One of my friends in Boca had a Facebook status update that went a little somethin’ like this:

“Lea comes home and tells me another kid put a booger and saliva on her arm today but don’t worry she wiped it off with a paper towel! Can you say bleach! Ewwww”

I read this in my room and couldn’t keep from hopping up, off to the playroom to consult with one of Lea’s classmates: Abigail. It was just a gut instinct KNOW.

“Abigail,” I say, “do you happen to know if anyone wiped boogers and saliva on Lea’s arm today?” I could tell by her face the answer was yes. But her mouth wasn’t as quick to the cut.
“What, like did you get a note sent home or something?” Her hand had been on her hip but slid down as she spoke, leaving her looking down into the confused finger web she was about to weave.
“Abigail, did you do that to Lea? You can always tell Mama the truth; you know that right?”
“Yes,” she whined.
“Yes, to which part? Yes, you know you can tell me anything or yes, you were the one to wipe boogies and saliva on Lea?”
“Both,” she said in a low voice. I crouched beside her and asked if she’d like me to wipe my boogies and saliva on her. It was a risky question because depending on the day, these kids might think gross.. but also awesome. There was a possibility that she’d respond, “Yes, may I pick which arm?”

Thankfully, she admitted that she wouldn’t like it, that she was just trying to be funny. That she was only playing. I mentioned germs and hands to ourselves without mentioning lady-like behavior because that term sucks and pigeonholes girls. “So what are you going to do about this, Miss?”

“I won’t do it again.”
Great, but how does your friend Lea know that?
“I can call her or write her a letter to tell her I’m sorry.”
“I think that’s a wonderful idea. Saying sorry isn’t always easy for people to do, but we all make mistakes, every one of us. The best thing you can do is admit what you did wrong, so you can learn from it.” I set her up with her notebook and pencil at the kitchen table, watching as she sounded out her words. “You’re doing a really good thing by being aware of your behavior and working to be better behaved and also by letting someone else know that you care about how they feel. I’m proud of this Abigail. Not of bad manners but for apologizing the way you are. You’re a good egg.”

“Mama, I’m not an egg. I mean seriously.”

Our talk had me thinking about apologies, how I used to believe they were really only good for those doing the apologizing. To be on the receiving end, they can be “just words.” But if you do it right, from your heart, where you truly show how much you wish you could take it back, they have got to know it’s way more than words because they can see the weight of it on you. We should all take that lesson from the sandbox. Be quick to apologize and mean it.

In response to my friend’s status update, I replied: “OMG, I just asked Abigail if it was her, and she said, ‘What did you get a note home or something?’ Yes, dear. It’s called Facebook. Bleach is right. Sorry!”

Friend: “LMAO!! I was not going to give names or say anything ever! Just thought was quite the story. I’m cracking up. No worries, we scrubbed away! :)”

So when the day comes that Abigail can’t believe I posted the contents of this precious apology, I won’t be offering up a sorry. Because this right here is the good stuff.

All I really wanted for Mommy Day was a necklace made of plastic beads and macaroni, something I could wear with an evening gown to feel a little Overboard, a la Goldie Hawn. This want felt like it had grown up from Mother’s Days past, where all I really wanted was a gold charm bracelet, or bangles and baubles, or anything really from one of the many “Gifts to Celebrate Mom on Mother’s Day” magazine or web lists. Every year I feel disappointed that Phil didn’t write a card, didn’t have the kids make cards, did nothing more than make brunch reservations. I didn’t want to feel disappointment this year, so I told the kids that it was Mother’s Day Weekend, that they could cram in as much mom love as possible, in song and otherwise. Especially, I stressed, when said mom love could involve homemade waffles… with mini chocolate chips. Throwing in the detail of the chips makes them full-speed-ahead kids, ready with cheers and the insistence that they make me breakfast in bed, knowing that the chips will fall where they may (into their wee bellies). I printed out the recipe come Friday night. But when Phil and I returned from picking the kids up from gymnastics Friday night, he went into bed to rest, as I began to measure waffle ingredients. “I’ve made the batter,” I tell him, leaving the bowl on the counter with the remaining instructions and waffle iron. The batter sits on the counter overnight, with the yeast left to rise and double. Come morning, eggs and baking soda are added, then blueberries or chips.

Making batter for your own surprise breakfast in bed is like picking out the engagement ring before he proposes. It made me sad that I had to be involved to get what it was that I really wanted. If I really wanted the macaroni necklaces, it wasn’t enough to hint at it four times. No. I’d have to set the kids up at a table with string and beads and a box of noodles, otherwise, forget it. And that sucks. It sucks that I have expectations. It sucks that I want certain things and the only way to get them is to do it myself. Which is like buying your own jewelry. Even when you wear it, you always know you were the one who had a hand in it all, that on some level you forced it, stepped beyond hint into help. It’s just not the same.

I want to say that I appreciated everything just as it was, but I didn’t. There were no framed photos for a wall, no noodle necklaces or home projects with the help of dad. There was a bouquet of dyed flowers from the supermarket, bought not for me, but for the required “bring a flower to school for teacher appreciation week.” Maybe it’s just because of what I’m going through now with the latest health news–though I doubt it–but I felt undervalued. No gifts, no flowers, no cards, no photo or homemade gifts. Waffles of my own making.

If I have expectations that run too high, it’s because I grew up with this, with a father who always bought my mother flowers, special ones from a florist, bought cards and gave presents, engraved or otherwise. My grandfather, too, always celebrated my grandmother on holidays and ordinary days, with gift wrap and planning. They were spoiled. Or so it always seemed. Perhaps these women had to buy their own cards (the thought of this makes me cry), or perhaps they had to buy their own jewelry or put their children in a playroom, supervising sentiment. Maybe these things shouldn’t matter to me, but they do. Because I want to feel cherished by my husband, to know that he planned and schemed and made the effort at extra special that he knows matter most to me.

He made reservations and cooked my waffles. This isn’t the kind of disappointment I’d usually admit. But I’m feeling sorry for myself, despite all my blessings. I feel let down, as if I’m a spoiled brat who never sees the positive in things. Chooses not to focus on the fact that my husband took the time to research a restaurant I’d like for Mother’s day, that he made the reservations weeks in advance at a place with west coast oysters (my favorite) and lobster rolls and Blue Crab Eggs Benedict. I should focus on what I do have, that my family wanted more than anything to snuggle in bed with me. But instead I’ve chosen to feel sorry for myself and to blame and stew over what? In the grand scheme of things what does it even matter? Things don’t, but gestures do. But perhaps even with the gestures I’d then still want more, want things. And if there were things wrapped in gift paper, in velvet boxes, then perhaps I’d complain that there weren’t enough gestures. Maybe what I need to work most on is to be thankful for whatever it is I do have. Though while I try to do this, it’s very hard to look away from what I can’t see. That’ll take some work. I’m just not sure it’s the kind of thing one should be working toward, lowering her expectations. It’s just nothing I can imagine ever convincing my children to do for themselves. “Lower your expectations, so you won’t feel disappointment,” sounds like the shittiest advice ever. It’s advice I’ve heard from life gurus on tapes, but it’s advice I’ve never been able to stand behind… advice I seem to keep stepping in.

Instead, especially in light of my latest health news, I should be thankful that I’m even able to celebrate Mother’s Day, that I am in fact a mother with healthy children. I should be thankful that we can afford such a holiday brunch, that we were all together, safe, able to make toasts and laugh and love on each other. I need to be thankful of these gifts instead of wanting others, wanting things that in the end mean nothing. And that’s something to remember.

I’ve been talking to the universe (again). Alone in my car I’ll say, “So, universe, listen up.” Then I’ll continue, aloud, for a decent stretch, the way one would shoot the shit with a sister. Though I try to get to the damn point already, in case the universe has ADD.

Since I share this freely, I might as well disclose that I also make a point of visualizing things each morning and last thing I do before sleep. I don’t actually see anything, but I try to imagine myself in the life setting I want. Then—wait for it—I speak in present tense, as if I’m already living the life I desire.

With whatever it is I want, I speak as if I already have it. I don’t just speak it, I visualize it and imagine myself in it, hoping to feel at least a little of the “giddy.” For me, giddy is the feeling I most want to experience. Monetary freedom, for example, isn’t a feeling. Carefree and breezy, feelings (and a creative weather forecast).

“Amazing,” I say from my current kitchen, “I could choose to read this cookbook in my white library room, the sun soaked one that still manages to keep reliably cool and glare free, the one with floor to ceiling bookshelves and a rolling ladder, right there down the hall. Choice is up to me.” Imagining that I actually have this option stirs something up in me. Kick in the step, swagger in the walk, ass in the shake (ass comes first when we’re talking this much ass).

I imagine and speak in specific details, for example, of my kitchen, the one with the surround sound and flat-paneled TV that pulls out from the ceiling into which it’s built. The very one near my espresso bar station.

Lately our little talks have been about health. Not my health, actually, but of those very close to me who’ve been struggling. People I love dearly, people who show up in my dreams. They’ve been going through some tough things. I speak as if they’re already well, then visualize them surrounded by healing golden light, in a bubble of it, radiating nourishment and healing… just to keep them so healthy, see?

Today, after meeting with a reproductive endocrinologist and being handed the news that yes, I am, in premature menopause, and yes the bone density tests reveal that I have mild hip osteopenia (T score of -1.54) and a normal to low spinal T score of (-1.26), I got into my car and summoned the universe to listen up but good. Then, I said, “Thank you.” Seriously.

“No, it’s not the greatest news here, but it truly could be so much worse. Thank you for guiding me into that doctor’s office when you did, so they were able to discover this now, not ten years from now. I’m already healthy and strong, and this really will only make me stronger. Do I love the idea of “bioidentical hormone replacement therapy?” Of course not. I am terrified of this option and don’t know what my other options are. Have there even been any studies of women in their 30s and HRT? Not that I’ve found. “Pig,” I’ve heard before. But “Guinea Pig” is in a whole other league.

All this in combination with anti-osteoporosis drugs like Atelvia or Actonel for my bones, which I believe with long term use creates micro-fractures. This is scary and it sucks, but. But it could be life-threatening news, and I’m deeply thankful that it’s not.

Maybe this happened to me so I could write about it and reach someone who might otherwise have taken longer to drag her vag into the gyn. “She’ll then thank you universe, for having me go through this (even though it sounds kind of evil, I know it’s not). That’s what we’re here for right? To serve, to give of ourselves, to share for a greater good; we’re all connected, parts of the same thing, a part of you universe, or God, or whatever created our existence. So, thank you. Now you can make a note that I’ve received the message and there’s no reason to give me any more shit to write about.”

AMH blood testing will confirm the premature menopause one way or another, but based on the magic wand up the crotch maneuver, today’s ultrasound, where my girly gadgets were measured, gave the reproductive endocrinologist a better picture of what’s going on. And what’s going on is NOT poly-cystic ovaries. “What I’m seeing here looks consistent with menopause. There are no cysts. Nothing.”

“So, I should just assume I’m in premature menopause, without needing the AMH test results?”

“Yeah, pretty much.”

Then we talked cause to this unusual effect. What could have caused this, for me to be 1 in 250 women to go into premature menopause? Genetic and thyroid and attacking ovarian antibody tests have been ordered, more blood drawn, results to follow… IN TWO FCUKING WEEKS.

“You do realize I have to live with this woman,” Phil said to the doctor.

“I will drive him crazy, it’s true,” I said. Though, he will get off easy, being in New York for another two weeks beginning on the night of Mother’s Day. Still, I can be very “present” over the phone.

“Okay, how about this? If anything comes across my desk before then, anything major, I will call you before our May 25th appointment?”

Oh, joy. I’m turning off my phone now. Er, I mean, “I am already well.” They will find nothing in these blood tests. No underlying autoimmune or genetic disorders. Right people? Go on, please say it aloud for me, okay?

“She’s totally normal, ______ (Universe, G-d, Great Creator. Insert your favorite flavor)… for a woman who talks to herself as much as she does.”

May 25. You’ve got to hang in there with my crazy until then. After I shut off my phone, I’m going back to my dream kitchen to make foods, which according to my Five-Elements Acupuncturist sister, “draw out the damp.” A wing and a prayer, people.

Also, something near my heart or my actual heart has been feeling funky. Maybe it’s a pulled muscle or something on the surface, from where my laptop pokes into me when it slides up as I type with the laptop on my stomach. So tomorrow I have an appointment scheduled with Phil’s cardiologist. Let the good times roll. Next week I’ll schedule a mammogram, just to get it all over with at once. Then I’ll go shopping for jeans and bathing suits.

Like I said, if you’re reading this, it could be because you’re supposed to. So get yourself current with your doctors and blood tests, just for piece of mind. And send this on to your own loved ones because this universe might want to get in touch with someone through the shit it’s making me go through. So let this body of mine do another body good.

I was in a parking lot this morning, head between my legs. I don’t actually think this is supposed to help with fainting, but I think I saw it on the Brady Bunch, or watched my mother do it at some point. I had to pull the car over. I was on the phone with my doctor; blood results were in and I felt the prickling sweat, my stomach rising, head light.

“Well the good news is that your cholesterol is excellent. 186. But.” Here it is. “But your FSH levels are still in the menopausal range. With polycystic ovaries, which is what we thought you had, the FSH levels usually return to normal when treated with birth control. But you’ve been on birth control for the past three months, and your FSH is still in the menopausal range, which isn’t good. Because once menopause happens your bone density goes down hill from there. So, I’m suggesting that you come in for a bone density test, which we normally don’t give until 45 or 50. You’re 36, and we need to see if you’re already…” Then he mentioned something related to osteoporosis. “You told me you’re not trying to have more kids, which is good. Because if you wanted to, you’d probably have to use a donor egg.” What is happening? Why is my body breaking down while I’m so young? My mother didn’t go into menopause until she was 52. “So, we’ll do a bone density test and then likely do hormone replacement therapy, because you really don’t want things going down hill at 36.” No?

May 15, bone density test scheduled followed by a consult, where he’ll likely talk to me about hormone replacement therapy. I am beyond. I don’t even know how to go from there. I am beyond. I’m just trying to breathe, to not faint, to remind myself that it can always be worse. But what I really want to know is what’s causing this? I didn’t realize quite how blessed I was to have these precious children, from my own eggs. I mean, I did, but not in this context.

I call my mother, head still between my knees. The kids in the back seat carrying on, harping out tunes, pushing, hitting, laughing. I tell her. She tells me she wouldn’t do hormone replacement therapy. “I hear it can cause cancer, and you’d be taking it for YEARS. Your grandmother had breast cancer, it’s in your family history; you can’t discount that. I would get a second opinion.”

A second opinion won’t change my FSH levels. “No, but a different doctor might have other suggestions, maybe a change in diet or exercise. I don’t know. Look, people get estimates on their houses, second and third opinions. You should at least do that with your own body.” I hate this.

To top it all off, Lucas is sick with a cough that hacks away until he vomits on the table (just happened again this morning). He can’t go to school like that, even though he has all the energy and wants desperately to play. Worse still, I’ve caught his cold and feel sick and irritable, short tempered, and want to get the fuck away from everyone. But I can’t. Phil is in New York. I have no relief. I want to hide under my covers and pretend this away. Instead, I’ll take Lucas back to the doctor because I can’t take this, hearing him suffer and cough all day. But I know this, at least, is temporary. Menopause at 36 isn’t. How is this happening?

I will also add this. Why, for the love of gravy, do they have to call it ovary FAILURE? I mean how totally negative. No one wants the word FAILURE attached to their identity. Why isn’t it called ovary GRADUATION? And I will try an endocrinologist. As I just said to Dulce over the phone, “I doubt they’re going to tell me anything worse than what I’m now being told, so really, what do I have to lose? It’s like taking the SAT twice. Where only your best score is revealed to schools. So here’s hoping to a better score. I never thought I’d say this, but here’s hoping I become “completely dense” from here on out.

I just dug up this post from my archives (I still can’t believe I’ve been blogging for over eight years now) because for the past few days I keep circling back to this message; I’ve been hearing it everywhere. Perhaps it’s topical, presenting itself to me as a reminder to apply these learnings to my marriage. And perhaps I’m meant to share this again with you because you need to hear it.

Watching Oprah’s Life Class the other day, I heard the “Fake It To Make It” message once again. Keisha, a woman who chose to adopt her incarcerated brother’s little boy expressed her deep resentment toward her nephew, a hearing impaired child with Diabetes. He was hungry for her affections, and she confessed that she was at war with herself because while she didn’t want to damage this sweet boy, she also was deeply resentful, hating having to sacrifice, and didn’t want to hug him or give him the affection he so often craved. She wanted to find love elsewhere, wanted to pursue her degree in medicine, and he got in the way of her plans. Brave woman to admit to that truth. Intellectually, of course she realized he didn’t deserve any of this, that he deserved only love, but she couldn’t get past her feelings of “This isn’t fair! I never would’ve signed up for this had I known.” At one point, Oprah addressed the audience to remind viewers to look within their own lives, not at Keisha’s, and figure out where they are ignoring the love that’s right in front of them for the taking. Keisha was looking for someone to love, to start a real life, oblivious to the fact that this boy was that someone she could love. Yes, she wanted romantic love, a partner, but it was coming at her in a different form. The little boy, Oprah said, was there to help her open up some heart space. Bishop T.D. Jakes’s advice to Keisha was to fake it, that the feelings would come. Fake it to make it. I felt myself nodding.

Belief follows behavior. Sometimes you have to force yourself to invest in the choices you’ve made and to make the most of your situation. It can’t hurt to at least try. It was the message I needed to hear this week. Fake it to make it in every aspect of your life. Your job, your love life, even your health…

I took a Health Psychology class in college, where I learned, among other things, about the power of positive (and craptastic) thinking, particularly its impact on our health. I already knew that imagining myself making contact with the ball on a softball field would improve my chances of slamming the thing for real. That we can literally practice in our mind, visualizing it happening, and studies have proven that it works.

I also knew, as a writer, that I could elicit a physical response from words alone.
With just a paragraph of description, with nothing but imagery and words, we can cause a physical reaction. Simply describing, for example, the texture of a lemon, its pores, and slightly green tip. The resistance of a knife as it cleaves through the skin, cleanly. The sound of the knife pushing forward on the wooden board. The way the halves rock and teeter, laid out on their sides. How some of the seeds are left whole, small winks hiding beneath the translucent pockets of sour. Wiping the knife blade clean of the acrid juices, and that first squirt, clean and bright, a spray. Then pulling a wedge to my lips, taking that quick first lick, just to test, and the wince that comes after that first sharp taste, a sting and burn, and a bloom of saliva from the back of your jaws.

I could salivate just from reading it, a physical response to imagery. Then I studied the Placebo Effect, “the power of healing that can stem simply from a patient’s belief that a treatment will be effective.” Basically in a randomized and double-blind study, patients were divided into two groups: one received actual medication, and the other group was given a look-alike placebo pill. The study was double-blind, meaning not just the patients, but the doctors too had no idea which was which. And all the patients believed the pill would help them… and it did. Just the belief that it was working improved the patients’ health. This could be the reason so many people believe in the effectiveness of alternative medicines. In fact, “Ten years and $2.5 billion in research have found no cures from alternative medicine. Yet these mostly unproven treatments are now mainstream and used by more than a third of all Americans.”

The Placebo Effect has always fascinated me, not so much with regard to our health, or the validity of acupuncture or chiropractic treatments, but with how this concept of “belief following behavior” could be applied to my dating life.

The practice of forcing myself to date the men who were actually interested in me—the over-eager boring ones who never made me work for it, the ones who’d make great fathers, and put me first—was a test-study of the “belief follows behavior” axiom. If I forced myself to date celery instead of funnel cake (behavior), I’d soon actually believe that I prefer these celeriac men (belief). The same way that forcing yourself to smile even if you’re miserable (behavior), actually DOES make you feel better (belief). “If I’m smiling, I must be happy.” Then we actually feel happier. So if I forced myself to continue to date a man to whom I had no attraction (behavior), the assumption is that I’d grow to be attracted to him (belief). That’s why we hear so many stories of, “Well, I wasn’t attracted at first, but then the more I got to know him, the more I liked him.”

It extends beyond our dating lives, touching almost everything. Believe you’re already a thin person, you start to eat and behave like a thin person. Insert cough here. No need to worry; there’s a placebo for that.

A YEAR AGO: Food and Mood Dreams, Obsession Under Pressure
2 YEARS AGO: Not A Euphemism
4 YEARS AGO: Back in LA

Phil doesn’t know how to “not judge.” He has an opinion on everything, and he’s going to share that opinion, whether or not you want to hear it. And he’ll be right, every time—because he says so. He now at least knows that he needs to allow that someone else’s opinion and perspective can be true, just allow even for the possibility, instead of insisting that his is the only truth.

Phil refused to return to couples therapy when our therapist told him that his behavior was bullying. He argues that this wasn’t the reason, that things were skewed, that he was tired of spending an hour talking about something that wasn’t even true. As in, I’d bring up an issue, revealing an instance in the past week resulting in an argument, and he’d reason that my slant on it was completely askew. That my perception shouldn’t even be discussed because “If you had a completely crazy person in your office, certifiable, would we be having this conversation about what I did wrong?” Phil once said. “No, of course not. You’d know you were dealing with a crazy person and would dismiss it focusing on the real problem.” This “real problem”—he suggested ever so subtly, like with a mallet to my head—lived within me, each and every time.

After Phil refused therapy, I went alone. During one of those sessions, our therapist leaned forward, her elbows on her knees, hands clasped in prayer at her chin and said, “That man loves you. I mean LOVES. And I truly believe that he wants, more than anything, to please you. I really do.” Then, sitting back in her chair, she added, “He just has really shitty delivery.” You said it sister. “And all you can do is try your best, for as long as you can, to see through it.” To remind myself that he really doesn’t mean the mean? “Yes, and you just do it for as long as you can because having your parents together is a gift you can give to those children. Believe me. I see it every day in this office, and it’s a hard road.” Though I can’t remember if she said “hard road.” I don’t remember how she even finished the sentence because I was still chewing on the earlier part. It was a gift I could give to my children. To stay. To understand Phil’s limitations, and trying as best I could to focus on the good in him. I can’t help but want to apply that logic to a battered woman. Would you tell her to stay because while he does hurt her, truly his intentions are good, and he’s just limited? I suppose though that my even applying that logic is like Phil amping his argument up with “crazy person,” going to the extreme. I justify my decision to stay. I see a hint of this, turning a blind eye, rationalizing that good qualities have to outweigh his select faults. But I also see the merit in gazing at the bright side. Focusing on the positive. It’s a conflict.

I cringe even writing the words, “Nobody’s perfect,” because it implies that one should endure the truly awful just for an abundance of greatness.

He’s not equipped with the communication skills to express his frustrations in a healthy way. I need to remember that it’s his deficiency, and I should not feed it with my focus. Move onward and try to get past his words, striving to understand from where he’s coming. Focus on the good.

He’s a great conversationalist
Quick to think on his feet – quick witted
Dependable – protective and always defends me
Not a mama’s boy
That he is evolved enough to live his life for him, without regard for what anyone else thinks of his choices (this is a double-edged sword, but overall, I wholeheartedly agree that we should strive not to care what other people think of us).
When he adheres to traditionally male gender roles: orders for me in restaurant, stands when I come to the table, pays the check, pours the wine, surprises me with gifts
I love when he appreciates/ values when I’m “the woman,” relying on my taste when it comes to interior design, entertaining, style
I love when he’s the suitor, when he pursues me, grabs me, initiates, acts like a horny teenager who can’t get enough
I love that Phil strives in every way possible to achieve the best for our family
He’s hardworking and determined
A caring involved father
A fantastic negotiator
Excels at things I hate: like dealing with health insurance and banking
He’s a champion, advocate, and promoter
He’s an idea man, never boring
He’s reliable/ dependable
You always know where you stand with Phil – he’s not a cheat or liar
Warm-hearted
Diligent
Thoughtful
Selfless
Supportive
Entrepreneurial
Initiator/ go-getter
Enthusiastic / Energetic
Confident
Assertive
Passionate
Committed
A Pioneer
Strong
I love when he comes to me and admits something he didn’t have to admit (strength of character)
I also love his arms and when he tries to get me drunk