Resolution Road

2010 is just one day away, and it's time to take stock and resolve to make changes in our lives for the coming year. Even though we all know, deep down, that New Year's Resolutions rarely work, somehow the blank slate of a whole new year is irresistible. It's like a fresh, white canvas crying out for paint. So some years I resolve to exercise more, eat less, eliminate fast food from my diet, etc. Other years I resolve to stop talking on my cell phone while driving (or at least stop simultaneously flipping off other drivers while talking), stick to a budget, or to get up early every morning to write that novel that's been brewing in my mind for the last 15 years.... I could go on and on.

In any case, it seldom works out for very long. I think it might because our New Year's Resolutions often lack the authenticity it takes to make real changes in our lives. I know from my professional life that human beings making fundamental changes is a slippery, inconsistent process at best -- and that's when you are really ready to change. Ready to change like, deep down in those dark caverns of your soul ready; and motivated, too.

So often what we call "motivation to change" is really just a repackaged self-loathing that happens to be targeted at a tangible goal. I can't believe I gained 15 pounds this year, and just look at all I ate over the holidays. No wonder my jeans don't fit. I hate myself this way, I have to do something! I'm going to resolve to stick to a diet, go to the gym four times a week, etc.

Sound familiar? I can tell you it took me about 10 seconds to write that because it's so familiar to me. And sometimes, this tactic works... At least for a while. Shame can be a powerful short-term motivator. But without something deeper to buttress it, shame ceases to be effective after a while -- just like that horrible gym teacher we all had a one time or another who thought humiliation was the best way to motivate kids in unflattering gym shorts.

With the old gym teacher or a drill sergeant or boss, we don't have a choice about motivation (not completely, anyway) -- compliance is to some extent mandatory. But with ourselves, when it comes to resisting the french fries, dragging ourselves to the gym, or putting 10% in a savings account... well, it's really just down to how much we like and respect the person giving the orders. And that would be...... me.

So, that's why the negative messages only get us so far. I can tell myself all day long how fat or lazy or broke I am; but at the end of the day, who wants to listen to someone who is constantly telling them they're fat, lazy and broke? Even if it is myself, I'm going to do my best to get out of that relationship -- in this case by rebelling. So I end up ordering the extra-large french fries or charging up the credit card just to prove to myself who's boss. I'll show me!

Not only is this self-destructive, it's totally confusing. I'd rather just team up with myself instead -- it's more effective, and it saves time by cutting out all the arguments [not to mention the me-to-me cell phone minutes]. My theory is that the best way to get on my own side is the same way I would try to get someone else on my side... to be more positive and encouraging instead of browbeating and shaming.


I believe that when we come from a perspective of self-care, our goals are more authentic and useful than when we are working to meet the expectations of other people, or even society at large. So in 2010, I am going to try to care for myself better in lots of different ways.

Instead of resolving to lose the 15 pounds of baby weight I just can't seem to shake, or to get into my old jeans, I'm just going to try to focus on enjoying being healthy. There are so many happy reasons to make healthier choices: because I enjoy being active, because I feel better when I'm healthy, because my son needs a positive role model... And none of those need to involve counting calories or monitoring the scale.

This year, I am going to be more focused on the little details of life, not just because I'm annoyed that I bounced a couple of checks this year, paid some late fees on bills, and just got a ticket for an expired tag (although I am annoyed about that!). But I'm realizing that by focusing more on the details, which is -- obviously -- not my strong suit, I'll be helping myself to be a more well-rounded person and freeing up energy and money for other things.

I'm also resolving to make the most of my relationships this year - by investing time and energy where I've been negligent, and by creating better boundaries with people who don't always give me back as much as I put in. I want to try to continue what I started last year by saying "no" when I'm over-committed and by not filling in every single white space on the calendar. This is the year to accept me for who I am and where I am, and not to judge myself by others' standards (or what I think others' standards might be!)

As I write this, I'm realizing that my goals for 2010 have a couple of themes: calm and focused. And that's exactly what my life has been missing! How much easier it will be to remind myself in late January and February to "create calm" and "stay focused;" instead of checking my progress on the scale or the bank account.

I'd love to know what other people are planning for 2010... How will you take care of yourself this year??

[Facebook friends, if you feel comfortable, I'd love for you to also copy your comments to the original post at http://dollhairdoesntgrowback.blogspot.com].

Happy New Year, Everyone!!

Lesson #68 and 'Mother of the Year' Nominee: Don't Breastfeed in a Sports Bra

Any of my female readers who are like me and, well... (ahem) generously endowed, already know that sports bras can be tricky business. I've always thought it was ironic that those of us who need support the most seem to be furthest from the minds and intentions of sports bra designers.

First of all, it's all but impossible to find a plus-size sports bra that will stand up to more impact than a gentle stroll [the rationale being, I assume, that we're pretty much just walking from the car to the Krispy Kreme counter anyway]. My working theory is that whoever is advising clothing manufacturers about the fitness habits of larger women is the same person who thinks we all want to wear animal prints and fuchsia fringe. Size 10? Soft navy in a subdued, classy fabric. Size 16? How about LEOPARD PRINT WITH SEQUINS?!?

And once you do find a sports bra that will actually keep "the girls" restrained, it's so hard to put on that it's a workout in itself. In college - and I am not even kidding with this - I actually pulled a muscle in my shoulder trying to get out of a sports bra! And I didn't even mind the painful muscle strain, because in the moments before it, I'd been mildly concerned that we were going to have a "Pooh stuck in Rabbit's door" kind of situation on our hands. Now that would've been an embarrassing call to the paramedics.

Up until now, my sports bra injuries have been primarily self-inflicted. Yesterday, however, the sports bra claimed a new victim: my six-month old son. I had to feed him immediately after Jazzercise class; so he was lying across my lap after nursing. I reached up to try to wrangle the sports bra/torture instrument back into place, my hand slipped and.... WHAP! I smacked my unsuspecting baby right in the face with my knuckles.

Now, as you can imagine, this was more than a little surprising to him, and absolutely horrifying to me. A smack in the face is such a painful, disrespectful thing to do to another person; and even though this particular smack in the face was completely accidental, it's hard to explain that to a six-month old infant whose relaxing lunch just had a terrible ending.

We both cried it out, and of course he's fine now. But I actually rescheduled getting his picture taken yesterday afternoon because of the red spot above his eye -- no one else would've noticed it, probably, but for me it would've been a permanent reminder of that unhappy moment.

So, I will be feeding MLM post-post-workout-shower from now on; and if anyone knows someone in the design arena of women's athletic wear, tell them I'd like to set up a meeting!

The Art of Conversation: Infant Version

Man, time flies.... My Little Monkey is now five months old, and all the books and websites tell me that his language development is at a critical point. So I'm supposed to be talking to him often, labeling things, and using lots of vocabulary words. As much as I love to talk, I have found that it's difficult to keep up conversation with such a little person. Sometimes, if I don't force myself to chatter on, I will get lost in my own thoughts and stop interacting entirely.

So, I have found my days are now filled with a stream of narration that ranges from sweet and sentimental, to exhausted and utterly senseless. The constant commentary becomes intensified when I am trying to get MLM to calm down, stop crying, or (every once in a while) stay awake in the car. [Have you ever tried to keep a sleepy infant awake in a car? Crazy.] So I invariably end up sounding sappy, ridiculous, desperate, or some combination of the three.

There are the ever-futile imperative statements: "Hold still so I can cut your nails," and "Stop moving! You're spreading poop EVERYWHERE."

The simple observations: "We're going up the hill. We're going around the curve. We're going down the hill." "Look at you, kicking your feet!"

The painfully obvious. "You're facing the back of the car, and I'm facing the front of the car. That's good because I'm driving."

The cryptic: "We'll talk more about Winona Ryder later."

The unfortunate alteration of pop lyrics: "If you like it then you oughtta put a diaper on it..." and "It's getting hot in here, so take off both your shoes..."

The educational: "These are bananas. They're yellow. These are onions. They are purple, but for some reason we call them red onions. These are avocados. They're green...."

The overly enthusiastic: "That's your ball! Yes, it is!!!"

The completely incoherent: "This is how we, because, um....huh?"

All this is not to mention the painful butchering of countless songs, poems and jokes; or the steady stream of funny noises I emit in hopes of getting just one more toothless laugh. It's like I've become the world's worst stand-up comedian, with the world's smallest audience... A pretty far cry from the pretentious intellectual I tried so hard to be a decade or so ago.

I'm sleep-deprived, I'm inarticulate, and -- sometimes -- just plain silly. But somehow, it's still the best I've ever been.

Trying to Keep my Commitment to Break my Commitment

A few months ago, I signed on as a contract writer for one of those content-engine websites [the ones that hire freelancers to generate as much keyword-driven web content as possible, in hopes of driving traffic to Internet ads]. The contract requirements are pretty simple: just 10 short articles in three months; with pay based on the number of people who read your articles and then click on related ads.

I knew from the start that the pay would be pretty abysmal, as is the case with most entry-level freelance gigs; but it seemed a nice way to use my time while I was up at 3:00 and 4:00 in the morning anyway with Little Man. I've done this type of writing before and, though it can be tedious, it's not usually too taxing. Plus, any writer will tell you there's always something a bit thrilling about getting paid to write (however little).

After signing on, however, I found that the "however little" was really little -- effectively about 50 cents an hour so far. Either I am getting more persnickety as I get older, and feeling more ownership over what I write; or my abilities to churn out decent writing quickly are waning. Either way, I found myself taking far longer than I'd budgeted to write each article and getting far more frustrated than usual at the banality of writing quantity over quality. I began to dread staring at the blank document screen the same way I dread writing a research paper in school. Ick. I would much prefer to write for you, dear blog readers; or for my own fantasies of one day publishing a novel.

Meanwhile, LM started sleeping better, allowing me to go right back to sleep most early mornings. I also began focusing, sooner than expected, on my life as a part-time psychotherapy clinician -- in addition to being a full-time mommy. So spare time is once again at a premium, and when I do have time to write, I want to write for my own enjoyment or to connect with others -- not to lure someone into clicking on an ad for free credit reports or a belly diet.

So last week, when I got an editorial e-mail reminding me that my three-month deadline was looming, it was pretty easy to do the cost-benefit analysis. 50 cents an hour, sometimes less, weighed against the countless other things that I need or want to do with my time -- building my therapy practice, cleaning my house, spending time with my precious little boy, SLEEPING.... The decision to stop right where I was at seven articles and let my contract lapse was pretty darn simple.

Until today. Today is the official deadline, the last window of opportunity to change my mind. It's not too late to e-mail the editor and ask for an extension. Or, if I felt really industrious, I could churn out the remaining three articles today and put off the decision to quit for another three months.

Today those doubting little voices in my head have begun emerging, fueled by the perilous attraction of possibility. What if I'm just in a bit of a writing slump right now, and next week these articles seem anything but tedious? What if I start seeing more income, or even client leads, from my current articles and regret the decision to close the door on this opportunity? What if.....?

Once again, the deceptive appeal of what I could do is being pitted against the value I place on my time, and even against common sense. No sane person with two Master's degrees and an infant should be working for 50 cents an hour; especially when I don't spend as much time as I'd like doing other things that matter to me.

So what is feeding that nagging voice? Why is it so hard to just let the door close? Maybe it's about not giving up -- trying to redeem the time I spent on the first seven articles by making the whole venture worthwhile. Or, maybe it's something more primitive.

I once heard about monkeys in some distant and lush part of the world who would get trapped in a ridiculous but conveniently metaphoric way. Hunters would hollow out a coconut through a hole just large enough for a monkey's hand, and place food inside. The monkey would reach inside the coconut and grab the food, but with his hand balled into a fist, it would no longer fit through the hole to escape. Since the survival instinct will not allow the monkey to let go of a potential meal, the story goes that monkeys would often stay trapped with their hands in the coconut for hours (apparently sometimes even long enough to starve to death if the hunters did not return in time).

However true or exaggerated these stories are, they're certainly a beautiful and useful analogy for lessons in greed, priorities, obsession, opportunity cost.... and maybe a partial, primal explanation for why it can be so hard to let go of something, even when it's in your best interest to do so.

So, now that I've churned out a free but fulfilling blog entry, instead of a cheap piece of "content" for someone else's website, it's time to take my hand out of the coconut and move on with my day. There's a little monkey who needs looking after!

You say "infestation;" I say, "thousands of new friends"

Okay, so maybe not everything has a positive reframe....

As the title indicates, we had an invasion in our kitchen this weekend -- ANTS. It was actually the third or fourth time we've had a major visit from the ants this season (rain and cold, I guess); but this was the first time the little buggers have actually infiltrated our pantry. I woke up yesterday morning to find an army swarming down from the ceiling (go figure, since we'd treated all the other entry points) and teeming in all our vulnerable snacks and pre-packaged foods.

Needless to say, clearing out the pantry while battling thousands of happy, hungry ants was NOT the way we wanted to spend our Sunday morning. Still, it's ultimately a fairly minor inconvenience and an opportunity to clean out the pantry of stuff like those oh-so-healthy sweet potato chips that we tried so hard to like. Turns out, they were better as ant food than a replacement for the plain old fatty Salt 'N' Vinegar ones we really love.

It was also a little unnerving, watching the massive numbers of insects take over our cabinets overnight. I found myself wondering how quickly the insect world would take over our condo and everything in it if we were somehow to disappear for a long period, or even forever. It's kind of morbid, but I couldn't help but imagine what would become of all the trappings of our life if we were no longer in it.

Without our constant vigilance, spraying with Veggie Wash (an awesome ant killer, btw), and expensive pest control, how long would it take before our home was completely overrun, and then unrecognizable? It was like my own little mental version of "Life After People." Just one of those "human life is fleeting" moments.

Fortunately, we had a fun afternoon planned with friends on Sunday, to get me out of my insecticide-scented kitchen and, perhaps more importantly, my brooding existential thoughts. It was a beautiful day, perfect for enjoying a fleeting, barely controlled life!

One of those Father-Son Moments

So I was in the kitchen yesterday and I heard MDH in the living room, entertaining the baby. In the middle of a stream of coos and squeals, I overheard this: "We like blankets. And that is a blanket statement."

Mommy and the New Frontier

Infancy, especially early infancy, is chock full of milestones. It seems that every week that passes brings some new fascinating behavior or endearing social interaction with our "new roommate." For the past sixteen weeks, I've enjoyed so much watching and learning as our little guy teaches me all about babyhood, personhood, with each tiny new thing he does.

But this week, it's Mommy who is doing the growing: this is my week of Learning to Let Go. A little.

Next week, I'm starting a new part-time schedule that will have me working outside the home on Tuesday afternoons/evenings (yay, go me!). It's a good thing for our family financially, and a good thing for my little guy (and me) emotionally & developmentally. He gets some un-distracted playtime with a nice new person, who also has training in early childhood development; and I get to get out of the house and play grown-up for several hours in a row. It's good for both of us (did I say that already?) and at almost 4 months old, it's the perfect time for my little guy to start learning to trust others and make new friends.

Easily said. Less easily done. Today is the "dry run," which means while he is at home getting acquainted with our fabulous new nanny, I've been out running errands and doing some work at my favorite local coffee shop. It's the first time I've left him at home with someone other than MDH or one of his loving grandparents, so I wanted to be nearby just in case. [In case of what, Manda? In case of measles? Tornado? In case the experienced, mature professional suddenly folds under the pressure of sitting with one very sweet baby?]

No, let's be honest: I'm nearby for my own sake and no one else's. Being less than a mile away from my child makes me comforted in some way that I can't explain... but I will say that I am proud of myself that I'm not, as my Dad predicted, "hovering right outside the front door." Not quite, anyway.

But it doesn't mean that my palms aren't a little sweatier than usual today as I try to focus on all those things that are so hard to do with a baby in one arm. Since we're being honest, I'm still pretty nervous.

And if I'm even more honest, I'm not sure which is making me more nervous: the idea that my baby boy will have a major meltdown in my absence, or the idea that he won't miss me at all. I want him to be his own independent person and develop his own relationships. At the same time I selfishly want him to need me always, the way he did the first moment he was born -- when the delivery nurse put him on my chest, slimy but open-eyed, and he gave me a look that said "Mom, what the hell just happened to me?"

Of course, the sensible person in me knows that the healthy reality is somewhere in between: a combination of attachment and independence, unconditional love and personal freedom. I have a feeling that these mixed feelings and cross-purposes are only going to intensify as motherhood goes on.

Guess I'd better get used to it.