Archive for the ‘Life Tools’ Category

Yesterday was the Wee Lass’s birthday (bonne anniversaire ma petite cherie! je t’aime times a trillion!), and as he was suiting up for work, tie in hand, Hubby turned to me with a devilish grin.

“Aaaah, just think,” he said, smirking, “six years ago, there we were at NYU, you with your trusty doula at your side…”

Grrr.

The upfront disclaimer: This blog post is steeped in bitterness. If you want to stay in your happy place – and I would totally support you in that choice – stop reading immediately.

If you’ve read my book, or even spent a good chunk of time here on Momover.net, you can easily glean a few key facts about me: One, I had a baby quite late in life (early 40s). And two, the labor, delivery and subsequent recovery hit me like a tsunami. I’ve blogged a few times about my postpartum blood transfusion. And basically the entire Project Momover was devised to help me – and, later, you – get back to fighting form.

Here’s what I think might have helped with all that: Having the doula I hired to coach me through labor (to the tune of $1500, if memory serves) actually show up at the hospital at Hour One rather than Hour Eighteen, minutes before my ob-gyn issued the decree that it was time to stop praying for a vaginal delivery and motor on down to the operating room for a C-section.

I want to be clear that I’m convinced I just got unlucky. I know there are many amazing doulas out there, and in the appendix of my book, I include all contact info for DONA International.

But unfortunately, I inadvertently hired a slacker. Actually, inadvertently isn’t the right word. Stupidly is more apt. Although Hubby and I spent a fair amount of time interviewing potential doulas – three in total – I didn’t bother to check references for the one we settled on. I can’t say for sure that I even asked for references.

So that’s the big helpful “takeaway” from this post: If you’re preggo and considering hiring a doula to help you through labor and | or postpartum, ask for client references and actually check them.

Oops, just looked at the time. Gotta wrap this up because I’m heading to a “hair spa” today to research a story I’m writing. But first I have to finish over-sharing this labor & delivery war story, because it illustrates my cluelessness and why I especially suffered when my doula pulled a no-show.

The Wee Lass was due on 1/17. When that date came and went, my ob-gyn warned me he would soon be summoning me to the hospital for induction. I asked for a weekend reprieve, and proceeded to do everything I could to jump-start labor, including instructing my prenatal massage therapist to “hit all those spots you’ve been avoiding for the last three months” – the areas of the body that can accidentally stimulate the uterus.

On Monday, the doc told me to get my big fat fanny to NYU by 8 pm the following evening. I called the doula and she blithely told me that “nothing much would be happening” in the first few hours after my arrival, and that she would see me the following morning.

Well alrighty now.

Long story short: Clueless optimistic moi was hoping to avoid the epidural, which my crunchy labor-prep teacher (yes, I took a labor-prep class in addition to hiring a doula and a baby nurse – I like to staff-up) had positioned as the Devil’s spawn. And for a long time during labor, I toughed it out, even though – duh – the pain was getting worse and worse.

After about Hour Ten, I insisted – demanded – that Hubby leave the hospital to go home to our pad and feed Thunder and Lightning, our meow-meows. That’s how insane I was, a complete crazy person. Of course, almost the second he left to do that, I hit a wall on the pain and wanted that epidural in the worst, worst way. And as luck would have it, the night-shift was switching over to the day-shift, and there was no one to administer any drugs. So I had to wait. Wait and writhe in pain.

When I eventually got the epidural, I was all alone when they inserted that giant needle in my back. Hubby – at my idiotic insistence, of course – was off feeding the cats. And my doula had yet to make her grand entrance. (That wouldn’t happen for a few more hours.)

I got through it. Blech. And in my postpartum follow-up home visit from the doula – I didn’t even want her there, but it was part of our “contract” so she came anyway – she proceeded to tell me that rather than use diapers, I should learn to “read the facial signs” that the Wee Lass was about to pee or poop and chase her around with a pail. Evidently, that’s what she was doing with her own daughter.

Okaaaaay. The baby nurse and I just looked at her like she was on crack, and sent her on her merry way, check in hand.

Three months later, when I got back to Cookie from maternity leave, I kept pitching a story with the catchy title “Doulas Are Bullshit.” Thankfully my editors didn’t go for that. Because doulas aren’t bullshit. Mine was, but I’m guessing 99 percent of them are incredible.

Okay, off to the hair spa. Thank you for letting me vent. I feel better now.

Om shanti, my lovelies. I don’t even know what that means, but it’s crunchy. And I’m crunchy, so there you have it.

I swear I could literally watch all four or five or however many hours of the Today Show that are on these days. Especially recently, because they’ve been devoting so, so, so much time to self-improvement and and keeping resolutions.

Just this morning, as I was pushing the Wee Lass out the door for drop-off (thank the lordy we live right across the street from school), I heard Dr. Nancy Snyderman chiding everyone who thinks they need to hit the gym just to get a workout. “Our mothers weren’t fat,” she barked. “They had a baby on one hip and were pushing the vacuum cleaner around with the other.”

Our mamas moved it, in other words, and folded calorie-burning into their daily activities. Not like us chubby old couch potatoes.

Okay, I’m on bedtime-story detail this evening, so I have to make this blog post fast and furious.

There were two super-useful health takeaways I got from the Today Show this week that I want to pass along to you:

1. From a new book called The Willpower Instinct: How Self-Control Works & Why It Matters: Willpower is at its peak in the morning, and is especially strong if you’ve had a great night’s sleep. After seeing that segment (here’s the link), I immediately switched my meditation from the evening to the morning. I have my coffee first, read a little HuffPo or the New York Times on my iPad, and then I head straight to my meditation chamber, aka my walk-in closet. And surprise, surprise I really love it.

2. From a diet resolutions chit-chat with Dr. Oz, who I’m convinced is taking over the world. (I mean, he’s everywhere. If he weren’t a heart surgeon, I’d be worried that he’s about to keel over from a heart attack.): Making your goals public means a higher likelihood of achieving them. So I’m officially going on record with the fact that I want to work out 200 times this year. I tried in 2010 and got pretty close. This year, I’m determined to get there.

Whenever my busy brain starts ping-ponging between the endless “I could do this!” or “I could do that!” possibilities on the Massive Buffet Table of Self-Improvement + Transformation, I try to rein it all in and remember that there are only so many hours in a day, that I work quite a bit both inside and outside the home, and that I have a festive and charming tot-let and hubby I actually enjoy spending time with.

That only leaves so much mental bandwidth and energy for changing the world – or at least changing the way my –s looks in those super-soft J. Crew matchstick cords. (Oh how I want them in every color.)

But this year, as we round the bend on 2012, I’m torn. In one corner, we have minimalist simplicity-pushers – people I very much admire – like my all-time fave blogger Leo “Zen Habits” Babauta. Faithful Momoverettes already know how much I love him; I’ve written about his “Power of Less” book on numerous occasions.

If my imaginary BFF Leo were with me now, he’d probably say: “Calm down, Sparky. Whittle that giant laundry list of hopes and dreams down to what really matters to you this year, and then just focus on your top priorities.”

In the other corner, however, there are go for it types like Gretchen “Happiness Project” Rubin. I recently finished reading her book, and I was pretty blown away by how much she accomplished in one year. She went macro and micro – working on her marriage, becoming a whiz at making Shutterfly photo albums, forming a mini writers’ workshop and two book clubs devoted to children’s literature – and so, so much more.

It was dizzying, frankly. Especially when you consider that she basically layered each month’s resolutions on top of the other. For instance, she started lifting weights in January, and she continued to do that throughout the year, even as she was piling ever more on her plate.

Still, I’m completely considering embarking on a Happiness Project of my own. If I do decide that that’s the direction I’m heading in, I can use the handy-dandy “toolbox” Rubin has created for like-minded readers.

Whatever I do, I may or may not go public with it. When I committed to exercising 200 times in 2010, I got really close – 195 sessions. But then again, this year, when I didn’t have that goal, I worked out almost as much – 174 times. That’s still pretty good, right? Particularly when you consider that a lot of that was P90X, which is oh-so-grueling. Mega worth the effort, but grueling.

This transformation stuff is ultra important, so I think I’ll sleep on it. Right after I watch the new ep of Revenge waiting in my DVR queue. That show is so sinister-y. And ocean-y. And faux-Hamptons-y. Love.

Kids are bananas.

Like I need to tell you that.

Here’s a for-instance: The Wee Lass has suddenly decided, at the ripe old age of almost-six, that she’s afraid of the dark. And the way she’s soothing herself, beyond burrowing into her thread-bare night-night blankie, is to have her father “check on” her in the middle of the night.

There are a few inherent problems with this plan. One, he mostly doesn’t do it, because he’s fast asleep. Why shouldn’t he be? He works really hard, both outside and inside the home. Two, theoretically, even if he did check on her in the middle of the night, she wouldn’t know, right? Because she, too, would be fast asleep?

Grrr.

So now she’s taken to waking up and hauling her sleepy self downstairs to our room to ask Hubby if he did right by her, and ensured her safety as he promised he would. “Daddy,” she says, shaking him, “did you check on me yet?”

Worse, here’s how last night went down: At 1:15, I start to hear this plaintive little “Daddy! Daddy! Daddy!” wail wafting down to the first floor.

I pray for it to stop. It doesn’t.

So I go upstairs to comfort her, and get her back to sleep.

And then I proceed to stay awake for the next three hours. Until, in desperation, I crack open a packet of MidNite that I nabbed at the drugstore a while back, in anticipation of just such events.

I’m sorry, but what happened after I swallowed that pill (apparently you can chew them, too, a fact that was lost on me circa 4:30 a.m.) is anybody’s guess. Because it certainly wasn’t sleep as I know it.

I just read some of the company propaganda – er, product info – on the MidNite website, and it says it’s “non-sedating.” Really? Then why did it feel like a nightmare I couldn’t wake up from?

Rather, it was like a prolonged drug haze. And sadly, because I was a monster partier in my teens and 20s, I actually know what a prolonged drug haze feels like.

I think I’d be better off with a shot of NyQuil, or even one of my trusty Xanax, chopped in half. Those feel druggy too – because they are druggy too – but somehow I’m just more comfortable with the notion of pharmaceuticals parading as pharmaceuticals than pharmaceuticals parading as a “natural” sleep aid.

I’d love to know what it’s in the “proprietary complex” that gives MidNite its oomph, alongside melatonin.

But even more than that, I’d love to be able to just get right back to sleep, sans meds, when the Wee Lass pulls her “Did Daddy check on me” routine. Because I don’t think that will be ending anytime soon.

Yesterday afternoon, I moved mountains…of clutter out of my kitchen cabinets. And in so doing, I don’t think it is overstating the point to say that I’ve feng shui-d the living hell out of our entire first floor.

The back story: Since I’ve started cooking in earnest (maybe two or three times per week, but for me, that’s “in earnest”), it has come to my attention how dysfunctional and bad vibe-y my kitchen is.

It’s not a nightmare. But there were two cabinets in particular that were driving me to drink. I’ve blogged about this before, but I was getting spooked by the fact that there were several unopened wedding gifts and a fair amount of magazine editor-swag lurking within.

I needed to assess what I owned, and then make some focused, crisp decisions – per my “One Word.”

To tackle this task, I hired an organizer, who herewith will be known as Iris. I suspect Iris will become a recurring character here on Momover.net, so let’s all give her a warm welcome.

FYI, I can’t link to Iris’s website, because Iris doesn’t have a website. But if you live by me, and would like to avail yourself of her services, just email me and I’ll send you her contact info.

Okay, so OMG. Though I’d suspected as much, hiring a pro is a complete game-changer. In an hour and a half, Iris and I completed a loathsome chore – the total re-org of the “problem cabinets” – that’d been preying on my mind for months.

Here’s how we did it:

1. We pulled out every item, one by one, and put them in four designated piles: Toss; Salvation Army; Storage and Keep.

“Toss” included the umpteen million really nice plastic containers our extremely environmentally unfriendly local Italian joint insists on using for takeout. We whittled down to six of each of three sizes, with lids. Which is still too many, but you should’ve seen the Everest-high pile there before.

“Salvation Army” contained a gorge ceramic ashtray monogrammed with a ‘B.’ Hubby’s first wife’s name begins with a B, and since I knew it wasn’t mine, I got properly paranoid. I figured I didn’t need to give shelf space to any tchotchkes attached to Wifey No. 1. Feel me?

“Storage” included a number of Cuisinart gew-gaws, such as a second(!!) unopened 11-cup Food Processor and, inexplicably, a brand new Ice Cream Maker. The latter had to have been beauty editor graft, because there’s no way I would have registered for that for my wedding. It’s like, ‘Hello, I just married you, and I will now proceed to get as fat as a house.’ Still, with the Wee Lass in our lives, I know we’ll use it come summer. For now, however, it doesn’t need to live on premises.

“Keep” is all the stuff I really use, and | or really like, such as a number of Tiffany serving platters and two crystal ice buckets. Those ice buckets are adorable, and I think they’d make super-chic potato chip holders for our upcoming holiday party. In fact, I think I have enough good crystal to create a festive winter ice-themed “tablescape.” Project!

2. We replaced every “Keep” item, one by one, according to designated function: Every Day Use; School Lunch Prep; Party Time and Currently Beyond My Skill-Set.

The first two categories are self-explanatory – nesting bowls, baking dishes, Hello Kitty thermoses and the like.

“Party Time” is all the platters, decorative bowls, napkin rings, etc., that we use occasionally – but not so occasionally that they’d be better off in our condo building’s storage unit. I got rid of several items from this pile that were either battle-worn or I just didn’t dig. Eventually I’d like to own a full set of perfectly matched stuff – I say that every time the Crate & Barrel catalog darkens our door – but until we move into our ultimate Barbie Dream House, it isn’t a front-burner priority.

Which brings me, finally, to the “Currently Beyond My Skill-Set” group. Along with a brandy new Braun Deluxe Juice Extractor, this stash includes an opened-but-not-yet-used other Cuisinart 11-Cup Food Processor. I am sooooo intimidated by that big beast. But I think it’s high time I got over that. Use it or lose it.

Yes, I know – big whoop, two freaking cabinets. But in clearing those out, I was able to make room for a bunch of stuff that was clogging the countertops. So now it looks soooo peaceful and organized, with plenty of workspace. A welcoming place to cook for my cute little family.

Cartwheel time: My sister arrives tomorrow night for a week-long visit. Though we’re in frequent touch via phone and email, it’s been far too long since we’ve been in each other’s actual physical orbit. Tsk tsk…

The Wee Lass is over the moon that Aunt Jan is headed our way, and is already trying to find a good hiding place for her ratty old “night-night” blankie. I keep trying to tell her that no one has a problem with it, and it’s not like she’s addicted.

Here’s how I know she’s not chemically dependent on that now truly gruesome hunk of cloth: About an hour or so into Road Trip 2011, I turned to Hubby and silently mouthed: “Oh. My. Effing. God. We left the night-night behind!” And guess what? For 16 days, sans blankie, she somehow managed to sleep and have the time of her little old life.

Because I’m theoretically a grown-up, I figure I need to kick up the guest-prep a notch beyond night-night hiding. And scrolling through my mental Rolodex, I remembered a great ep of Nate Berkus that was all about making your overnight visitors feel welcome.

So this morning, I tried, in vain, to track down that particular show on The Cute One’s wonderful website. No luck. Then I tried Googling a whole mess o’ stuff, and in so doing, discovered that The Cute One has his very own line of bedding. Of course The Cute One has his very own line of bedding.

Anyway, ace detective that I am, I finally arrived at bits and pieces of what I was after in an in-depth interview Boston Mamas conducted with Nate. (Jealous much?)

I will now recap a little bit of the Boston Mamas chat, mixed-in with snippets of Momover Lady’s very own memory.

Without further ado, here are Nate’s tips and must-haves for making Aunt Jan feel cozy chez moi:

1. Fresh flowers in a pretty vase. Doesn’t have to be a lot. A few will do.

2. Brandy new, fluffy white towels, laid at the foot of the bed. Why not fuchsia or some other snazzy hue? Think about it, Nate implored. When you stay at a hotel, don’t you want to know that the towels you’re using are as bleached to smithereens as humanly possible? Colored towels don’t give you that same level of comfort. In other words, you don’t know what types of stains might be embedded within.

3. A lovely gift-wrapped soap, plopped on top of the aforementioned brandy new, fluffy white towels.

4. A luggage rack. That’s extra credit, but such a nice touch, yes? Per Nate, some guests, particularly for short stays, don’t like to unpack. I’m guessing Aunt Jan will want to, so I’m clearing drawers for her. And yes, I’m bucking for Sister of the Year.

5. A book or two or three on the nightstand, with a heartfelt, handwritten “I thought you might enjoy these” note. I’ve already saved Andre Agassi’s psychotically good memoir from a pile of books that was headed for Salvation Army. Now I have to poke around for something else to re-gift. But I refuse to part with my precious Seaside Knitters mysteries! She’s not getting those!

**************************************************************************************

Oh, there were so many more awesome Nate tips, including typing up menus for dinner – even if you’re only serving meatloaf.

But I unfortunately have to dash out of here for a lunch with my friend Deb. (Who has an amazing new jewelry line I’ll be sharing with you in an upcoming post.) And aprés dejeuner, it’s off to Target to procure the fluffy white towels and the lovely gift-wrapped soap. Cheers!

UPDATE: My sis (aka Aunt Jan) has since read this post and chimed-in that she might just like some bottled water to go along with her towels, her soap, her flowers, her books and her heartfelt handwritten note. And I quote:..”A couple of bottles of Aquafina / Dasani / Evian / Arrowhead / Whatever Brand laid out on the towels would be cool.” Well, alrighty. Coming right up. WTH is Arrowhead?

Okay, the BlogHer Writers ’11 conference? I had the best damn time.

And that should totally learn Momover Lady something. Because I’m not “join-y” by nature, I almost never go to events that fall outside of my beauty | wellness | crunchy | magazine-industry comfort zone. So it was a touch brave of me to dump myself into that vast sea of ambitious, talented women.

I learned a lot, the agenda really moved along at a fast clip and there were different tracks to slot yourself into, depending on where you are in your writing life.

And of course – duh – I met some great people, which you will undoubtedly be hearing more from me about in upcoming posts:

Amy “When Did I Get Like This” Wilson

Julia “Somewhere In Transition” Barclay

Jana “An Attitude Adjustment” Llewellyn

Elke “Mamalode” Govertsen

Plus, there were three speakers who charmed me to pieces.

One – Dominique Browning - I was already eagerly anticipating. We’ve both worked for the same behemoth publisher, and been attached to magazines that folded. (Please, I’m not putting myself in the same league as Dominique Browning, I’m just connecting dots here on a crazy-busy Monday morning…)

The two other smart, charming writers I hadn’t been aware of before the conference. (The Barbie Bubble again.) And upon hearing them chatter oh-so-modestly about their careers, I was enchanted:

Ann Napolitano

Kathy Cano-Murillo

Clearly, I am in the mood to celebrate women writers. So I will now turn your attention to a lovely lady who was not at the conference: La Fonda.

It’s no secret that I worship Jane Fonda. But in reading her densely – and I mean densely – researched new book, I almost feel as if she’s installed video cams all over my home and my life. She is so completely nailing much of what I’m thinking and feeling that it’s uncanny.

Although she’s a quarter-century older than I am, Fonda kicks off Prime Time at precisely the age I am now. (Extremely late 40s, if you must know.) There is a lot that happens physically, mentally and emotionally to gals in my “demo” and I am honored to have this dogged reporter, this eloquent collector and sharer of life experiences, to carry the torch down the tunnel.

There’s lots of science in Prime Time, which means it’s not the riveting read that “My Life So Far” was and is.

But for femmes d’un certain age, like me, it’s a roadmap for the next act. How much do I love “my” Jane? Buckets.

Last night, en route to the cocktail hour(s) kickoff for the BlogHer Writers ’11 Conference (ooh, how very join-y of shy, shy Momover Lady) I saw an item on Page Six of the New York Post that completely supports my theory that women’s shoes have become weapons of mass destruction.

I almost hate to repeat the tale, because it must have been so cringe-inducing for the poor gal involved. But I feel like I’m doing a public service to all of you hot mamas who have the good sense not to read the majorly mean-spirited Page Six.

So here’s the CliffsNotes-style recap: After presenting a really important award to Katie Holmes at Marie Claire’s Women On Top event on Wednesday afternoon, the mag’s Editor In Chief did a face-plant in front of 200 VIPs. The culprit? Six-inch purple YSLs. The item then wraps up with a quote from Katie about how she, too, took a tumble while carrying little Suri. Nice nod to girl-power solidarity, but grrr…

I’m like the biggest hypocrite for writing this post, because I’ve blogged in defense of Rachel Zoe’s monster preggo heels, and regaled you with the story about the time some crazed bitch accosted me in a subway car because I was wearing spikes while I, too, was with child.

But still, I think this situation is getting a teensy weensy bit dire. We have Brandi Glandville hobbling around on crutches on RHOBH, the entire female cast of Jersey Shore face-down in the cobblestone streets of Firenze and the overload of stripper heels in every shoe store I venture into. Seriously. It is ridiculous.

Okay, that’s my rant du jour. Gotta get back to the BlogHer conference – in my cruelty-free, extremely cute and comfy flat boots.

It’s kind of perfect that my latest Mama Guru, Beautiful Stranger co-founder Melissa Fedor, is squinting behind her groovy shades in this picture; she has one of the sunniest dispositions around.

I’ve known Melissa a looooong time. Trust me, we don’t need to start tossing numbers around…

And without fail, she always looks great when I see her – stylishly pulled-together but comfy, with just the right amount of label action happening.

(Gratuitous pop culture sidebar: Who, besides me, has been shrieking at the new label-dropper on RHOBH? Holy mother of god.)

But back to my Mama Guru.

In short, Melissa’s pretty much the embodiment of the cool lads and lasses she and her Beautiful Stranger team politely accost in the street to inquire about what they’re wearing.

And since it’s Friday, I will forgive her for being so tall, lovely and perpetually well-dressed.

Read how she does it (except for the tall part) – and her style advice for mamas far and wide – right here.

After a few months of being accosted by dust bunnies – and consumed with guilt that I might want to knit or watch RHOBH instead of scrubbing the bathroom floor – I’ve finally waved the white flag of surrender and hired a cleaning service to whip Momover Central into shape.

It’s called Spotless Planet and they are so fast and thorough and pleasant that I’ve actually decided that I’m really not such a horrible person after all for hiring them. I skip merrily through the house once they’re finished for the week, marveling at all the many chores I won’t be doing.

The weird thing is, when I actually do clean, I get really into it. But now that I’m working full-time again, and developing another website on the side, I’ve decided that the few hours a week I have for house-maintenance should be spent organizing.

Right now, par exemple, the kitchen is preying on my feeble mind. It’s a pretty good size, with lots of cabinets, but I feel that when we moved in three years ago, we just sort of shoved stuff on shelves without really thinking through what we’d be needing on a daily basis.

And I don’t even really know what I own. Recently I spotted a brand-new, never-been-opened juicer and food processor! WTH? Oh, and an extremely schmancy espresso machine. They were either wedding presents or magazine-job swag, and they’re not doing me any good if they’re still in boxes.

Another organizing “hot zone”: A wall of built-ins in the Wee Lass’s play space that are jam-packed with techno-gadgets, books, cleaning supplies (ironic!) and the always-worrisome “miscellaneous.” All of that needs to be dealt with too.

My point: I have plenty to do around here that doesn’t involve plugging in the vacuum. And maybe when, and if, I ever achieve my ultimate goal of a house that looks like a hotel, I’ll go back to cleaning it myself.