The Body War.

The strange thing about Facebook is that you can have a link to a cancer survivor’s blog bookended by an ad for Western wear and a photo like this.  This, in case you didn’t click, is the photo of fitness guru Maria Kang, six-months postpartum and completely ripped, which has been circulating the Internet like crazy causing debate among women mainly surrounding the tagline above the photo which reads “What’s your excuse?”  When I first saw this photo, I reacted like a lot of women probably did: with an eye roll and a bypass.  I also had a baby six months ago but look nothing like this.  Overall, I’ve been focusing on patience, as this will be the last time I give birth, nurse a baby to sleep, and work to rebuild strength lost through an amazing pregnancy.  But I’ll be honest.  There have been moments of real frustration, of throwing a pair of jeans across the room because they don’t fit, of cursing my feet that have jumped to a size 12, of looking in the mirror and feeling sad.  And I am not alone. 

I have a lot of beautiful friends.  Like seriously beautiful.  Like they have no idea how beautiful.  And these beautiful friends sometimes talk about their bodies and how they’re not so beautiful.  And many times these beautiful friends talk about their bodies this way when their beautiful children are present.  This is hard for me to hear.  It’s hard for me because I was one of those children who heard way too many adults complaining about their bodies.  In college I had major body image issues and hid it from my friends and family.  To this day, many people don’t know how badly I struggled.  Thankfully, I had help of a few who were aware and managed to overcome this kind of existence that made me feel so trapped.  At last, I was free.  I moved to working with young adults with affective and eating disorders on an inpatient unit and saw the extremes of what it is to be imprisoned.  I knew nothing until I saw these young women (and men) and heard their stories. 

All this body-talk got me thinking.  We, as women, have a narrative, don’t we?  Or at least if we don’t, society has one for us.  The story is predictable, and it’s getting old.  Society has made us into these uber body-conscious beings, but we seem to have forgotten the basics.  What is the role of our body?  It’s a fourth grade health class question.  Our body protects and moves.  It houses our mind, heart, and spirit.  It can hold and nourish another being.  It can scour Earth to look for another one to take care of.  It experiences a wide array of sensations.  It grows old, and it dies.  It is ours for one life, this one.  And yet we are at war.  So many of us are at war with our bodies.  Our wars vary, but in each one, the body is an enemy.  Many of us have a choice whether or not to go to war.  Some unfortunate souls do not. 

Many months ago, I began following a friend of a friend’s journey with breast cancer.  I do not know this woman personally, but I was touched by her story because, like so many others, I have held a loved one’s hand as he battled a relentless cancer.  When I hopped on Kara’s blog as a reader, she was undergoing chemotherapy, fighting alongside her amazing husband, four beautiful children, supportive friends, and loving community.  Since, she has learned that her cancer metastasized and is in the process of dealing with a new reality.  In her most recent post, she talks about her attempts to embrace the present moment despite a yearning to create spaces where she will be remembered.  I have started this next sentence a thousand times because it will be the one in which I try to describe her and what her story means to me.  Grace, beauty, honesty, courage, and strength all seem to be good adjectives, yet none of them quite encapsulate this woman.  She is living well in the face of a tragedy.  Her body is dying, but her hope and spirit remain alive.  I hope that you will read her words for yourself and get to know her.  Kara is forced into a war she doesn’t want to fight.  And here we are complaining about our muffin tops. 

I know, I know, it’s all relative is what you’ll say.  And yes, eating disorders and negative body image are real problems that aren’t easily fixed.  But, cancer.  Cancer.  Cancer sucks.

I don’t think you need cancer to be a hero, though I think Kara is the one of the greatest I’ve ever “known.”  I don’t think you need to always love the way you look to be a hero.  And I don’t think you need to plaster bikini-clad photos of yourself on the Internet to be a hero.  I do think that being a hero in this war means that you have awareness and desire for change and take steps toward a new kind of existence.  An existence where we celebrate our bodies more often than criticizing and over-examining.  I think being a hero in this war means that you are supportive of your comrades and understand that we cannot fight alone.  As a collective group of women, we must – we must – create a counter-narrative to the story that’s already written.  Use positive affirmations, use self-talk, use inspirational people like Kara to move you.  Whatever you do, come home a hero.

It's my party, and I'll cry if I want to.

Today is my birthday, and I didn't realize it until 6:00 a.m. when I was snapping at Angus to adjust the pillow behind my back so I could comfortably nurse my 5-week-old son.  "Happy birthday," my groggy husband said with a kiss.  Then he rolled back over and fell into a deep sleep.  

HA!  No way.  Rather, he closed his eyes savoring his last minute of quiet before I asked him to swaddle and bounce Kyle back to sleep so I could close my eyes and savor my last minute of quiet before hauling my butt out of bed to start the day on five hours of sleep.  Meanwhile, Calvin started chirping in the monitor next to my ear.  "A, B, C, D, E, F, G!" he sang to his stuffed animals.  At least this morning didn't start out like many others with Puppet and Llama in time-out, which then causes me to lay awake questioning our disciplinary tactics.

Anyway, so that was the morning.  The big birthday morning.  I could go into more detail about the milk stains, hormonal sweat residue, farting infant, boxer-clad husband, and defiant toddler, but that might scare some of you.  I don't want to be responsible for scaring anyone out of having kids.  

Now this would be the logical turning point for this post.  Where I say something like, "This is fucking hard but SO worth it.  Kids are amazing.  Kids rock.  Kids are God's gift.  I am enjoying every moment, even the poopy, whiney, screamy, plugged milk ducty, first hemorrhoidy, and postpartum flabby ones."  But, I'm not going to use this as a segway because, DUH.  Of course all this is true.  (Well, most of it.)  Isn't it a given that I feel this way since I was the one who said, "Yes, impregnate me.  Yes, I'll do two childbirths with no drugs.  Yes, I'll quit my job and be a stay-at-home-mom.  Yes, I'll fall in love with two other boys besides my darling husband.  YES!"  Isn't it clear that I'm in a state of bliss?  After all, I said yes.

When we show our weaknesses to the world, friends reach out.  When we say, "This is hard; this kinda sucks; I'm struggling," kind souls sympathize.   Uplifting ones remind us how lucky we are.  Supportive ones relate.  But the BEST are the ones who say, "You are RIGHT!  This does suck!  These kids are a pain in my ass!" 

So right now, you will be the best.  You will let me say, "No! Oh HELL NO!  You cannot possibly be hungry AGAIN!"  You will let me say this, if for no other reason, because it's my birthday.  And on my birthday I want to be ALONE on a deserted tropical island sipping beverages with high alcohol content while laying in the sun listening to waves crash on the shore.  Take me out of this moment and teleport me into another!  Please!

It's nearing 6:00 p.m.  I've been awake for twelve hours but it feels like a thousand.  Junior is snoozing in his swing, and Senior is playing with his Papa.  A meal is en route, a birthday lunch with a friend is complete, texts and calls have been received.  I'm settling into 32.  I'm saying yes, I'm saying no, I'm shrugging my shoulders.  I'm loving and hating.  Laughing and crying.  Leaking, wiping, feeding, cuddling, singing, soothing.

Living.

I dedicate this post to the itty-bitty dose of caffeine in my decaf Americano, for without you, this masterpiece would not have been possible.

"Rick or reat!"

About a month ago, I decided I’d make Calvin’s Halloween costume for the first time.  He’s crazy about fish these days, so I figured it’d be safe to make a little goldfish costume he couldn’t possibly reject.  And, thankfully, he loved it.  As the day approached, we practiced wearing the costume to a few events we had planned with friends and family.  We talked about the concept of “trick-or-treating” but understood that it probably wouldn’t completely sink in until we were actually engaged in the act of doing so. 

On Halloween, our community organizes something called a Munchkin Masquerade where all the restaurants and shops downtown on Pearl Street hand out candy to young trick-or-treaters.  This was our first year going, and I had no idea what to expect, so I told Angus to stay at work, that I’d take Calvin down myself.  Little did I know that this event is HUGE and there are massive crowds, families dressed up in coordinating costumes, fire trucks and buses parked for kids to climb on, and gooey, sugary candy being handed out in droves.  Needless to say, I was a tad overwhelmed, and I think at a few points, namely the ones where adults in weird costumes got too close, Calvin was too.  And despite being surrounded by ghosts, monsters, and aliens on all sides, I felt strangely lonely as we meandered down the street.  There’s something about being in a crowd of people that calls to attention what or who is missing.  Maybe that’s a pessimist’s way of looking at the world, and I’ll admit, there are moments that I tend to fall a bit more on the glass-is-half-empty end of viewing things.  But, as I watched the commotion ensue around me and Calvin, I couldn’t help but miss the one who took me trick-or-treating for the first time, the one who dressed up as a scary pirate and sat on our front step, the one who made events like Halloween fun, and the one who would have eaten up every moment of yesterday –  the proud grandpa of my little fish. 

         It wasn’t just my dad that I missed.  It was that feeling of being a child and seeing my parent more excited about something than I was.  The comfort of ritual and tradition is what I found myself longing for, and part of me felt crappy for downplaying this event, for not dressing up like the other parents, for telling Angus to just skip it.  But there was a full night ahead, so I brushed it off, gave Calvin a lolli-pop and took off for home. 

When we got home after our downtown adventure, and it was nearing the time for trick-or-treating in our neighborhood, I had pizza to assemble, a house to pick-up, and friends to socialize with.  And a sweet, sweet husband, who just came off a stressful day, to hug and kiss.  Something tells me that as I did hug and kiss him, he sensed in me what I couldn’t put to words at the time.  He said with a smile, “You go trick-or-treating with him.  I’ll stay here and man the door and the pizzas.”  And what he was really saying was, “Even though I’d really like to go trick-or-treating with our son since I worked all day, you go because I know you need it right now.  Go out there and have fun with Calvin.”

         And selfishly I said, “OK…if you’re sure…” and went.

         It was magical.  That is neither an exaggeration nor a sarcastic remark.  It really was magical.  I watched my son and his friend, both freshly 2-years-old, learn house-by-house what this trick-or-treat tradition is all about.  I watched them ding doorbells, say, “Happy Hall-ween” and “Rick or Reat” and “Thank you.” I watched them boldly attempt to grab multiple pieces of candy versus one piece at the later houses and shriek with delight as they ran down the dark street.  I saw our friends’ daughter take two candies when a woman told her to take one for her mommy, which makes perfect sense as she has two mommies.  My heart wanted to reach around that small moment and protect and shout out its beauty.  I saw my son bite into a Tootsie Roll with the paper still on and drool the sticky goodness of the sugar he has so rarely tasted.  I saw neighbors and kids dressed up and heard the sounds of laughter and sugar-highs bouncing up and down the streets.

And in this magic, I saw my dad.  I realized that this is the start of where I get to be like him in all the ways that he shined brightest: exuding this excitement for childhood traditions that cannot be feigned but instead comes naturally.  This is where my children expect me to live in the moment with them and love that I actually do…or at least give it my best.  And aren’t the rewards of doing so the absolute greatest?  When I agree to play trains with my son, he does the Arsenio Hall fist pump.  When I play peek-a-boo with him, his smile is enormous when he uncovers his face.  When I eat breakfast next to him, he feeds me pieces of his precious granola.  When I read him books at bedtime, he asks for “just one more” but lets Mommy pick. 

So, this afternoon after his nap, when my son asked, “Rick or Reat?”, pointed to his fish costume, and carried around his empty candy basket, I knew he too felt the magic of last night.  He felt the magic of the moment.  He felt the magic of my dad.  Of me.  Of our family creating ritual and being together.  And that is worth everything to me.

A Lesson from my Father.

*This is a piece I wrote for Mama Moderne in honor of Father's Day.  I'm reposting it here because today is my dad's birthday.  Today I celebrate the fun he brought to every situation.

When my sister and I were little girls, my parents would take us to amusement parks for summer fun.  Mostly, we loved the ride with the little cars, trucks, and planes that went round and round and up and down.  Inside the vehicles there were small red buttons, and when pushed, they’d send out a loud “beep, beep” or “buzz, buzz” sound.  While we rode, my parents stood on the perimeter, and every single time we rounded the curve and approached them, my sister and I would press our red buttons and wave frantically.  And every single time, my dad would make silly faces at us or fall to the ground, pretending to be shot by our invisible beeping and buzzing lasers.  This would inevitably send my sister and I into fits of giggles as we positioned our fingers to do it again in 2.5 seconds.  My dad never quit, and when we’d hop off the ride full of energy, he’d run with us to the next line, laughing all the way.

In elementary and middle school, my dad coached my basketball and soccer teams, and he might as well have coached my high school teams too because he was always along the sidelines cheering me on.  He wasn’t one of those embarrassing dads who yelled a lot or disagreed with the ref, though.  Rather, he was the life of the party, making jokes with my coaches, and lifting up my teammates.  He was one of the only parents who came to the “away” games, and as I’d sprint past him, he’d holler, “Get ‘em, Ker!”  My friends were constantly telling me how “cool” my dad was, and inside, my heart soared. 

Growing up, we went to the beach every summer for family vacation.  When we were young, the sand and seashells were entertaining enough, but as we approached the “too cool” high school years, that kind of simplicity just didn’t cut it.  One year, my dad bought a water balloon launcher and taught us how to launch balloons off our balcony onto the rooftops of other beach homes.  Looking back, it was probably extremely unsafe and irresponsible, but oh how we loved it when that balloon would smash onto a rooftop down the block.  When the other grown-ups shook their heads in disgust, it was my dad who yelled, “YEAH! WOO!” as he high-fived the launcher. 

As I moved into adulthood, my dad moved right along with me, remaining my biggest fan.  On my wedding day, he went to the salon with my bridesmaids and me.  Let me say that again: HE WENT TO THE SALON.  Not because my mom roped him into it, but because he wanted to be there with his baby girl on the most important day of her life.  He gave me a card that day, and in it he wrote about how much he valued our father-daughter relationship.  He wrote, “Your happiness means everything to me,” and we wept over the card together.

The greatest day of my dad’s life was when he became a grandfather (“Poppy”).  The week he spent out in Colorado with us after my son Calvin was born, he began to relive his days as a young father only this time from a new vantage point.  Day after day, my dad would sit in our loft, Calvin’s tiny body swaddled in his lap.  When my dad wasn’t watching Calvin sleep, making up sweet songs for him, or demanding to take over diaper changes, he was making nutritious lunches and running errands for us.  When I went through the post-partum emotions and nursing difficulties, my dad told me over and over again how proud he was.  “You’re a great mother, Ker,” he said, and he meant it with every ounce of his soul. 

Today, I know that I am a great mother largely because of what my father taught me about parenting: Be in the moment WITH your children.  Read with them, laugh with them, play with them, and live with them.  It sounds so simple, but I’m still working on ways to put it into practice as genuinely and naturally as my dad was able to do. It’s the small things  - Calvin’s amazement over an ant crawling on the sidewalk, his desire to chase a dandelion puff blowing in the breeze, or when he says, “Yay, Mommy!” as we pull into the garage after a bike ride – that remind me to be fully present.

Last year, a few weeks after Father’s day, my dad passed away after a courageous battle with cancer.  My husband, Calvin, and I, along with my sister and brother-in-law, were lucky enough to be able to live with him during the last few months of his life; each of us can bear witness to the fact that my dad continued, even while facing his worst fears, to exude all that made him an amazing person and father.  His greatest joy as well as his greatest gift was being present with us every day of his life, and for that, I will be forever grateful.

Happy Father’s day, Dad.

Kenneth Walkowiak Memorial Golf Tournament

This weekend is the memorial golf tournament for my dad.  To say the least, I have a mixture of emotions as I sit in my mom's living room creating this post.  My sister just found this photo and sent it to me, and it is just too freakin' sweet not to share.  My dad was amazing.

On turning 31. (Better late than never.)

I have a picture of my tenth birthday in an old photo album somewhere in my basement.  For this particular birthday, my parents set up a wooden picnic table underneath an enormous oak tree that shaded most of our backyard.  Pastel colored streamers and balloons hung in the tree’s leafy boughs swaying in the light breeze of that late-May afternoon.  A silver boom box sat on the corner of the weathered table.  My best friend, sister and I excitedly awaited the arrival of my guests, and to pass the time, I hit “play” on the tape deck.  Early 90’s dance jams emanated from the speakers.  I danced under that large oak, swinging my hips from side to side and running my hands through my crimped hair like Madonna did in her music videos I wasn’t supposed to watch.  Soon my best friend and sister joined in; holding pretend microphones in our hands, we closed our eyes and felt the music course through our bodies, the wind brush our skin, and the blades of cool grass tickle our toes. The photograph captures this very moment  - little girls dancing, decorations hanging, guests en route. It captures a moment of absolute and pure bliss. It was my birthday, and although it wasn’t a huge over-the-top bash, I was the happiest girl in the world.

Really, I don’t know if I remember this birthday because I’ve seen this picture so many times or because it was that poignant of a memory.  It doesn’t matter, I suppose, because what I remember is the joy that came with turning another year older.  What is it about being young that makes us want to be older?  To young minds, being older means having more privileges and less supervision.  It means coming closer to being independent, which sounds so flippin’ cool when you’re an angst-filled teen with door-size New Kids on the Block posters plastering your walls. But, when do we make the switch?  When do we, as a culture, start freaking out over our age and grasping for earlier days?  Is it gradual or sudden?  Conscious or sub-conscious?  Healthy or detrimental?  Why can’t we embrace our years like a child does?  “I CAN’T WAIT TO BE OLDER!” we should be screaming from the mountaintop.

Recently, one of my friends told me something that struck me funny yet was so completely true.  “If you’re not older, you’re dead,” she said matter-of-factly as she sipped her cucumber mojito on our most recent “Mommy’s Night Out.”  We continued on to discuss the importance of celebrating every day of our lives and enjoying each moment, which, let’s face it, is tough in this busy life full of kids, careers, relationships, etc.  After our conversation, I began to consider how to embrace getting older versus fall into the stereotype of the bitter, aging American woman. I started to think about all of the big deal, joyous events, like my son’s first birthday and making the commitment to be a stay-at-home-mom, that have brought me to this birthday so grateful and content.  And then, inevitably, I reflected on all the pain and sorrow I’ve faced head-on this year, like my mother’s stroke and my father’s death, which has brought me to this birthday so grown-up and strong.  Then, there are all the moments in between, which I refer to as “normal,” and I realized that this is where I fall short.  What’s crazy is that bumbling around in “normal” is where I spent most of my life this year, yet I’m unable to define what traits I have gained from living through it.

Why do we blow through “normal,” sometimes at top-speed, juggling diapers, cell phones, appointments, and jobs, and neglect to remain fully present?  We’re all guilty of it.  We don’t stop and pay attention until something amazing takes our breath away or something tragic steals someone or something away too soon.  But when you stop and think about it, isn’t “normal” awesome?  Isn’t “normal” spectacular?  Isn’t “normal” WHERE IT’S AT?!  Sure, those really joyous moments make us happy and those painful ones teach us something, but think about what it would be like to arrive just as fully and intensely to every situation no matter how “normal” it seems.  I think this is the secret to embracing our climbing ages, and as simple as it sounds, it clearly is not, or more of us would be doing it.  My focus for this coming year is to discover and experience how beautiful “normal” is and truly appreciate how amazing it is to grow one year older in this life.

Just like on my tenth birthday, this year on my birthday, I danced.  Only it wasn’t under a tree with streamers and balloons, and it wasn’t to 90’s pop, and I don’t have a photograph to document the event.  But I did let loose and dance, next to my sister, a good portion of it in tears, celebrating this year and all the impressions it has left on my heart.  It was a real “normal” moment, and I was in it, all the way, one hundred percent. And you know what?  It felt damn good.

Happy Mother's Day!