Archive for the ‘Wellness’ Category

In a particularly riveting section of Dominique Browning’s très excellent memoir, her new gynecologist, “Dr. Pat,” becomes alarmed at info Browning is relaying during the initial consultation. It seems Browning, way back in her 20s, had had a harrowing encounter with a decidedly gnarly kidney stone. The pain the stone caused literally brought her to her knees, writhing in agony, but once it passed, that was it; she never paid her kidneys much nevermind after that. No follow-up checkups or screenings, no follow-up anything.

Upon hearing this, Dr. Pat insists Browning schedule both a baseline vaginal ultrasound and an abdominal scan tout suite. But because she is at that time (but then she gets fired, which is pretty much the centerpiece of the book) the Editor In Chief of the now-defunct House & Garden, Browning doesn’t hop to it immediately.

But Dr. Pat doesn’t let up, and months later Browning finally gets her kiester to the radiologist. It had been 16 years since her last ultrasound, which she had in conjunction with the birth of her second son. And because she isn’t anticipating any bad news, she asks the technician for a guided tour of sorts, to essentially walk her through every organ as he’s scanning it. “There’s your bladder, looks perfect,” he says. “There’s your kidney, excellent.”

Aaaah, but it was the other kidney that was the problem. It was riddled with cancer. And if hadn’t been for Dr. Pat’s pestering, Browning’s story would have had a very different ending.

I thought about Browning, as well as a few very sick friends of mine, this morning, as I headed to the Upper East Side for my annual mammogram and breast ultrasound.

About five years ago, in the run-up to getting my implants out (yes, you read that right; don’t have a cow – I already outed myself in my Momover book), my plastic surgeon demanded that I have my first-ever mammogram. Even though I was already in my 40s, I’d never had one, mostly because I figured implants would make getting an accurate read next to impossible, so why bother?

I wasn’t entirely wrong about that; it is definitely harder for doctors to see what’s going on with your breasts if you have implants. But that’s absolutely ZERO reason to skip your mammogram. You’ll simply be assigned a technician skilled in “implant displacement views” and that godforsaken squishing and squeezing will be turned down a notch. Got that? GO!

Long story short, my first-ever mammogram uncovered a suspicious mass, which was subsequently biopsied and found to be benign. But since then, I’ve been religious about getting both a classic mammogram and an ultrasound every year.

Thankfully we have good insurance. But I would gladly pay out of my own pocket for both of those procedures. Because as much as I hate going – I’m a bundle of nerves for weeks in advance, and I lie on that table silently freaking out – it’s obviously better to know than to not know.

Dominique Browning almost didn’t know. And that is truly scary.

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.

In my Momover book, I wrote an entire chapter – and it’s the most important one, by leaps and bounds – about the importance of positive “self-talk,” that endless inner chatter that can either support us, or make us feel reaaaaallly bad.

I included tips about “reframing” our thoughts, and what we “say” to ourselves, so that we can instantly feel better, and more on top of our mama-game. And because it’s a book aimed primarily (but certainly not exclusively) at first-time moms, I included an example about homemade organic baby food.

Rather than silently beat yourself up about the fact that you’re the only one in Gymboree class who doesn’t feed her Diapered Darling the self-puréed stuff, I wrote, “you could say something like, ‘Wow, if all the other Gymboree moms are feeding their kids homemade organic baby food, maybe it’s easier than I thought. I’ll check out some recipes online when I get home. It just might be the perfect excuse to to get that food processor I’ve been eyeing at Williams-Sonoma.’”

My goal, in that chapter and in that example, was to help us build our reframing muscles, and shore up our mental defenses against internal negativity. Because we need to be able to do that, all of us, new moms and seasoned pros alike.

But this morning, in reading Prime Time by my gorge idol Jane F, I’ve learned that reframing is not only mentally important, it’s massively physically important too.

Here’s the CliffsNotes recap about why: When we bring a lot negativity into our thoughts about a situation, past or present, and allow ourselves to respond in an angry, threatened or sad way, we unleash chemicals and hormones that harm our bodies.

It’s a little science-y, but it has to do with neurons, those nerve cells that send signals pinging all over us.

By reframing, per Fonda, we can develop entirely new neural pathways, which will help us age more successfully. And even if you’re only in your 20s or 30s (and not a still-stunning 74, like Fonda), who doesn’t want that?

“If we can learn to assign new meanings to stressful situations, we can actually avoid the biochemical and hormonal reactions that cause damage to our systems, especially with age,” Fonda writes. “Recent cognitive research shows that our ability to change our attitudes and behaviors manifest neurogically, as well.”

I don’t know about you, but that gives me such a sense of control over my physical destiny – via my internal dialogue. And on that note, I’m going running – my favorite mind | body form of exercise. Happy Saturday, my lovelies.

In consulting my geeky fitness log, I see that I’ve worked out 169 times in 2011.

Pretty good, right? Not as good as last year – 195 – but then I was on a mad quest to get to 200 workouts. (To new readers who may be aghast that I keep a fitness log: I have no life, and admit so freely.)

But here’s the problem: According to my trusty little notebook, the last time I exercised – I ran outdoors – was on 11/25.

November 25 was a really, really long time ago. If you’re trying to stay fit, which I am, it’s an eternity.

My meditation sessions have been spotty too. Not as spotty, but spotty all the same.

So what’s my lame-ass story? Well, I can absolutely trace the origins of my sloth to that gnarly post-Thanksgiving stomach virus I had a few weeks back.

But still, what the hell? That was ages ago. Plus, it was pretty short-lived. I was fully back to my perky self circa 12/1.

And here we are, two weeks later.

I guess I can also “blame” the fact that I’ve been working in the city three days a week, plus the other two days here. And that I had to whip this house into Martha Stewart-level perfection for our holiday party last weekend.

But that’s all BS, and I know that. Je detest excuses. That’s because I’m convinced that we all make time for exactly what we want to make time for.

Case in point: Have I missed a single episode of RHOBH or Boardwalk Empire in the past three weeks? Of course I haven’t.

So, obvi, when it comes to all this taking-primo-care-of-myself stuff, I get in good ruts and I get in bad ruts.

And today, I’m officially pushing myself back into a good rut. I’ll have lots of time off from work for Xmas, and we’re landlocked here in Joisy for the holidays, so there is literally no excuse not to get back in the groove.

I always think of the “virtuous circle” concept when I need to shore up my resolve around keeping the chubbies – and the crazies and stress that come from not meditating – at bay. I’ve kind of invented my own definition of a virtuous circle, because it’s primarily an economic term. But in Momover Lady Lexicon, it’s essentially “the more good things you do for yourself, the more good things you want to do for yourself.”

There’s a lovely domino effect, in that you’re less likely to undo that 30-minute session on the Elliptical with a crummy Twinkie. Or, my personal bête noire: Kettle Chips – in almost any flavor, they’re all impossibly delish.

Alrighty, today’s the day I hop off the Excuses Express and climb back on to the Wellness Wagon. Wish me luck.

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.

Okay, I am like sooo confused right now.

I was about to kick off this blog post by proclaiming my profound love for my QLink pendant, which I’ve worn around my neck like a freaking vampire amulet every night for the last six years.

I’m addicted to that sucker, and I am – or at least I was – convinced that it was not only helping me sleep better, but also creating a force-field around me by blocking the electromagnetic waves from the clock radio, the flatscreen and the umpteen portable devices Hubby keeps under his pillow.

(I’m not kidding; when he can’t sleep, he fires up his little MacBook Air and scrolls through a vast control panel of blogs and websites. Thus, he’s insanely up on current events. He isn’t particularly well-rested, but he’s definitely dialed-in to the imminent collapse of the euro.)

But back to my confusion about my precious QLink, and my faltering faith in humanity.

Dramatic pause.

I was gifted a QLink when I was on staff at Cookie. And after getting over my initial skepticism that it could change my life, I gave it a shot. And since then, I’ve completely bought into the notion that it reduces stress, increases focus and concentration and protects me from the evils of the high-tech world. I have it on right now, as a matter of fact, because I’m convinced it “helps” me write.

But it’s not like I think about it 24/7; if you consider something deeply awesome, and you wear it like a freaking vampire amulet every night of your life, do you constantly research it? No, actually, you don’t.

In writing about it for you Momoverettes, however, I have to hold myself to a higher standard. And as it turns out, there are all these stories on the World Wide Interweb and YouTube about how QLink is a scam.

Of course, there’s also this piece by the BBC that suggests that it is in fact not a scam. Still, it ends on a very imprecise note, something along the lines of: “We need to do more research.”

Despite all the nay saying, I intend to keep cluelessly wearing my QLink, as it has a lovely placebo effect on me. Though I suspect that the placebo effect doesn’t really work if the cat is out of the proverbial bag. Which it is now. Damn it.

Now, finally, to the main gist of today’s epic electromagnetic masterpiece: Cell phones, and the fact that they’re really, really bad for us.

Luckily, I detest cell phones. Always have. Hubby too. We both can’t stand them. Give us an old-fashioned landline any day. Or better yet, shoot us an email.

I can’t tell you how many times my pals and other family members have bitched at me because I never have my phone turned on. Most of the time I don’t even know where it is. Of course I make a concerted effort to track it down right before school ends, so the nanny can send me her daily text message about where she and the Wee Lass are gallivanting off to. But for the most part, I just consider it a massive annoyance.

For all the normal, sane mamas out there who don’t detest cell phones, I do urge you to reduce your usage. If you can’t – or won’t – do that, at least consider:

1. Switching to text messaging as much as possible, and reserving the big, gossipy chit-chats for your landline (assuming you still have one)

2. Nabbing this inexpensive retro handset, which even gorgeous Gwynnie digs and regularly attaches to her BlackBerry specifically to cut down on emissions

3. Shifting the phone from ear to ear throughout your call, so one side of your head doesn’t get completely blasted with radiation (sorry to be so graphic)

4. Reading this informative article that has several more ways you can lighten your electromagnetic load

There, I feel better. I didn’t lead you down the QLink garden path, and I shared some tips that might help you tame the electromagnetic monster.

Not to head straight into TMI territory, but I’ve been semi-violently ill for the last 36 hours. I know – you’re either violently ill or you’re not violently ill. And if you can tap out a blog post, Momover Lady, you’re probably in the latter camp.

But can’t you just let me wallow in “semi-violent” self-pity for a few minutes? Can’t you give me that much? After all we’ve been through?

Since I’m on the mend, kinda sorta (I think a great night’s sleep will work wonders), my primary concern is that the Wee Lass and Hubby don’t get sick too. That would make me sad. Plus, it would turn our daily life on its ass, and I’m never a fan of that.

But it’s times like this that make me realize what a complete wimp I am. At the slightest hint of a malady, I’m diving through the medical literature and websites, conjuring worst-case scenarios. And when I’m not doing that, I daydream, fondly, of the Magical Place Where I Feel Great, and long to go back there immediately. In short, I’m a really lame sicko. I wish I were a brave sicko, but I’m not.

Last night, as I tossed and turned because my stomach was in agony, I at least had the decency to think: What about all the mamas out there who are in chronic pain? One of my best buds recently had a six-day migraine. Six. Days. And another has been embroiled in a brutal battle with breast cancer for the last two years. Two. Years.

I would like to think that I’d rise to the occasion should something serious crop up. My little family deserves that much, right? I do all this stuff to stay healthy, but so much of everyday life – like germ-transmission and food-borne illness from eating meals outside your home – is beyond our control.

I don’t want to be a paranoid Bubble Girl, although, after reading this stomach flu website, at least I know I’d have plenty of company. I was pretty amazed at the elaborate steps some moms take to try to stop the runaway sicko train in its tracks. Perhaps, if the Wee Lass and Hubby catch what I have, I’ll be wishing I’d burned the sheets and towels too.

But for now, I’m just going to hit the hay and hope for the best. Nighty night.

Forgive me, dear reader, as  I toggle back and forth between two super duper important topics today: 1) The painfully slow, but actually happening, redecoration of my home office and 2) my newly re-upped discipline around meditation, and how it’s already having a positive impact on my life.

Why the toggling? Because, as you’ll soon glean, the two super duper important topics are entwined, much like turkey and stuffing. (I didn’t go too nutso on Thanskgiving, by the way, and I’ll trust you didn’t either. A minute on the lips, a lifetime on the hips…)

First, stare hard at the gorgeous image above. That, I’m happy to say, will soon be mounted on my office wall. It’s called “Storm Rolls In” and was shot by photographer Jodi Cobb off the coast of Alabama. If you’re into gloomy, dangerous ocean – as I obvi am – I think you’ll agree that it is a stunning picture. Bad things are about to happen, and the muddy navy and gray hues are spectacular.

I bought the 40 X 30 version, and as soon as Hubby paints the “accent wall” behind it (in “Geyser” by Martha Stewart Living, a decidedly uncheerful teal), I will bid adieu to the current artwork residing there -  a quartet of watercolors of Duchess of Devonshire types nabbed from Tepper Galleries – and put it in storage for our eventual move to the New England version of Barbie’s Dream House. I’ve loved having my fashionable, fan-wielding ladies around to keep me company while I work, and in the future, I can envision a chic little sitting area with them as the backdrop. But right now, it’s time to pack them up and dive into the ocean.

Which brings me to my meditation practice.

I’ve blogged previously about my borderline addiction to ocean meditation CDs, as well as my tendency to gaze at the crashing surf on YouTube. As much as I dig those, however, and as much as I consider meditation to be a prime source of mental and physical health, my own “practice” has been spotty in the past year. Thus, endless guilt. I know meditation is incredibly healthy, so exactly why haven’t I been doing it on a regular basis?

Well, for my birthday earlier in the month, I made precisely one resolution: To meditate every day, even if it’s only for a few minutes before my concentration sputters and I’m mentally rocketed back into my busy life. From researching the meditation chapter in Momover book, I’d learned that it’s very much about ass in seat (or on a schmancy meditation cushion) every day. Better to meditate a little daily than to attempt some monster session once a month.

The everyday approach helps you to get into the zone that much more quickly, and also to provide a tiny dose of the relaxation that meditating is so great at imparting. Breaking up your daily stress cycle – that constant churn of having to do this, and having to do that – is key to building your immune system, and just generally helping you feel like you have the world by the you-know-whats.

My daily practice entails listening to my current fave ocean meditation CD while I move through a number of sea-themed tableaux. I’m at the top of a gorgeous, Architectural Digest-worthy lighthouse, with a 360-degree view of a roiling Arctic Ocean; I’m in Hawaii, watching the surf crash into a cave formed by lava flow; I’m sitting on the beach at a resort in Bora Bora, gazing out at a thatch-roofed hut; etc., etc.

There are more images I “visit” – beaches I’ve actually been to, shoreline I actually know – and sometimes those work their way in too. And since I’ve been keeping a log (I know; I’m so OCD with my logs and journals), I can see that I’ve been steadily increasing the time I spend moving through these “seascapes” in my sessions. (I don’t set a timer, although I know many other meditators do.)

But here’s what I’ve been pondering: Is what I’m doing meditating? Or visualizing? And should I care? Is one somehow “better” than the other?

When I field-tripped to the Blum Center for Health a while back, and took a guided meditation with Elizabeth Greig, director of the Mind Body Spirit program, she told me that what I do is basically a mashup of meditating and visualizing, “and it sounds great.” I was encouraged by that, and still am.

If we’re splitting hairs, meditation is “passive” thought awareness, and visualization is “active” thought awareness. But visualization, as I’m sure you’re aware, can also help you achieve goals by helping you form an intense vision of something you want to manifest. (This is the best book of all time on visualization; if you don’t already own a copy, buy one stat.)

But what I’m doing in my walk-in closet, eyes closed and earphones on, isn’t visualization in the classic sense. Why? Because I don’t really want to live in a lighthouse, even one as posh and luxe as the one I’ve created in my head. And maybe I’ll get to Bora Bora with Hubby at some point, maybe I won’t.

Nope, I just like to visit every day. Surf in a little stressed or distracted, and surf out relaxed, refreshed and Zen.

Before anyone gets their knickers in a twist and starts going all Occupy Wall Street on me, let me just state upfront that this blog post is mostly aimed at preggos and new moms who have a bit of disposable income at their….disposal. Maybe not Petra Ecclestone-level dough, but definitely a bit of pocket change.

I know people get really pissed about that these days; I can’t tell you how many blogosphere wrist slaps I’ve gotten for admitting I belong to Harry & David’s Organic Fruit Of The Month Club. Sheesh, the venom. You’d have thought I’d traded the Wee Lass for a Birkin.

Anyway, the only reason I’m being so gauche as to discuss money is that I’m about to tell you about a very smart – if indulgent – plan called FIT MOM that can help you ace your pregnancy and | or new mommyhood feeling vibrant and energetic and up to the challenge. That’s really important. Given how much our hyped-up, modern lives have cut us off from a more natural, slower approach to having babies and recuperating postpartum, a qualified support team can be a godsend.

So first, I’d like to tell you the specifics of FIT MOM, which is brought to you by FITiST, the members-only “one-stop booking website for wellness and fitness,” based in New York and L.A., that offers a range of curated regimens and access to many top fitness studios and spas. Then I’ll summarize some very useful advice I got from the press event to launch the program.

FIT MOM

Monthly Plan

* 12 classes customized by Pregnancy Fitness Expert Andrea Orbeck. Via Skype, Andrea will tailor a program perfectly suited to your body, goals, lifestyle and needs.
* Weekly nutrition advice from Dr. Oz Garcia
* One private yoga session
* Caudalie Limited Edition Spa in a Bag: Tone and Slim Collection
* Price: $525 for New Yorkers; $440 for Los Angelenos

FIT MOM PRESS EVENT

There was a panel of super-smarties at the press event, including Orbeck, whom I’d never met before, and celeb nutritionist Oz Garcia, whom I’ve known for years and have blogged about several times. Rounding out the group were Pilates whiz Brooke Siler; yogi Kristin McGee and Mathilde Thomas, co-founder of the lovely French skincare brand Caudalie.

Here, excellent preggo + postpartum tips from each:

1. Andrea Orbeck: Having whipped Heidi Klum into shape after baby number four (!), Andrea is known as “the Pied Piper of sexy bottoms and long, lean legs.” She’s all about re-orging your fitness routine to fit your new post-newborn life. Only have 10 minutes to work out? Go for it, no excuses. “Intensity is a surrogate for duration,” she says. “You have to re-invent and be creative,” breaking one long mega-session into do-able chunks.

2. Oz Garcia: I felt vindicated when Oz mentioned that pregnancy can wreak havoc on our thyroids. Since my own GP scoffed when I posited this theory, I loved hearing this über wellness guru basically tell me that I wasn’t insane. According to Oz, a lot of what gets diagnosed as postpartum depression may in fact be thyroiditis. So to that end, he suggests that every new mom who isn’t feel up to snuff get her thyroid tested. Wearing his nutritionist’s hat, Oz urges a largely plant-based diet, with a bit of low-mercury seafood thrown into the mix (or fish oil capsules) for the omega 3 essential fatty acids they provide. “Eat small,” he says, “trout, bass, grouper, salmon and sardines.” Other healthy musts: Nuts, lentils, beans. But if you’re pregnant, he says, stay the hell away from coffee. Caffeine easily leaps the placental barrier, and you don’t want to subject your little Miss or Mister to that.

3. Brooke Siler: A Pilates pioneer of sorts – not that she isn’t totally young and amazing! – Brooke says to make the playground your new fitness studio. In other words, instead of sitting on that bench yakking with the nannies and checking your CrackBerry, do some pull ups on the monkey bars, or run a few laps around the perimeter. Just move it. Also: If you’ve never done Pilates before, pregnancy is not the time to start. Wait until you’ve delivered – and fully recuperated – before you embark on a beginner program. Another cute tip: Use your baby as a weight for squats. Trust me, they’ll love it.

4. Kristin McGee: While standing balance poses can really help shore up your confidence around carrying your ever-growing bundle of joy, McGee says that Plank, an all-over toner that’s fairly easy to execute, is pretty much her desert island must-have move. And to keep your energy high, she recommends keeping an empty Altoids tin packed with almonds.

5. Mathilde Thomas: To prevent the dreaded “mask of pregnancy,” Mathilde says SPF is crucial. And make sure to OD on body moisturizer, despite the fact that your face might actually be producing more oil during pregnancy and require a lighter formula. Not gaining too much weight while pregnant is also a great idea, she says. I happen to agree with her. But bear in mind she’s French, and as we all know, French women don’t get fat.

More on Mathilde in an upcoming blog post. I’m going to visit the gorge Caudalie spa at the Plaza Hotel, so I’ll report back on my yummy experience. Just because the Wee Lass is pushing six doesn’t mean I don’t need to pamper myself, oui?

I just read two excellent pieces on the borderline-tragic phenom of mothers who can’t sleep. One was in the New York Times, and corralled a number of different voices, many of whom discussed their more-than-occasional reliance on OTC and prescription meds. The other, in the November issue of Town & Country, is an intensely researched first-person account written by a good pal and former work colleague of mine, LA-based journalist Christine Lennon.

Both articles pull no punches about the negative impact our kids have on our nightly Zzzzzs. Whether they’re beseeching us to come check under their bed for monsters, or simply – through their very existence – cramming our heads so full of data that we can’t shut down when we need to, there’s virtually no question that they’re doing a number on our deep sleep.

Thankfully, I don’t have the first half of that problem; the Wee Lass is a champion snoozer and almost never wakes up during the night. But I’m absolutely part of the “three a.m. club” referenced in the Times, the growing horde of moms who nod off easily, but then wake up – and stay up – in the dead of night.

Most of my insomnia can be placed neatly into two little boxes – it’s either hormonal (and so cyclical I can practically map it on a calendar) or situational, i.e., some minor life-drama is upsetting me to such a degree that it wakes me up so I can “solve” it. What a crock. I’ve never solved one damn thing at 3 a.m., except maybe a craving for DoubleStufs or ginger ale.

Christine’s struggle to get more shut-eye led her to test-drive a gizmo called a Zeo Sleep Manager, which monitors the amount of time you spend in the REM state vs. the fragmented, light stuff that doesn’t do jack for making you feel rested. And immediately, she started trying to beat her score from the previous night. The chief way she did this: By prioritizing her sleep over the zillions of diversions and distractions that shortcircuit our eight to nine good solid hours.

In the sleep chapter of my Momover book, I’m positively evangelical about sleep-prioritization. When we treat it with the respect it deserves, I say, it will pay huge, massive physical and emotional dividends. And I completely practice what I preach; I’m usually in bed by 9, and completely zonked out by 10.

The trick, for me, isn’t unplugging as much as it is staying unplugged.

In an effort to Zen up my bedroom, I just gave my nightstand a complete overhaul. It’s one of those cabinet-with-a-door numbers, with tons of space underneath for books. And since I’m a huge reader – and I’m forever sampling a few pages of this and a few pages of that – it was crammed with a vast assortment of fiction, non-fiction and memoirs.

But I made an executive decision that almost all of the non-fiction – especially the business | career books – were getting the boot out of my bedroom. I’m on the fence about some of the memoirs. If they’re too depressing and disturbing (that means you Glass Castle and Lit), they need to find a new home on a shelf in another room. If they’re quasi-uplifting, like A Place of Yes, they can stick around. For now. But at the slightest hint of doom and gloom, they’re gone.

So what stays? A pile of thrillers and chillers I’ve started, stopped and started again, including Paris Requiem and the boxed set by the Game of Thrones dude; my precious Seaside Knitters mysteries, and books on spirituality and meditation, especially if they’re soothing, like 5 Good Minutes in the Evening. Also making the cut: Trippy stuff about karma and the afterlife.

The big idea: To lift myself out of the mental rat race and go someplace else for a while. And then drift off, with a tank full of dream-fuel that has absolutely nada to do with tomorrow’s To Do list.