell know I wasn’t born with them. And at least one source of them was my parents.
Here are some of the ways my parents unintentionally taught me to practice disordered eating. They reflect the beliefs many kids receive from their parents and from society, because my parents weren’t born with them either. They had to learn them, too.
1. Using ‘Fat’ as an Insult
Ever since I can remember and up to this day, my dad can’t seem to describe a fat person he disapproves of without mentioning their weight. And it’s always connected to qualities associated with stereotypes of fat people, like a lack of work ethic and discipline.
“She’s unemployed, she’s got a weight problem, and she just can’t seem to get her life together” is a typical description.
Occasionally, my mom joins in and they feed off each other.
“One of the people on the tour with us was very large.”
They didn’t create the stereotypes of fat people that society teaches to us, but they certainly reinforced it.
Maybe that’s why I saw my own normal weight gain as a teenager as a sign of poor self-control.
Maybe that’s why, when I lost unhealthy amounts of weight, I felt like I was proving myself.
Maybe that’s why, when I passed on the brownies everyone else was eating, I felt superior.
Maybe that’s why, when my nutritionist taught me that restricting food intake doesn’t work in the long-term because your body fights to stay at your healthy weight, I secretly thought, “That’s just what you think because you’re not as strong as me.”
The message from my parents has always been clear: Thin is good and fat is bad, and the way to prove you are good is to be thin.
The only time I remember my parents using fat as an insult was when I was very young and my mom said something about getting something into my “big, fat head,” which is like the 5-year old version of “you’re a poopyhead.” My ex’s parents did it, though (none of them ended up with eating disorders, but it always made me uncomfortable, especially since both of his parents were themselves overweight).
Fat as an insult is absolutely ingrained in our culture. To use my own middle school students as a convenience sample: I’ve seen so much progress in using “gay” or “trannie” as insult in my years teaching, but “fat” as a generic insult is pervasive.
This is very important to me with my own kid, because it absolutely teaches kids that they can be inherently “better” or “worse” based on the amount of flesh that makes them up. I try to not avoid using words related to weight, but I treat them as neutrally as possible…as mere descriptors and options for body types.
2. Telling Me What to Eat and When
When I was twelve, I made up a rule to try to get my diet “under control.” I could only eat food that was offered to me. School lunches were okay, I decided, because the offer was implied. But no going to the snack machines after school. No raiding the fridge after gymnastics. And nolate-night snacks.
Perhaps I believed I couldn’t trust myself because the decision of whether or not to eat was always made for me. In the morning, my parents made me breakfast. At night, we all had to have dinner at the same time, and we had to eat it if we wanted dessert. In the afternoon, my mom gave us a snack. I was never asked if or when I wanted to eat.
If I did want to eat at an inconvenient time, I was told to just wait it out so that I could eat with the family. (The implication: I wasn’t allowed to eat twice within a few hours.)
It wasn’t until I was fourteen and on a diet that I first consciously felt hunger. Before that, I just wasn’t aware of the sensation. I had always learned that you decide to eat based on whether or not it’s mealtime or snack time and whether or not someone offers you food.
As I got older, the rules got more strict. You can have as many vegetables as you want, my dad explained, but go easy on the carbs. Avocado is a good fat; butter is a bad fat. But don’t have a lot of avocado! Then it becomes bad. Dark chocolate is okay sometimes, but preferably in the morning because then you’ll burn it off.
How could I possibly know what my body was telling me when I was busy trying to follow all this advice?
When I started to understand what hunger felt like, there were times my parents outright gaslighted me about it.
Once, I told my dad I was constantly starving after the “lunch” we ate while hiking, which consisted of a banana and an energy bar, and he informed me that in fact, the food was “calorically enough.”
And when told him I was starving after school (likely because I was, per his advice, eating salads for lunch) and needed something substantial, he’d tell me to “just eat a piece of fruit so you can have dinner.”
Even today, I have a lot of trouble figuring out if I’m hungry or not. I often can’t tell until I’m starving. I don’t trust those little inklings of hunger I have before the starving stage, since anything outside of mealtime is supposed to be quelled by a goddamn piece of fruit.
Over time, my parents taught me that I should decide what to eat with my brain, not my stomach. So eventually, my stomach just gave up.
Obviously, it’s ridiculous and shitty to tell a kid who is hungry that they’ve had enough.
The scheduling of eating is a tough one. As a parent, I can see mealtimes as an important “family” time. Also, if there are six people in a family, the kids are just going to have to fall in line for dinner time. My family is two, so I have much more leeway.
I’m the parent of a kid who was one of the very small percentage of kids who didn’t take in enough nutrition to support proper growth (she went from 50th percentile for length and 10-15th percentile for weight as an infant to 1st percentile for weight after I introduced solids at six months adjusted age), and one of the pillars of feeding therapy is set meal/snack times every few hours. In Boo’s case, I was training her to associate eating with play and to eat every few hours. One could view that as teaching her to override her body’s signals to eat and stop eating, but you really can’t fuck around and let a two-year old follow their body’s signals when it’s in danger of failing to thrive.
I admit that my main concern in terms of her “getting enough” is protein. My kid is pretty good about fruits and carbs–I tell myself that it’s okay that she eats pretty much zero vegetables because she’s down with fruit. Fruit has more calories anyway. But I do worry about protein, and I’m likely to try to rush getting dinner ready if I know she’s hungry, because the protein is in dinner, and most snacks are carbs.
Lately, however, my kid has been snacking on cotton candy yogurt pouches which has been a huge win.
I never engaged in coercing my daughter to eat–I have to very, very carefully chose my power struggles with her, and the two things you cannot force a kid to do are eat and sleep. I just focused on making mealtimes enjoyable and modeling a good relationship to food (which sometimes meant eating things that weren’t “safe” foods for me).
I never did much bargain/bribery either. It’s not good practice…but, really I’d have done it if it would have put weight onto her. It’s just that it wasn’t until maybe three and a half that she gave a fuck enough about treat foods for me to be able to use them as leverage. I remember her “potty training” deadline looming and thinking “what the fuck am I going to do? She doesn’t love candy enough for me to offer M&Ms.”
(We did a sticker chart that led to her getting a Tinkerbell doll she wanted once it was filled).
All of this stuff is much easier now because of school. She’s not hungry when she wakes up (I wake up starving…I will never understand breakfast-skippers!), although she’ll sometimes offer milk. The before- and after-care center offers breakfast (I don’t know how much she eats), she eats a packed lunch and snack, and then day care offers snack again. We’re both ravenous when we get home, so we have been enjoying eating an early dinner together. I’m done eating for the day after that, and she gets a snack later on in the evening. It’s great.
I always felt like a shitty mom for not eating dinner with my daughter at the table. I eat when I’m hungry and usually on the couch. Maybe I’ll try telling myself that it’s okay because it’s modeling following internal cues.
3. Warning Me About Weight Gain
When I was around twelve, my dad started warning me that soon, I might gain weight more easily – as if that would be a bad thing rather than a very normal thing – when I reached for seconds or desserts.
Through these warnings, I learned that when you’re a kid, you can eat what you want, but when you’re an adolescent, you have to consider how attractive you’ll look as a result. Dieting, I figured, was part of the transition into womanhood.
And womanhood in particular. He never said this to my brother, at least to my knowledge, even though he ate far, far more than me and wasn’t significantly thinner or more active.
He, it was assumed, needed food if he was hungry. His hunger was helpful: a way to stay active and accomplish things.
But my hunger was the enemy – something to restrain, control, and master, lest, God forbid, I become less aesthetically pleasing.
By teaching me it was necessary to eat in a way that would yield a thin body, I think my dad implicitly taught me it was my duty to be conventionally attractive.
No wonder I wanted out of womanhood. That was another way I used my eating disorder: to keep myself in a prepubescent state, where maybe I wouldn’t be objectified like this.
I never experienced this with my parents, thank God. I picked it up somewhere, though. I remember seeing a picture of myself at my lowest weight around the age of 11–when I was “just afraid to eat because I was afraid I was going to throw up,” I’m not trying to lose weight–and being very, very pleased with how long and thin I looked.
I also remember going through a period in the 8th grade when I would eat a whole can of beef stew when I got home from school and then eat dinner a couple hours later. I got up to 110 (I was 5’5″ or so at the time), and one of my mom’s friends said at a Christmas party that I had filled out, and I looked healthier. I thanked her, but I was unhappy about it. It was a completely innocuous comment, a compliment, but I didn’t want to fill out. I didn’t want to look healthy. I didn’t want to have had noticeable weight gain.
4. Complaining About ‘Excessive’ Food
My dad always gave me the impression that food was very, very scary. If something he liked was on the table, he’d move it so that “we” wouldn’t fill our bowls ad infinitum (he rarely spoke for himself).
It was as if the food were coming after us, and we were powerless to stop it.
He conveyed this same sense after eating, when he’d complain about how much he “overate.” He often appeared to be in severe distress, letting out exasperated sighs and talking about how he couldn’t believe it and how he planned to start a diet immediately.
This affected me in two ways. One: It taught me to also eat more than I was hungry for, because apparently, that was how you celebrated the holidays or enjoyed a dinner out. Two: If I ate what he ate, I came to assume that it was also “too much,” even if I didn’t feel overfull, and felt ashamed.
Eating took on the same significance that being fat did: It was a symbol that you were totally out of control. And an eating disorder was a way to reclaim control.
This is probably the worst habit my parents modeled, and this was very familiar to me. My mom can be pretty histrionic–she sighs and groans loudly for no known reason. She also beats herself up out loud after indulging or overeating.
I do it on the inside, so I can’t claim much more of a high ground, but I do not say a word of this bullshit to my daughter. I talk about the food itself, what I liked about it. At worst, I’ll say “I am STUFFED. That was delicious!”
I do admit that I’m obviously psyched when my kid takes down a whole thing of kid’s mac and cheese at Panera, and I will comment on in (something like “Yeah girl! You brought it tonight! Yum!” or say that I’m glad she ate a good dinner, because being out at school today/having gym/growing works up an appetite), but maybe I shouldn’t even do that. I don’t her to ever feel self-conscious about it, but I don’t want to tiptoe around it . I’ll never get it just right, but I’m trying to make food and eating not a big deal for her.
5. Talking About Their Diets
Both of my parents were constantly on diets throughout my childhood, from Atkins to Weight Watchers, so I learned that this was something all grownups did. Dieting, it seemed, was like getting your wisdom teeth out: Our bodies were naturally wrong and needed fixing.
My mom would often talk with an air of superiority about not dieting and just “making healthy choices,” but it was all the same: a way to restrict food intake for weight loss. This taught me that even post-eating-disorder-recovery, as I rejected dieting, I should still do what was essentially dieting.
Unfortunately, she never learned her lesson.
During my senior year of college, she visited campus and took two of my friends and I out to dinner, and she had a burger and fries. Afterward, she started telling me about her preparations for my brother’s wedding.
“I’m on a weight-loss kick!” she said excitedly, explaining how she was planning to fit into a smaller dress size for the photos, as if she expected me to join in the excitement with her. “Though I won’t make much progress the way we ate tonight!”
Keep in mind, this was three years after I’d gotten out of an eating disorder treatment program.
“You’re seriously going to say this to me?” I asked.
“I thought you were good now!” she said.
After all the therapy she’d gone through, all she’d learned was that the dieting mindset and negative body talk were problematic if you’re around someone in the midst of an eating disorder. But if you’re daughter’s not anorexic, go for it! It’s A-okay to advocate dieting and shame certain food choices.
When parents speak positively about dieting, they teach their kids that they, too, should diet. And when they talk about certain foods as “bad” because their diets go against eating them, they teach their kids that they, too, should avoid those foods.
My mom was always dieting, but she wasn’t openly obsessed with it.
However, she was also (so I heard later on) a binge-eater. I never saw her binge, but she did ask me to hide “junk food” (like chips) from her so she’d be accountable if she wanted to eat them.
I wouldn’t do this, but that’s because I’m a little bit in denial of my restrictive behavior unless I lose weight, and I’m very conscious of what I’m modeling for Boo because I’m in recovery. I don’t think it was a big deal or damaging.
I’ve been told by my ex that all my family talks about when we get together are (1) bathroom humor and (2) food. *shrug* I don’t think that’s inherently bad. However, my mom feels very free to talk about her diet to me now, and I don’t get that. I don’t like it–especially when she gets so in detail as to tell me how many calories she’s trying to keep under in a day, and it’s 200 above my daily total at the time I went into the hospital. I know she means well, and honestly I think she’s bouncing it off of me because…. um, the one thing I’m good at is losing weight. It’s not “triggering” in the sense that it makes me want to join in. It just makes me very uncomfortable and sad for her. She’s come such a long way from the days she was sickest with borderline personality disorder and had no idea that she could be so much happier. She created a nice life with my dad out west, and then she’ll start talking about things like this, and it shows me that she is still stuck and unhappy.
6. Acting Concerned About Health
Even today, knowing that I’m a body positive writer, my mom loves to “educate” me about how scary the “obesity epidemic” is and how you can reject disordered eating while still worrying about “health.”
And it’s triggering as hell.
Because as anyone who has been through eating disorder recovery knows, you can’t be in it halfway.
You can’t be like, “I’m going to embrace my body and love myself no matter what it looks like, but I’m going to make sure I don’t weigh too much!”
You can’t be like, “I’m going to tune into what my body needs and make choices about what to eat based on its physical signals – without going overboard and filling up on carbs!”
And, for the same reason, you can’t be like, “I accept people of all different sizes without judgement, but the obesity epidemic is very concerning!”
These two mentalities can’t coexist. Either you advocate a radical alternative that uproots every aspect of the status quo, or you’re part of the problem.
My parents don’t get that. And because of that, being free from disordered eating – especially around them – is still a struggle.
When I want cookies and ice cream for dessert because one of the two won’t fill me up, I flashback to when I did that at age fourteen and my dad said, “Wow, you’re really pigging out.”
When I recently told him about a new recipe I made involving cream sauce, I made sure to tell him I used light cream, because he always warned me about cream sauce.
When I want to eat a burger and fries, I still remember my mom saying that’s no good to eat before you’ll be photographed.
I have not applied the radical attitude that I’ve adopted toward fat acceptance at large to my own choices. Even after 26 years on this Earth and eight in eating disorder recovery, it’s hard not to sometimes be stuck in your parents’ disordered mentality.
So, I’m not speaking to you from an enlightened place. I have not transcended dieting culture and come downward to talk to you. I’m speaking from within the thick of it.
What I can say I know at this point, though, is that my parents’ disordered ideas are not mine. They don’t belong to me, and they’re not my burden to bear.
But many of us still bear the burden of the beliefs held by our parents, even ones we disagree with.
For now, I try to surround myself with different ideas. I follow body-positive, fat-positive blogs and social media accounts. I talk to fellow eating disorder survivors who know recovery isn’t a halfway deal.
And when someone complains about the obesity epidemic at family gatherings, I change the subject.
Thank God my parents don’t do this. They’ve never criticized my eating or choice of foods. I can honestly say that any disordered thinking at this point is 100% from me.
I was giving some thought to diathesis-stress model for psychopathology the other day. It was the prevailing, default explanation that allowed for nature and nurture to have roles in the development of mental illness when I was in social work school, but that was ten years ago. (In fact, I saw that they now think this model doesn’t apply to simple phobias, which seem to be rooted more in biological than life events or learning. That’s a big shift!).
I think diathesis-stress is the right explanation for how some people get eating disorders and others don’t–for now. Some people are more prone to addiction than others, but I do think that anyone could develop an addiction of some sort. The author here was apt to go to restriction as a coping mechanism once it was triggered because it was rewarded in her household. I was modeled more overt and dramatic means of coping; the fear of being exposed or drawing attention to myself could have inspired me not to stop using punishment as a way to cope with overwhelming feelings..I didn’t do that, though. Instead, I just looked for “quieter” ways to hurt myself, and I found it in counting and restricting calories.
In both of our cases, the trigger appears to have been transition times involving individuation and separation from parents. It looks like hers was going from high school to college. Mine was unusually late, but the news that my parents with whom I finally had a not completely fucked-up relationship would be moving thousands of miles away literally a week after my wedding was very hard. (I didn’t even know they had been looking to move until they’d already purchased the house. They figured that I was getting married and getting my own family here, so I didn’t need them anymore). Another person, raised in the same environment, would not have necessarily reacted that way to this news.
There’s my expert-by-experience reaction to this essay. This girl’s dad loved her very much, but he fucked up bad. He didn’t know he was fucking up. I’m trying so hard not to fuck up my kid, but who knows what ways I’m fucking her up with my attention focused on not doing the things that my parents did to hurt me. I’m modeling food being enjoyable and no big deal (if you believe that kids are a little bit dumb…I still weigh what I weigh), and I’m showing that all emotions are acceptable to feel and express, but who knows what I’m missing? My intentions are good. So were my mom’s. So were this woman’s dad’s.
I think I’ll skip the summary of this.
Today is Pregnancy and Infant Loss Remembrance day. Tonight, I lit three white candles:
Carlin (small champion), due 3.24.09
Luca (bringer of light), due 10.15.09
Nadia (hope), due 12.31.10
My daughter knows that I lost three pregnancies before her, and this year she asked to see the candles. I told her for whom I had lit each candle.
I’ve told my story over and over, and I want to do something a little differently this year. The fourth candle is in honor of the baby of someone who I deeply respect. She was stillborn in the last month. I cannot imagine the horror. I would take a hundred of my losses over theirs.
This person is a private person, and honestly I’m not even that close to them, but I care very much about the family and the trauma that they’re going through. Their story isn’t mine to share, so instead I will share a few charities that do excellent work for families who have lost an infant before or after birth:
Now I Lay Me Down to Sleep provides professional photography, at the hospital or home, for families of babies that have died or are close to death. The loss of a pregnancy or infant is the loss of one’s whole future, and the only memories people have in these cases are ultrasound pictures. The photographers are specially trained, and their work is beautiful.
The next two charities can be support through Amazon Smile:
Star Legacy Foundation funds stillbirth research and education, and they provide grief counseling by phone and via support groups for families experiencing this horror. They also provide gowns and hats for stillborn babies and care packages for their parents.
First Candle focuses on prevention of stillbirth, Sudden Infant Death Syndrome, and Sudden Unexpected Infant Death Syndrome through education, as well as grief support for bereaved families.
I bought a blank card to send to the family I know who lost their baby. I’m going to keep it simple.
I lit a candle in honor of your baby girl
You are very much in my thoughts
It’s not fair
And now, for something completely different.
My cat is 14 years old, her kidneys are starting to go, and she’s leaky (she doesn’t fail to use the litter box–she’ll be snuggled up to me on the couch and just leak about a teaspoon of urine). My own search didn’t yield all that much help in terms of how to keep my house from reeking, so figuring out the most efficient way to keep things clean was a learning process. Most of the traffic to my blog comes from internet searches to posts that are about something specific, so I’ll share how I deal with it:
(1) Obviously, go to the doctor. I took her months ago because I was concerned about diabetes. Her kidneys are starting to go, so we’re just going to monitor her more closely.
(2) Another duh, but make sure your older cat is on a food for older cats. I hadn’t even thought about it, because my other cat was FeLV+, so he didn’t have a long life expectancy. I switched her from Wellness Core dry food to Nutro Indoor Senior dry food and from Wellness chicken canned food to Nutro senior canned food over a period of 2-4 weeks.
(3) One more “duh”: Add a litter box. They say have one for each cat plus one, but I got away with two boxes for two cats and then one box for one cat. I have her old litter–Yesterday’s News–upstairs, but she never liked standing in it. I thought maybe she was going outside the litter box because she was having trouble “perching” on the side of the litter box, so I added a box downstairs with unscented “sand” litter. (She likes it, and I like it because I can better monitor her output with this litter, but she still perches).
(4) You need Nature’s Miracle for urine on carpet.
(5) You need a big container of vinegar for laundry. Anything that has urine on it gets soaked in detergent and vinegar (I just pour some in…maybe half a cup? No idea).
(6) Anything your cat lounges on that can’t be just thrown in the wash needs to be covered with things that can be thrown in the wash: cat bed, couch, your bed, favorite spots in the sun.
At first, I covered the couch with a layer of towel and then a blanket, but then I went with something waterproof and thin:
(7) Buy incontinence (washable “chux”) pad, such as these: https://www.amazon.com/Sofnit-Washable-Underpad-34×36-Pack/dp/B000FED594/ref=sr_1_5_a_it?ie=UTF8&qid=1475511895&sr=8-5&keywords=incontinence+pads
I also got one of these: https://www.amazon.com/Premium-Quality-Waterproof-Reusable-Washable/dp/B00MWJEQZ2/ref=pd_bxgy_121_img_3?ie=UTF8&psc=1&refRID=0P0M5HFFJFGR1Q64Z6ZD
I have two of these on my sofa covered up with a blanket. Her cat bed has one of these with a thin blanket or towel over it. I end up washing these things every day, but the pads don’t take up much room.
I had one over my quilt in my bedroom, but she stopped sleeping with me, so now I just keep a thin, flannel blanket over my quilt.
(8) Go around every evening and “sniff test” everything to get your laundry gathered up all at once.
(9) Don’t forget to check your clothes. My pants often get smelly if she’s been snuggled up to me.
(10) Include kitty in your sniff test. I bought some kitty wipes, but she tolerates me wiping her down with a warm, damp washcloth with a little Dr. Bronner’s soap on it (just don’t use tea tree or a citrus scent–cats don’t like that), and it really works. I do it once a day unless she doesn’t have any smell at all on her.
(11) Unscented clumping litter STINKS. My downstairs bathroom smells awful, but I’m going to work on it. I wash everything with bleach once or twice a week, but it still reeks. I don’t want to use scented stuff and have her licking it off of her, so I’m experimenting with air freshener. I don’t like the chemically stuff or sprays (again, I don’t want my kid or cat getting residue on themselves), so I ordered a reed diffuser. I think incense or palo santo would help, too.
(12) If you have a friend who you’re comfortable asking, ask him or her to give you feedback on the smell of your house just as he or she is walking in the door with “fresh” nostrils.
(13) When you have to clean up or do an extra load of laundry, don’t think about it. Don’t even sigh. Just do it–think about something else while you’re doing it. You will get used to the routine, and the extra work will just become a normal part of your day.
(14) Give you cat lots of love and affection. Your kitty is still here, happy and healthy. It’s worth it.
I got this feeling that I’m going to lose my old girl by next summer, so I’m savoring every moment I have with her. If I’m right, I’m lucky that I had the foresight to be able to do this. If I’m wrong, then I get extra time with her.