findingmyami

[findingmyami]

Paros.

“You need to come home. There is blood everywhere.”

Those are the words that sent me flying home from work, angrily speeding down the main road into the small (very small) seaside town we called home, left to imagine what awaited me. It was the first of many times I would be learning this lesson the hard way: wild hearts cannot be tamed.

The blood was all over her mouth, legs, and head. She had killed the neighbor’s rabbit. Left outside with her brother, evidently uncontained by the invisible fence (or simply undeterred by the sharp electric pulses that zapped into her neck as she crossed the boundary), our puppy revealed herself to be the savage beast she truly was.

I can’t say we weren’t warned. Our neighbor and dear friend had pleaded with us, “Do not get a Siberian Husky.” He had tried, unsuccessfully, to raise one in the very house we were now living in and was left with very little sanity. And even less furniture.

However, once we first saw her, a truly magnificent and beautiful beast, the decision was made. Perhaps it was made well before that.

Besides, we were different. We were young, in love, active, and dedicated. She would be my companion on my treasured long walks. We would teach her how to mush. The love of our family would temper her wildness.

Yet there I was, holding scraps of the body of our neighbor’s pet, my own “pet” practically foaming at the mouth with delight and pride. I had to decide my next move before they all came home.

I disposed of what little there was left of the poor bunny, and cleaned up the killer. I shut her up in the house and headed to the grocery store.

What do you buy when your dog kills your neighbor’s rabbit? There’s no Hallmark card for that. Reddit wasn’t even a thing. I was rudderless.

Flowers and pie. It was the best I could do. Lemon meringue seemed to be a universal favorite and wasn’t reminiscent of the gory scene. Unlike blueberry. Or even worse, cherry. Ugh.

“Words cannot express how deeply sorry we are for the loss of your pet. If there is anything we can do to make it up to you, please let us know.”

It turned out that the rabbit was a gift from the young daughter’s boyfriend. Everyone hated him. Not the rabbit, but the boyfriend. Regardless, it worked in my favor. That particular daughter never spoke to me again. In return, I never passive aggressively stole her parking space again.

Next I had to deal with the killer. Her latent murderous rage finally made clear to me that she had far too much energy. It was a sunny summer day and I took her for a long run in the punishing heat. I could still barely keep up with her.

“Tough day to be a Siberian Husky!” a fellow runner shouted to me.

I simply glared.

Our final act of apology to our neighbors (besides keeping our menacing dog far away from them) was to move from our tiny house. We bought a house with a large fenced-in yard, and plenty of wild game for Paros to feast on. Over the years, we would still get blood on our hands (literally) BUT it usually wasn’t an animal near and dear to someone else.

Now that Paros is gone, it’s easy to say I would do it all again. It is true that these animals don’t make the greatest household pets. But she left me with a lust for adventure in my heart and of course, many stories to tell. Also, now I’m vegan.

Last photo of my first baby girl and my fourth.

[findingmyami]

Why Spanish?

The origins of this fledgling blog arose from needing to find a purpose in my new city. I envisioned that life would change in a major way. There would be time to fill and I would fill it with purpose and creativity. 

Yet as it turns out, I took myself with me. I took myself and my family and they are the ones that eat up most of my time. Even on my own though, I tend towards laziness and low grade depression. Extreme lack of motivation plus adrenal fatigue combined with an ongoing list of desired life achievements equates to...well, nothing. Nothing comes of it aside from a sense of defeat.

I have a tendency to not take life piecemeal. As I labored with my first daughter, I worried about her one day having to labor to have hers. Skipping ahead. It’s kind of my thing.

So moving to Miami meant I would reinvent myself. And BUILD A BRAND. Like it wasn’t enough to get my daughters settled in new schools and nurse my baby and train for a marathon and build community and try to keep my crazy dogs from running back to Massachusetts. I thought I should build an empire based on my new “angle”. Thanks, Pinterest. 

Needless to say, inspiration and energy converged very little. I wish I had written more about my experience in the Magic City while I was actually living it. But I am who I am, Best to accept it and move on with it. And perhaps take more iron.

Regardless of what I accomplished there, my experiences in Miami have shaped me in new and exciting ways. Sure, on any given day, I miss Miami so much my belly aches. And yes, at times it’s still hard to accept the decision we made to leave and come back home. It’s especially difficult on days like today, when I can’t feel my toes. But regret is for the foolish, for those with time to waste. To me, moving forward means a gentle amount of nostalgia for Miami, mixed with a resolve to make it my home again some day. I also want to take what I experienced there and implement it how I can in my daily life. 

Of course I miss hopping on my bucket bike and trekking my 3 kids around town. I miss meeting with friends in their beautiful Spanish style abodes. I miss eating in restaurants that cater to the likes of me, or not eating in restaurants that resemble European cafes and just sipping coffee, listening to the world’s languages converge all around me, mingled with the cigarette smoke. I miss how much people are fearlessly themselves, and dress accordingly. I miss the art, the culture, the weather and the way I felt there- which was like I was peeking into a world I was never meant to belong to, like I was on an extended vacation. And every vacation must come to an end. 

Can I take all those tidbits and make them happen in Massachusetts? Of course not. And home is home and I love it for the physical and cultural landscape that it is. However, I do think our priorities, our perception of ourselves as the center of everything, could use a little adjusting. 

It didn’t take me long to realize that I was of a very small minority in Miami that only spoke one language fluently. Unlike most people where I’m from, I did always see this as a shortcoming. At times I did strive to change that (I see you $500 Rosetta Stone software), but it never came to much. 

The south shore of Massachusetts offers a particular kind of metric by which to measure one’s personal currency. What kind of car do you drive? How fabulous is your house and is it in a desirable area? How much Louis V do you own? Do you work outside the home (read: do you have to)? How blonde are you? How white are you? 

In Miami the concerns are: What kind of car do you drive? How fabulous is your house and is it in a desirable area? How much Louis V do you own? But also, how educated is your nanny (why would anyone stay at home with their children)? How many languages do you speak? How many languages are you raising your children to speak? What private school do they go to? How many countries do you divide your time between? If you’re not a citizen of the world, your Americanness is showing. 

I saw my daughter going to her language immersion school, where children were learning French, German or Spanish, in addition to the 2 languages they most likely already spoke. I was inspired by these children. My mind might be more calcified than sponge-like at my age, but it didn’t mean I couldn’t try. 

I knew that if I were going to solidify my understanding of the Spanish language, I wanted the credit for it. Which translated (pun intended) to a Bachelor’s degree. I meant business. My favorite and most interesting and certainly most compassionate teachers in high school were my Spanish teachers. And I was once a highly befuddled long term Spanish sub at a high school. I knew what my strengths and my passions were. It was time to put my money where my dreams were. 

Back in Massachusetts, the opportunity to hear and speak Spanish does not exist where I live. I sometimes long for the days of frequenting my favorite Miami coffee shop and trying to decipher the other patrons’ conversations just for practice. But where there’s a will, there’s a way. And I consider it my duty to bring a little bit of Miami to wherever I go. Because in Miami, one can find the world. And I was once a citizen. 

[findingmyami]

The V Word

No, not vagina. Vagina, vagina, vagina, vagina. Although I’m a big fan of people who have them.

The cringe inducing word to which I’m referring is “vegan”. It conjures a rather disagreeable image for many. Much like an alcoholic is imagined to be a homeless person with a paper bag, vegans are often thought of as waif like creatures with a distinctly crunchy style and earthy smell. They are weak, certainly not athletes, and they are proselytizers, not people one would desire to engage in conversation.

Now, I don’t know that I am the candidate to dispel this precise image. I have hippie genes coursing through my DNA and I get rather preachy when I’m feeling manic. Overall, though, I’m just a person trying to make the best life choices I can for myself and my family. As with other struggles I’ve overcome in my life, I do believe that my story can benefit others, though your decision to trudge the same path does not inhibit me in my own health journey. I will, as always, continue to do what I do, and help anyone who asks for my help. I have found that attempting to help people who don’t want my assistance leads to resentment and heartache and immeasurable, unnecessarily expended energy. Ain’t nobody got time for that.

So if you care to know, this is my story, as it pertains to food and my health.

My parents divorced when I was 5 or 6. My father was an alcoholic in the throes of a disease that told him to throw his family aside for the sake of the disease’s survival. Until his death at 51 (I was 19), I watched his weight climb and overall health decline sharply as he was unable to maintain any sort of routine sleep schedule or balanced diet, due to his workaholism and of course, alcoholism. He was a man with a brilliant mind, beautiful heart, and a sense of humor that could disarm the coldest individual. He was, however, trapped in a body that deprived him of a full life and robbed him of watching his children flourish, or meeting his grandchildren. I could say he was a great example of how not to live, but choice has nothing to do with my father’s life. Genetic predisposition is powerful and I inherited those same genes. His story could easily be mine without the blessing of divine intervention. It’s often hard to understand why I have the gift of carrying on to tell my story, while James Petkus’ story ended so abruptly. I do know that the ultimate sacrifice of his life brought me to my knees sooner than I ever would have got there. And if I hadn’t got there, I may not have lived much longer. The story is not mine to question, only to relate.

At the time of my parents’ divorce, my mother was going through a transformation that brought her to a new career in the holistic health field, as well as exploring healthier ways of feeding her family. A vegetarian cooking class in particular brought foods like tofu “meatballs” into the dinner rotation. I dined on hummus sandwiches and banana chips for lunch at my small Catholic school, jealously eyeing those with Oreos and PBJs. I was embarrassed by it all: by the food; by my mother’s lack of a “normal” job; by my father’s lack of ability to show up for his family.

My palate was refined. I ate every vegetable put in front of me, and there were many. My mother did a wonderful job of nourishing my body and soul. But sometimes, love and care is not enough. My genetic predisposition is to consume anything I can to excess in the hopes of quelling a raging internal storm of fear, doubt, and insecurity. Food soon became my shelter and my foe.

On the outside it was eating for comfort or out of boredom. On the inside, the shame cycle began in my early teens. Food fed my hunger, my loneliness and my low self esteem. Overeating (alone, as I preferred it) stoked the flame of self loathing. What started as a flicker, the obsession with body and my desire to control this thing I was trapped in, soon consumed me.

Losing my father was like losing any reason I had to maintain the facade of happiness and success. Coupled with binge drinking, binge eating and purging pulled me down into a morass of shame I was powerless to climb out of.

The things I did to myself I will spend a lifetime overcoming and forgiving. I hurt others, but I hurt myself in ways my broken soul could not withstand and did not deserve.

Help came in the form of rock bottom and spiritual enlightenment and angels on Earth. It was slow and treacherous and thoroughly painful. I was brought back from the brink and broken down completely in order to be built back up into the kind of person I always thought I could be. My life is a miracle. I am still unfolding and make so many mistakes and hurt myself and hurt others. The difference today is hope and an unwavering desire to seek and speak the truth in all its forms. Without the truth, I am sick and alone. I can no sooner turn a blind eye to the woes of this world, than tell a lie to save my own skin. As I work toward groundlessness I feel exhausted, and the urge to give up sneaks in. There is nothing left to hide behind. There is nothing left to fill me up and numb the pain. My eyes are wide open and the invisible line has been crossed. So here we are.

The difference between recovering from substance addiction and food addiction is that it is not possible to completely abstain from food. We need to eat to live! And therein lies the problem. We are eating beyond what we need to live and we are risking our planet, the well-being of other sentient creatures, and if we are honest, our own moral compasses to do so.

When I was 22, Tom and I backpacked Europe for 3 months. We were constantly walking with packs on our backs; we were starving and ate voraciously. It was the first time in a long time I was eating for fuel and not worrying about the calories. It felt exhilarating and was a much needed shift in my attitude toward food. We tried a great variety of cuisines in each country we visited. We did not discern. By and large we skipped fast food establishments, but our diet was heavy on meat and convenience. Along the way, I picked up a copy of Fast Food Nation at a free library in a youth hostel. It changed my life. It truly had never occurred to me (nor would I have cared during those 4am blacked out and slovenly McDonald’s excursions) where my food came from. In retrospect, it wasn’t my time. For so long I simply lacked the mental and emotional stability to safely process such information. The truth is painful. The truth is unsettling. The truth has slowly turned my whole world upside down.

I read as much as I could tolerate and stunned myself into vegetarian submission. It didn’t take much. A book simply entitled, 101 Reasons Why I’m a Vegetarian catapulted me into action. The image of Tyson factory farm workers torturing chickens haunts me until this day.

Almost 2 years into my vegetarianism (a way of life being lived alongside a partner who happily ate meat at almost every meal) I suffered a health crisis leading to emergency surgery and a long road of mental and physical recovery from the event. Soon after my surgery, my mother and I observed that I simply wasn’t healing. My wound wasn’t closing properly and my weight had plummeted. My energy was zapped. Reintroducing protein in the form of meat seemed like the logical answer.

Our culture tells us we need meat for protein, and milk for vitamin D. These lies are literally shoved down our throat from so early on, it can be hard to combat them with even the greatest of logic. If I had even scratched the surface of nutritional knowledge in my quest to eat better, I could have saved myself years of dieting, fluctuating weight and a constant feeling of lethargy. During the post-surgery sickness, I failed to examine the many ways proper nutrition evaded me that had nothing to do with my vegetarianism. A diet full of simple carbs, sugars and dairy, and low on fruits, vegetables, and whole grains, is a true recipe for disaster. I was depriving myself of whole foods and wondering why I felt I was dying a slow death. Meat was a seemingly much easier answer than the truth.

I am a master of deception, most adept in deceiving myself. After all of the knowledge and compassion I had amassed, I was able to shove it all aside for the sake of convenience and comfort.

During the many years I should have known better, I became a mother. Unfortunately for my children, health has a trickle down effect. I did my best, with the information I had, and now I am paying the price. I am detoxing my children off of dairy, avoiding meat at all costs, and begging them to eat vegetables of any kind.

More than even me, Zelda is reaping the benefits of my newfound knowledge and was the initial catalyst for changes I so desperately needed. After a disastrous effort at breastfeeding Louise, who was allergic to both milk and soy as a baby and ultimately survived on an abhorrent hypoallergenic formula, I was determined to do better with Z. Like her sister before her, Zelda was covered in an itchy, uncomfortable, red and often weeping rash from just a couple of weeks old. Also like Louise, she developed a desperate and sad case of acid reflux. Despite the many attempts to relieve her pain topically and through oral medicine, it became apparent the answer had to come from within. Up until she was allergy tested, I had great trouble with the elimination diet. For me, deprivation is a surefire way to ignite an inner rebellion, and I didn’t believe that after all the trouble I would get any clear answers anyway. No matter, the results of the blood and skin tests revealed conclusively that my baby was suffering from a severe milk allergy. The jig was up.

Some time during the latter months of my pregnancy with Zelda, Tom had done his own research and had taken action as part of his ongoing health journey. Even in his new role as endurance athlete, he ventured into veganism or “plant based eating” and was firm in his beliefs and his choices. He had found a new guru in Rich Roll, a sober, vegan, endurance athlete and brilliant author. As I listened to Tom’s retelling of Mr. Roll’s transformation, I was brimming with skepticism. However, as I was already giving up dairy, and had very complicated feelings toward eating animals, I made the transition to eating plant based. It happened slowly, but naturally.

During this new journey into eating exclusively plant based, mostly whole foods, I needed to add to my resolve. Convenience and comfort are the greatest demons in my fight to eat in a healthful way and moments of weakness were inevitable. I endeavored to read more articles as well as watch documentaries to add to an arsenal of protection that would keep me from making the detours I had taken in the past. What the Health, a documentary available on Netflix, was particularly enlightening and motivating to me. It is my first recommendation to anyone who is interested in taking a step toward improving her quality of life. Potent, powerful, and lacking in ghastly slaughterhouse scenes, the message gets across easily. All you have to do is listen.

Clearly, I am new at this approach to eating and am not a health expert. All I have is my story and my research, albeit condensed. Take from all of this what you will. Let it spark your own questions and a quest for your own answers. For now, here are the answers to the the most common questions I field when I broach the subject of my diet:

Where do you get your calcium?

I get the bulk of my calcium from kale. Stay with me. I start every morning with a giant smoothie. Frozen fruit is the overwhelming flavor. Kale merely provides color, but also the sought after nutrients, calcium being the one that most concerns people.

Where do you get your PROTEIN?!

Well, from black beans, chickpeas, lentils, wild rice, peanut butter, almonds, chia seeds, oatmeal, cashews, pumpkin seeds, edamame and tofu. To start. Spinach and broccoli are a couple of favorite sources, too. Yes, plants have protein! Per calorie, broccoli has more protein than beef, which is about 4.5 grams per 30 calories. Broccoli is also packed with amino acids, fiber, Vitamin B6 to improve your mood and is one of the best vegetables linked to fighting cancer. Take that!

Where do you get your Vitamin D?

From the sun. Turns out, you can’t get the right amount of vitamin D your body needs from food! This renders the need for dairy milk obsolete. It’s about as useful to us as monkey’s milk. (Ew.) On another note, new studies (not funded by the dairy industry) show that those who drink milk are actually at an increased risk for fractures. Strong bones, my ass.

How can you enjoy the holidays or other events?

Holidays and parties are not difficult. With just a little bit of planning, I never go hungry. And for the first time ever, I came away from this holiday season without feeling bloated and remorseful. It was incredible.

Can you go on vacation and eat like this?

Again, with the planning. Again, with the no remorse. We just got back from Disney World. I ate a good deal of vegan junk food, I must admit. But I did not feel deprived. Once I got over being that person who asks the food service person a few questions, the whole world opened up for me.

People often tell me how little dairy they consume. My retort at this point would be, try giving it up. It is only then that you will see how much you do actually consume. This is never more true than when on vacation. Case in point: At our lunch in Epcot, I conferred with my waiter about my meal preferences and ordered the vegetable soup. Soon after, a cook emerged from the kitchen to disclose that the vegetables were initially cooked in butter and I canceled my order. Milk is so pervasive, despite how many alternatives exist. Even choosing a bag of potato chips or crackers has become disturbing when I realize how often milk is unnecessarily included. So while I do find myself on guard, it doesn’t prevent me from eating. It just makes me a smarter consumer (and forces those Disney chefs to get creative).

In addition to these impossible tasks, I trained for a marathon while exclusively breastfeeding a Fleck baby (Have you seen them? They’re huge!) for 9 months, all while eating a vegan diet. Suffice it to say, veganism is not limiting. It is life saving and life sustaining.

It would be easy to quote sources and copy and paste disturbing facts and images, but I believe it is up to the individual to do her due diligence. Your body, your world, your responsibility. My takeaway from the information I’ve synthesized about living plant-based is this:

1.It’s the only true way to be an environmentalist. It takes 1,799 gallons of water to produce one pound of beef. And this is just the tip of the iceberg (or receding glaciers?) for what animal agriculture is doing to our planet.

2. It’s the best way to ensure being here for the long haul for my children. Of course, I could get hit by a car on my run tomorrow, but anything I do have control over I will do my best to harness in order to increase my odds of a longer life. And with a diet rich in ingredients that fight disease, and void of the foods that increase one’s susceptibility to disease (dairy and meat products are linked to various cancers, decline in cardiovascular health, high cholesterol, hypertension, Alzheimer’s and much more) I have more than a fighting chance.

3. As a self professed animal lover, it is hypocritical of me to eat animals. It’s that simple. It is only our culture that has lured us into believing that some animals deserve to die, while others get to be our pets. There is no rhyme or reason to it except that it is traditional, and breaking tradition is not easy. There is such a disconnect between the origin of our foods and what ends up packaged in the store and lands on our plate. Most people would not be able to stomach the process that gets animals onto our table. Eating meat is eating the terror an animal experiences throughout its life until its dying breath. The wish to live is as strong in them as it is in us. Through sheer brute force and selfish desire, we have stopped caring and stopped seeing this. It is the meat and dairy industry’s job to shield us from this. It is our duty to stop being willfully blind.

Growing up, my mother kept a card with this Goethe quote taped to the fridge. It bounces around my brain still, reminding me that my words and actions carry great weight, and that meaningful change can start with my own actions. I just have to start somewhere.

Whatever you can do or dream you can, begin it. Boldness has genius, power, and magic in it.

[findingmyami]

Code White.

I had hoped that having a blog would inspire to me write more, even just a little. I set a laughable goal of writing one post per day and, as it turns out, inspiration does not respond to such demands. My inner creator is a diva and a rebel and a procrastinator. I love her madly, though.

For me, today, motivation exists in the quiet milestones that creep up in the dark of night. Yes, folks, it is time. My tiny one, "The Golden Baby" as the older kids have dubbed her, turns one tomorrow. 

No one could have prepared for me for the sadness that's consumed me. When your last baby turns one, it really is a goodbye.

Sure, I know she will still be a baby tomorrow and for a while longer. She's not yet walking, she babbles incoherently, naps 2 times a day, and is most at peace in the soggiest of diapers. To her, I am still all that matters (to be the sun, the moon, the stars for someone else-- it's intoxicating!) and I don't see that changing soon. But something is shifting, and it brings me to my knees. This birthday is a symbol of a season of my life that I will not be reliving. It breaks my heart while it sets me free. 

The most sobering thought in all of the ache I feel so acutely, is that some mothers don't reach this milestone with their babies. And while modern medicine rescued us from such a fate, allow me to relive the very close call that was the birth of Zelda Antoinette Fleck (also referred to as Zelda Internet Fleck by her dear sister, Louise). I apologize in advance (I don't). I love a good birth story. I love to tell all of mine and I love to hear others'. The more graphic and emotionally debilitating, the better!

Where were you one year ago tonight? Aside from still reeling from the terror of election season, you were probably in Christmas mode, praying that some sort of recount would come through in a post apocalyptic pinch, and searching Pinterest for Elf on the Shelf ideas.

I was having butt pain. I didn't know (or maybe I plumb forgot) that one could have contractions in one's butt, but you can and I did. 5 days overdue, and this not being my first rodeo, I knew what was happening. So I snuck into my girls' bedroom and climbed into bed to snuggle my Louise, my soon-to-be middle child, but for that moment, still my baby. I alternately wept and winced the night away.

By morning the contractions were still very far apart and I was already very uncomfortable and tired and was hit with the realization that seems so obvious but sneaks up on me every time: a lot of pain needs to happen before this is over. Women are incredible. Just going to throw that out there.

I texted my ladies to let them know that they may need to be at the hospital at some point that day. I tried to watch reality T.V. while I sat in our jacuzzi tub but every voice just made me irritated. No rich bitch problem could ever be bigger than my current problem. 

By late afternoon the timing seemed right to head to the hospital. I was feeling really cute and in control, and planned to imitate Louise's birth exactly. Get to hospital around 4, be at 3cm, steadily climb to 5cm, get epidural, watch Patriots game/Joan Rivers documentary, Love my life, eat grilled cheese, hold court from my birthing room. Adorable.

The moment you are told that the kind of pain that makes you cry has not brought you to 1cm and you must in fact, GO HOME, is a moment that cannot be soon forgotten. I loathed everyone in that hospital, husband included. As we approached the hospital exit, we met up with my mother-in-law (currently working a shift). With great joy and hope in her eyes she told me how incredibly strong I was. I probably wanted to hate her, but how could I not want to cling to those words with every pained breath in my body?!

We ordered Crow Point, I ate chicken alfredo in the bathtub in between contractions, and in 2 hours I was screaming. I was afraid we wouldn't make it to the hospital. 

Every bump we hit, every red light we stopped at, every terrible song on the radio, was all Tom's fault. He took it like a gentleman and apologized profusely for existing. 

When I arrived at the hospital, I discovered I was 8cm and climbing fast, and it was kindly related to me that there would probably be no time for the epidural. "The pain that got you here will get you the rest of the way!" Um, what? Did they teach you that in midwifery school? Not the reassurance I was looking for. The kind I'm looking for comes in a gigantic needle and you are going to get it for me so I can hang out with my friends before I have yet another human to care for. Speedy anesthesiologist for the win.

My dear friends, who are like sisters, really are my sisters, but are not in fact biologically mine, arrive and all is well. In my drunken lack of pain, I apologize to my nurse for lying and saying that they were my sisters. "I'm gonna level with you, Monica..." Real class act I am. 

My vibe was really harshened from there. Monitors, beeps, muttering, repositioning, I took no notice until I heard, "Things are going to move really quickly from here." I was rushed out from there and the rest is history. Narrowly avoiding 2 C-sections, 2 times (Delia=distressed baby, Louise=gigantic baby) number 3 was gonna be the one to do me in. 

My mother-in-law (a NICU NP) had already arrived on the scene due to meconium staining so she walked beside me as they wheeled me down the hall. I tried to gauge how worried I should feel from her normally spirited eyes, the rest of her face covered by a mask, but I saw only steadiness tinged with concern. 

A strange sense of calm came over me in that moment I was first laid on the operating table. I just talked to that baby (I didn't yet know the gender) and told it to hang on and that I loved it so much and would love it forever but just please hang on and be okay so we can be together. As my husband cried and was visibly panicked, I reassured him without tears, we will all be fine. 

As they pulled her out I heard delight and the reassured voices of medical professionals who saw a healthy baby whose umbilical cord was draped in such a way that a vaginal birth just wasn't in the cards. 

I awaited as the gender was to be called out. This could be a post in itself. I am so glad I didn't know this baby's gender. During gestation we formed a bond that transcended labels and societal restrictions and familial expectations. It was pure love. I wanted nothing but the chance to love this baby and give my girls a sibling. I assumed it was a girl, thought maybe it might be a boy, and truly did not care either way. It was a freedom I wish I had given myself before. 

I waited. For the gender. To be called out. Tom could not stop crying to make this possible. In that moment, I wished they had given someone else this vital job. Finally I hear him sob, "I would say it's a girl!" Those words were magic to my ears. What was happening to Tom's eyes however, was not so magical. His own telling of Zelda's birth always includes the words "poop smeared vagina" and while I won't take away from this experience, there's gotta be a more magical way to phrase that. Meconium covered girlhood, anyone?

My mother-in-law told me the baby was fair and beautiful, with the long fingers of a piano player, and was so sweet. I ate up this description as I ached to hold her. When that angelic face was placed next to mine, the whole world fell away. Tom and I locked eyes and I was consumed by my love for him, for our family. We did it. Again.

I love you, Z. And I would do it all again, over and over, to have you. You are my pocket pal, my fiery ginge, my sweetheart. You complete our family in a way I never saw coming. We are better, and happier, and more tired, because of you. Happy 1st. 

Post Script: I guess post-birth is not an essential part of the birth story, but holy shit getting your intestines put back in while you're conscious is no joke, amirite?! 

[findingmyami]

The Elephant in the Room

My mom visited us in Miami a few weeks ago. With her Irish blood, she is not crazy about the heat and sun. This kind of climate is not something our people have been equipped to deal, evolutionarily speaking. She handled it gracefully and without complaint, though I complained enough for both of us. When my brother asked her, “How is the weather there? How do you deal with it?” She told him, “It’s not something people talk about much. It’s really hot but no one discusses it. It’s like the elephant in the room.”

Yesterday I was chatting with a fellow mom who is also a transplant from a northern state and we discussed our new normal. It looks a lot like not caring: Makeup free, light clothing and little of it, sweat soaking places heretofore unknown to be capable of such a thing. Everyone looks like this. Some carry it off more gracefully than others. To me, it’s a way of being vulnerable and I really dig vulnerability so I am embracing this style for both comfort and as a means to finding my people. Of course there are still those dressed to the nines, picking up their children from school in stilettos and perfectly coiffed beachy waves. Good on ya, girl! And although I find it hard to believe we will find much common ground, be sure to share your colorist with me. 

So the climate here is the elephant in the room. It is a fact and it’s unchanging and uncontrollable and complaining will just make you hotter anyway. 

Of course, that all goes out the window at the height of hurricane season. It’s all anyone can talk about, early and often. There was no more bottled water at Whole Foods as of Sunday. There were lines to the back of the store yesterday. There were no gas stations with gas left in a 5 mile radius last night. Flights are booked, canceled, or exorbitant. The Keys are under mandatory evacuation. It truly feels like the end times. I am from gosh darn New England and this feels extreme.

So let me tell you what I was WORRIED about a few days ago:

*whether or not to switch my dining room table to another room

*which professional mermaids to book for Lou’s 5th birthday party

*why my middle looks like a ziplock bag full of mayonnaise despite major weight loss

*what my marathon time will be

*how in God’s name I can get my husband to put his shoes away when he gets home

Yes, that pretty much sums it up. Filed under First World Problems, of course. But they felt very real to me!

Flash forward to today: we are getting everything of value off the floor, packing up everything we need for a week, after finally finding a gas station with gas, and are leaving in the middle of the night for Atlanta. 2 adults, 2 kids, 1 baby, 2 dogs, and a whole bunch of STUFF in a Mercedes work van for 9+ hours. And this is a gift. I don’t intend to forget that. We have the means to leave, to take off work, to pay to stay somewhere else. This is the gift of perspective and gratitude. Thank you, universe. I will pay it forward.

If we still have a dining table when we get back, I’ll cross that bridge when I get to it. 

[findingmyami]

The long road that leads to you (and the end of this post).

When I was 25 years of age, one day before my wedding, I discovered I was pregnant. It was a shock, which is not to say it wasn’t planned. I had been told that, due to a recent emergency surgery removing an ovary and fallopian tube, it  would take me longer than the average bear to conceive. This turned out to be categorically untrue and and my one ovary continued to be a powerhouse that has since helped create two more beautiful, healthy beings. 

After taking in the fact that my body was capable of such a thing, the reality of my new life set in. Despite the overwhelming joy felt by our family, I felt alone in my journey. As far as my friends went, I was a pioneer on the family frontier: first to buy a house, get married, and have a baby. I felt old before my time. The loneliness was palpable. 

I consider myself an introvert. The energy I need to expend in order to socialize effectively leaves me depleted. I recharge alone. But a village is not built by hanging out with your dogs and watching Bethany Getting Married (my pregnant brain is not sharp enough to take in complicated story lines). I needed to put myself out there. How?

Enter Meetup.com. The modern age is really quite a thing. Technology divides us and isolates us but also brings us together, in the most practical of ways. Meet people who share your interests! But of course! How did our parents do this? Who cares?! I’m so happy to have these tools at my disposal, I can hardly take the time to romanticize the way our forebears playdated. 

As a good friend advised me before we moved to Miami, “Say yes to everything.” And then of course, show up. That is the tricky part, and also the most crucial. I forgot how hard it is. Here I am, almost 7 years after my first baby, having to make myself vulnerable all over again. That’s how community is built. You say yes, you show up, you bare your soul, and then you love your butt off. 

6 years ago, with a new baby, I showed up and showed up and showed up. It takes a long time to find your people. 

Some were too far. I traveled many miles from my home for a lot of events because I didn’t think I would find my people close to home. Spoiler alert: I was wrong.

Some were too different. Different is amazing and necessary, don’t get me wrong. I don’t care about your economic status, or where you live, or what you wear. I care about what’s in your heart and what you are willing to show. As I’ve grown to know myself, I know I need people who wear their heart on their sleeve, at least once in a while. Life is too short to pretend to be who others want us to be, and to not share our truths. If we can’t be real together, I just ain’t got time for that.

So I continued to make plans, and sit through discomfort and sometimes boredom. I listened and I shared. And it happened. I found my people. I hit the mom friend JACKPOT. 

Meetup.com. That old gem. Tom and I once used it to meet fellow husky owners. If you have an interest, no matter how weird, there are people out there who want to discuss it and share it with you. I found my zany, enthusiastic, loveably weird dog people. My mom people had to be out there, too. 

The Church Hill Meetup was a couple of towns over, in the highfalutin community of Norwell, Massachusetts. My hopes were not high. However, I have had great luck in church basements before (friends of Bill W. will understand) so I braced myself and entered with an open heart.

Stacey radiated love and kindness. I had never met anyone like her. She was practicing service and she didn’t even need to. I only do service because I need it to stay alive and sane. There are people who do service because it’s right and good. Incredible! 

My first thought was, Wow. Followed by, why? Why would someone like her want to be friends with me? Middle school self esteem rears its ugly head again! I was very pregnant with Lou Lou, flanked by my little Delia who was close in age with Stacey’s son, Nolan. I met kindness with kindness and opened myself up to love.

Emily came on the scene soon thereafter. Her kids’ names alone told me she was my kind of gal. Here was someone who knew who she was. She was unapologetic. She was interesting, fun and so, extremely funny. I’ve been hooked ever since.

I am thinking of these two friends especially today because they left Miami days ago, visiting me, as part of a surprise birthday gift schemed with my husband, and I am still bursting with gratitude over the whole darn thing. We shared some meals, some tears and so much laughter. The memories will get me through many of the lonely days that inevitably come with living in a new place. 

Friends are not just company or therapy, although those things are great. To me, it’s about having witnesses to our lives. I am existing in this crazy world, raising little people, doing the next right thing, and there are people who acknowledge this and appreciate it. It’s validating and life affirming. My greatest fear in moving to Miami, was that this would cease to happen. And in turn, it’s almost as if I would cease to be. My feelings, my baby’s milestones, my first grader’s travails, my preschooler’s first friend, my marriage, decorating our beautiful home, leaping into new adventures- would all these things be happening in a vacuum? 

Now I feel certain that my friends and I are imprinted on each other in ways that defy distance. I’m so glad that I showed up, and they showed up, and we all continue show up (even if it takes a plane ride and a sketchy Lyft driver!) and that we all took a chance on each other.

[findingmyami]

Hi.

A vegan, a marathon runner, and a mother of 3 walk into a bar…

–I only know because they told everyone within two minutes.

Ha, ha, ha.

Joke’s on you. All three of those people are me. And on any given day, it’s hard to decide what to lead with! 

But that’s not what I’m here for. At least, not today. I just want to say, Hi. I am a Massachusetts native, finding myself living “abroad” in Miami. In a sea of beautiful, athletic, trilingual people, I find myself only being two of those qualities. It’s hard, it really is. 

In all seriousness, this blog is just to keep the handful of people (it’s a hand that’s at least missing a thumb), connected to what I’m doing and feeling and thinking. And honestly, I’m usually thinking about food, running, and my kids. Not necessarily in that order. But usually.

I’ll check back in. For now, I must wait in the brutally hot sun for my preschooler to get out of school and then rush to pick up my 1st grader (who is currently learning French, leaving me in the proverbial dust), all the while schlepping my 8-month-old. We will then collapse in the central air, while all manner of Pinterest worthy afternoon activities gently slip through my fingers. Then we will eat. I already ran today…